Be My Hope: A BWWM Romance (Make It Marriage Book 7) Read online

  Be My Hope

  Make It Marriage Book 7

  Nia Arthurs

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places or events are entirely coincidental.

  BE MY HOPE

  Copyright © 2020 Nia Arthurs

  Written by Nia Arthurs

  Edited by Jalulu Editing

  Cover by Oliviaprodesign

  (V1)

  About This Book

  Dear Make It Marriage, by the time you read this, I’ll be dead…

  My first day on the job, I get hired by a client who’s recent death made headlines.

  The task? Find her billionaire brother the woman of his dreams.

  But there’s a problem. A big one. Brett McQueen doesn’t want a wife. Or a pushy matchmaker trying to set him up with one. So he makes a proposition of his own.

  Find him a wife in thirty days. Fail, and I spend the night in his bed.

  I love a challenge but these are deep stakes. Can I find this arrogant billionaire a wife? Or will I be the only one who loses her heart in the process?

  Contents

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  1. Tierra

  2. Brett

  3. Tierra

  4. Brett

  5. Tierra

  6. Brett

  7. Tierra

  8. Brett

  9. Tierra

  10. Brett

  11. Tierra

  12. Brett

  13. Tierra

  14. Brett

  15. Tierra

  16. Brett

  17. Tierra

  18. Brett

  19. Tierra

  20. Brett

  21. Tierra

  22. Brett

  23. Tierra

  24. Brett

  25. Tierra

  26. Brett

  27. Tierra

  28. Brett

  29. Tierra

  30. Brett

  31. Tierra

  32. Brett

  33. Tierra

  34. Brett

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Be My Bride

  Sneak Peek! Be My Bride Chapter One

  Leave A Review

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  One

  Tierra

  Dear Make It Marriage, by the time you read this, I’ll be dead.

  I press my lips together. Lean forward. Re-read the first line of the email.

  The hell?

  My fingers slide over the trackpad of my new laptop. Double-tap. Delete.

  “Knock-knock!” A woman with reddish brown hair leans against the doorway. “Are you ready for your first day?”

  My mouth trembles.

  A smile begging to be free.

  I stomp it down.

  Venus Miller is my boss—even if she struck me as someone I could hang with outside these walls.

  “You look so cute behind that desk,” she adds with a wink.

  I smile. Pull my lips in to hold an even bigger grin back.

  I’m not here to make friends. I’m here because chasing love down on behalf of two complete strangers is much, much easier than finding love for myself.

  I spent years accepting requests and setting people up quid pro quo. I’m finally getting paid to do what I’m good at. I’m not screwing this up by losing my place with the boss.

  “I’m excited, yeah.” I tilt my head. “Nice prank by the way.”

  Venus looks me up and down. “What?”

  “The email?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I study her face. Was she an actress before she started matchmaking? Her delicate features would probably draw in millions of viewers. Smooth brown skin. Dark eyes. That gorgeously red-hued brown hair. She’d be in something moody. A romantic drama where she dies in the end. Or a spy thriller where she dies—

  No, Venus is lovely. I’m not trying to kill her off.

  Forget it. “Nothing.”

  Venus reaches back for the doorknob. Wraps her long, slender fingers around it. Pokes her head out, “Amina! Could you get in here?”

  I wince. “Why are you calling—?”

  “I’m trying to find out who pranked you and why I wasn’t in on it.”

  Well, that answers the question.

  Amina steps into the room and my eyes dart to her natural hair. Her kinks are thick. Tightly coiled. Expanding like an untamed afro, bold and free.

  I love it.

  Partly because I wear my hair the same way.

  Mostly because, with every second that passes, I’m more certain that Make It Marriage is the right place for me.

  A few weeks ago, I got scouted by three matchmaking companies. At the end, I kept waffling between Make It Marriage and their biggest competition.

  I chose Make It Marriage because a) I wouldn’t be the only black woman in the room, b) I wouldn’t be the only black woman wearing her natural hair, and c) the pay was better. A girl’s gotta make money moves—at least according to Cardi B.

  “Venus, I have a client in five minutes.” Amina taps her dark brown fingers against her arm. Her engagement ring glints bright enough to contact a space station. “Make it quick.”

  “Our newest member got pranked. Know anything about that?”

  Amina frowns. “Wasn’t me. Check Kayla.”

  “Can you see Kayla pulling off any sort of prank?”

  My fingers tighten around my chair. This is turning into something bigger than I expected. There’s no time to worry about pranks. It’s Monday morning. My docket’s empty. I need to meet some clients if I want to start the ball rolling enough to work my way to Cupid status.

  “It was probably just spam.” I try to shoo them out of my office. "If you’d excuse me—”

  “Let’s see it.” Venus barges over to my desk.

  “Right now?”

  Amina bends over my chair. “Was it like that Nigerian prince e-mail?”

  “Not exactly…” I retrieve the message from spam. Open it.

  The document jumps on screen.

  There it is.

  In all its glory.

  Dear Make It Marriage, by the time you read this, I’ll be dead.

  Before I go, I humbly ask for your help.

  My brother needs a woman. A strong, kind, equally stubborn woman who’ll melt his frozen heart. He’s a good man and he deserves to be loved but, most of all, he has the capacity to love someone else. You just need to remind him.

  I hope you consider my request. I’m all he has in the world, and I’m afraid he’ll shut down even more when I’m gone. He has so much more to offer than being a rich playboy. Trust me when I say that he’ll make the right woman very happy.

  It won’t be easy to convince him to give this a shot, I’m not going to lie, but I know you can find the woman he was always meant to meet.

  I’ve filled out all his information and wired triple the amount to your business account.

  Please help my brother smile again.

  Sincerely, Sharon McQueen

  “McQueen. McQueen.” Amina gasps. “Tierra, look that name up, would you?”

  My fingers fly over the keyboard.

  I type in the search engine. Clack the enter key. Millions of hits.

  Sharon McQueen Dies At Age 25.

  Gone Too Soon—Sharon McQueen Pass
es Away.

  Another Tragedy In the Business Community. Sharon McQueen’s Fight with a Brain Tumor.

  Venus turns to me with wide eyes. “I don’t think this is a joke.”

  “This is insane,” I murmur.

  Venus paces the office. “We can’t just ignore her.”

  “Then you recommend we go to her grieving brother and try to shove a woman in his face?” Amina folds her arms over her chest. “We say ‘hey, Mr. McQueen. I know you’re upset right now, but guess what? Your sister sent us an email from the grave. Now which one of these ladies do you like more?’”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

  “That’s way too upfront,” I agree.

  “So we go undercover? Manipulate him from the sidelines?” Amina arches an eyebrow.

  Venus’s eyes glitter with interest.

  Amina huffs. “That comment was not meant to be taken seriously.”

  “We have to try,” I say.

  “Try, sure, but we can’t force or trick Mr. McQueen into complying,” Amina argues. “There’s a reason we don’t do recommendations. Clients have to actively seek a relationship. Someone who isn’t interested won’t invest their time or emotions in the process.”

  “She already sent us payment,” Venus insists.

  “That we can return or give to charity.”

  Their voices fade as I stare at the email from Sharon McQueen.

  Let’s face it, Amina’s right. From the way this email is phrased, the last thing her brother wants is a meddling matchmaker nosing into his business.

  There’s no way I should be considering this either.

  But I am.

  I’m damn good at matchmaking. I built myself such a loyal following that I had three companies gunning for me. My instincts usually steer me in the right direction.

  Unless it’s about my own love life.

  The bastards fail when it comes to serving their own master.

  “I think I can do it,” I blurt.

  Amina and Venus turn. Stare at me. Fall quiet.

  “I do.” I reach for my coffee. Let the drink warm my throat and stomach. Let it tame the butterflies of fear and excitement rising in my gut.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You’ll just…” Amina glances at Venus as the laptop notes our lack of activity and falls asleep. The two women exchange a silent conversation.

  I interpret it in my own way.

  “She’s young.”

  “So?”

  “She just got here.”

  “She knows what she’s doing.”

  “Can we really trust her with something this complicated?”

  “Sharon McQueen sent the email to her for a reason.”

  Even if that’s not word-for-word, it’s what they’re thinking.

  Understandable concerns.

  Huge concerns. For a complicated scenario.

  Working on someone outside the company’s portfolio of eager singles is unheard of in Make It Marriage history… I get it. Yes, I’m only twenty-five. Yes, I haven’t even officially matched one client.

  Yes, this is all insane.

  We’ve been commissioned by a ghost.

  But I still think I can do this. I still want to do this.

  Venus turns to me. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.”

  I lean forward. My body buzzes. Fear. Nerves. Anticipation.

  I’m not sure what she’s going to say, but if she gives me a chance, I’ll take it. Life is way too short to reject opportunities. I learned the hard way that slacking off will only lead to someone sneaking in and stealing my happiness. That won’t happen again. Ever.

  “Start with an assessment,” Amina says.

  I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from grinning hard.

  Yes.

  “We’ll talk to Kayla about this. See what she thinks. When we have an answer, we’ll get back to you.”

  “Perfect.”

  They nod. Leave. Close the door.

  I jerk my chair closer to the table. Click a link to investigate McQueen Enterprises’s owner.

  Brett McQueen.

  I study his short brown hair. His massive shoulders. His cold grey eyes.

  Clack.

  I tap another link. Another picture.

  This time Brett’s in a suit, shaking hands with some tech millionaire.

  Still handsome. Still cold.

  I narrow my eyes. He does look like a playboy. The grudging kind. The one that only indulges in women who meet a very specific standard. The kind who makes it clear he wants no strings, no names, and no sign of her the morning after.

  This won’t be easy.

  Exactly how I like it.

  I stretch my fingers out, click to another article and dive into Brett McQueen’s world.

  Two

  Brett

  That coffin is too damn fussy.

  I stand at my sister’s grave. Rub the rain out of my eyes. They’re lowering the casket into the ground. Full oak. Golden rims. Studded handles.

  Shar would've laughed till she snorted. “Who do they think they’re burying? A rock star?”

  The answer is yes.

  She was a rockstar.

  Not that she’d ever admit it. Humble as she was. Kind as she was.

  Always worrying about other people. Always giving, giving, giving.

  Until she had nothing left to give.

  The rain falls harder. I rub my eyes again.

  The words on the tombstone stay the same.

  Here lies Sharon Elaine McQueen.

  The preacher is insisting we’ll all meet again. Going on about eternal peace, love and happiness.

  Yes freaking way.

  Shar deserves that. Deserves all of that.

  Out of this dark, twisted family, she was the only one who did.

  My fingers curl into fists. I need to hit something. Someone. Anything to stop this pain. Anything to keep the anger at bay. The guilt. The sharp pieces of my shattered heart.

  Damn.

  It’s almost over. Five minutes max. The preacher’s long-winded, but the guys throwing dirt into the hole are maniacs wearing full tuxes and gloves. White gloves. Ridiculous.

  Despite the fancy outfits, I can tell they’re experts. They shovel dirt like they have a personal grievance with it.

  Thrust.

  Lift.

  Toss.

  “Sharon McQueen will be dearly missed…”

  Thrust.

  “We know her soul will be at peace…”

  Lift.

  “Let us sing a closing hymn…”

  Toss.

  I watch as the hole transforms into packed dirt. Slightly muddy.

  The rain pounds. Fills it up. Makes it harder to see, to move, to breathe.

  I try to picture Shar.

  The one before today. The one who was alive.

  Not that waxy doll in the casket.

  No, that wasn’t her.

  Raven hair. Light makeup. Blue eyes that shimmered. An open, breezy smile. She preferred dresses to pants. Pink to blue. Tea to coffee.

  She was sharp, honest, articulate.

  Was.

  She was all those things.

  Now she’s a corpse in a box.

  My heart rages. Patters. Aches. Shar was the only one who could get that damn thing to function.

  “Brett, you should text that girl back. The one from the party? You actually remembered her name this time. That’s a good sign.”

  “Brett, you should donate to this charity. I know it’s a risk, but look at the puppies.”

  “Brett, you should forgive Mom.”

  She got me to budge.

  Most of the time.

  Not with Mom.

  Never with Mom.

  And now she’s gone.

  Now there’s no angel on my shoulder.

  I lift my eyes to the dark sky weeping over us. Up to the umbrella Hansley, my best friend and co-owner of the company I buil
t with Shar, clutches in a tight grip. Down to the grave where my sister disappeared. Over my shoulder at the mourners.

  A small crowd. Fifteen people max.

  We kept it private. No press. No business partners.

  They don’t care anyway. Shar was an extension of the company to them. Now that she’s gone, they know the company will send a replacement. They’ll be fine. They’ll move on.

  I didn’t want people like that here.

  My gaze sweeps through the crowd before landing on someone at the back.

  Pale skin. Dark eyes. Scrawny frame.

  John sees me looking and ducks.

  Too late.

  “That bastard,” I grind out.

  The preacher freezes in the middle of his prayer to slant me a scolding look.

  I ignore him.

  Lurch forward.

  Step out of the umbrella’s covering.

  “Brett!” Hansley rushes to keep up with me.

  My strides lengthen.

  He falls behind.

  I start running. Tension winds in my shoulders. Travels down my arm. Collides in the fist I make with my fingers.

  Gasps of shock ripple through the mourners as I tear past them to get to my sister’s smarmy ex.

  John hits the black metal gate surrounding the cemetery.

  It’s a plot I paid an arm and a leg for. I wanted privacy, not only today but every time I go to visit Shar. That fence meant to keep others out traps John in.

  He flings a look over his shoulder. Eyes wide. Mouth twisted. His chest heaves and he studies the gate for a moment before grabbing onto the rails and flinging himself up. I almost laugh as I watch his frantic scramble to maintain his grip.