The Marriage Deals

A Marriage Proposal Fuck my life. Seriously. I am here, Alexandria Lee Morgan, sitting in my living room like some bargain bin witch, staring into a janky homemade campfire. Yeah, you heard that s**t right. A goddamn campfire. In my f*****g living room. Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, what the hell has my life become? I'm clutching this list of qualities my "soulmate" absolutely must have. Get this crap: loyalty (no s**t), a sense of humor (double no s**t), love for animals (triple no s**t), and—here's the kicker—$350,000 in cold, hard cash. Fanfuckingtastic, right? Look, I know what you're thinking. "Alex, b***h, you've lost your goddamn mind." Trust me, I'm right there with you. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and honey, I am hopeless with a capital d**k. See, my family's home, Tara (yeah, like in Gone with the Wind—don't judge me, asshole), is about to be sold faster than a virgin's cherry on prom night. My bookstore? Already mortgaged up to its dusty little butthole. So here I am, resorting to some half-asked love spell to summon Mr. PerfectWithAFatWallet. I tossed the list into this silver bucket I swiped from God knows where, watching it catch fire. The smell of burning paper fills the room, and I can't help but wonder if I'm inhaling the ashes of my dignity along with it. "Well, Earth Mother," I muttered, feeling like a complete tool, ""if this works, I owe you a big lot. Like a whole forest of trees and a lifetime supply of organic kale big time."" Just as I'm about to pat myself on the back for my stellar witchcraft skills, I realize the fire's getting a bit too... enthusiastic. s**t. I scramble for the fire extinguisher, nearly faceplanting in my haste. A few sprays later, and crisis was averted. Go me. I pour myself a generous glass of wine, then another, and then decide to finish the whole bottle. I feel sorry for myself when the doorbell rings. I wonder if it's him. For a moment, I thought about being presentable, but then I remembered that if he's my soulmate, he'll have to love me in ratty sweatpants. I open the door, and there she is, Kattie Marcello, my best friend and unchanging pain in my ass, grinning like she had just won the lottery. "About time you answered the door," she says, breezing past me like she owns the place. I couldn't hide my disappointment. "You were supposed to be strong." Kattie laughs—that rich, throaty laugh that always makes me think she should've been a 1940s movie star instead of a put-together lawyer. She waves her perfectly manicured hand (how does she always look so put together?) and throws herself onto my sofa. ""Sorry to disappoint, honey. But after that last disaster of a date I set you up on, I figured you needed a break from the Y chromosome."" I scowl, remembering the garlic breath nightmare. ""I didn't scare him off! He leaned in for a kiss, and I didn't want to get garlic breath all over me. It was an act of public service, really."" Kattie snorted, swiped my wine glass, and took a hefty swig. ""Keep telling yourself that, sweetie. Now, want to tell me what the hell happened here? It looks like you tried to summon Satan but chickened out halfway through."" My face heated up. Damn, my Irish complexion. "I... may have been creating a love spell." There was a moment of silence, and then Kattie burst out laughing. ""A love spell? Seriously, Al? What's with the bucket? Were you trying to catch Cupid or something?"" "Very funny," I muttered. ""One of my customers swore by this book. Said if you make a specific list of qualities, the universe will send you your perfect man."" Kattie's eyebrows shoot up so high they nearly disappear into her hairline. ""Oh my God, you're serious. What kind of list did you make? 'Must have a pulse and all his teeth'?"" Before I can stop her, she's rummaging under my bed (how did she know I was hiding things there?) and pulls out the crumpled list of soulmate qualities I'd written earlier. "Number one," she reads, her voice dripping with amusement, ""a Mets fan? Baseball? Are you kidding me, Al?"" I cross my arms defensively. ""I refuse to date a Yankees fan. A man who supports the Mets has a heart."" Kattie rolls her eyes so hard I'm worried they might get stuck. ""Number two: loves books and art. Fine, that's you. Number three: monogamous. Number four: wants kids. Number five: communicate well. Number six..."" She groans. ""Loves animals. Seriously, Al?" "What's wrong with loving animals?" I demanded. "Nothing if you want to end up as the crazy cat lady of New York." I stuck my tongue out at her. Real mature, I know. Kattie continues reading, her expression growing more incredulous with each item. Then she pauses, her brow furrowing. "Number ten: Needs $350,000 in available cash. Wait, what? What for?" The humor drains from the room faster than beer at a frat party. I took a deep breath. "To save Tara." Kattie blinks. ""Tara? Like Gone with the Wind?"" I nod, feeling the weight of my family's problems settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket. ""Mom's about to sell our home. I don't have the money to help. I'll do anything—even marry a man for his money, like Scarlett."" Kattie's face softened. She pulls out her phone, tapping away furiously. ""That's it. I'm canceling my date, and we're going to figure this out. You need therapy, Al."" I couldn't help but laugh, feeling a surge of affection for my ridiculous best friend. "Thanks for being a good friend, Kattie." She grins, tossing her phone aside. ""Yeah, yeah. Don't mention it. Now, spill. Tell me everything."" So I do. I tell her about the mounting bills, the way my mom's voice cracks every time she talks about selling Tara, and the sleepless nights I've spent trying to come up with a solution. Kattie listened, her face growing more concerned with each word. "Jesus, Al," she says when I finish. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I shrugged, suddenly fascinated by a loose thread on my sweatpants. ""I didn't want to burden you. You've got your own life, your own problems."" Kattie snorts. ""That's what friends are for, dumbass. To share the burden. "" She pauses, a mischievous glint in her eye. "You know, I might know someone who could help." I perked up. ""Really? Who?" "My brother, Nick." I groaned, flopping back onto the couch. "Kattie, no. Your brother hates me."" "He doesn't hate you," Kattie insists. "He just... strongly dislikes you." "Oh, that's so much better," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. Kattie waves her hand dismissively. ""Ancient history. Look, Nick's loaded, and he's always looking for new investment opportunities. Maybe we could pitch your bookstore to him?"" I considered it for a moment. Nicholas Marcello, Kattie's older brother, is indeed loaded. He's also arrogant, cold, and has all the charm of a wet sock. But beggars can't be choosers, right? "Fine," I sighed. "But if he looks at me like I'm something he scraped off his shoe again, all bets are off." Kattie grins triumphantly. ""Deal. Now, let's get you out of those sweats and into something that screams, 'Invest in me; I'm a responsible adult.'" Kattie pulls me towards my bedroom; I can't help but wonder what I've gotten myself into. Little do I know, across the city, the universe is about to answer my love spell in the most unexpected way possible.