Mail-Order Brides For Christmas - Frankie Love Page 0,61

lawyer?!” I bury my face in my hands for a moment, groaning. “You really think I want to date--no, marry--a stuffy, buttoned-up lawyer? I’m a musician, for crying out loud! I’m trying to become a rock star, with my pink hair and wild ways! That would be a laughable match. He would hate me on sight.”

I look from Grandma Carrie’s face to Grandpa Peter’s, and they both hold my gaze, looking a little nervous but resolute. They really, genuinely believe that this will be good for me. I shake my head in wonder, folding my arms across my chest. I’m still not even close to convinced.

“Carrie, you know how much we love you,” Grandpa Peter says after a moment of total silence. “And you know how much your grandmother and I love each other too. We want you to experience a love like this. You deserve someone to settle down and have a family with. Aren’t you getting a little tired of the constant moving around?”

“No,” I protest. But the truth is, my routine with Lolly Popz has been feeling a little stale. As much as I love my band, touring, and performing, I do wonder sometimes if I want my life to feel a little more relaxed. I’m twenty-five now--not old by any stretch of the imagination, but not an eighteen-year-old wild child anymore, either. Maybe I could give something different a try…

They must see my expression change, because Grandma and Grandpa smile widely and lean forward. “You have a couple months off now, right?” Grandma Carrie asks.

I nod mutely, still whirling in the maelstrom of my thoughts.

“Then why not take a trip to Snow Valley?” she asks persuasively. “Just go out there, meet Matt, see if you two hit it off. If not, you can always come home. You’re the adventurous type, sweetie; just think of this as a new adventure. Okay? Maybe you can even get your will done for free, seeing that he’s a lawyer.”

I look between Grandma Carrie and Grandpa Peter, trying not to laugh. Why do I need to get my will done? But they’re both so full of hope, and confident they’ve made the right choice for me. They don’t even realize how ridiculous this scheme is.

I stab at my spaghetti and slurp up a noodle, before letting out a big sigh.

“Fine,” I eventually relent. “But if he’s boring, or ugly, or controlling, or doesn’t like leopard print… I’m out. And no, I’m not going to ask him to do my will for me. That’s for old people, and I’m young!”

Grandma Carrie merely beams and smiles at Grandpa Peter. “Of course, sweetheart. Will or no will, we wouldn’t expect anything less, dear.”

Chapter Two

Jenna

When the door to my apartment swings open, I take a deep breath of relief. Home sweet home. It still smells like the patchouli incense I regularly burn in the bedroom and living room. Things are a little musty, sure, and I maybe left some dirty dishes in the sink for the past two months. But otherwise, my shabby space immediately brings me a sense of peace.

I drag my leopard-print luggage inside and close the door behind me with my foot. Everything looks the same as I left it. I always worry when I’m on the road that someone will break in. I live, after all, in a not-so-savory part of NYC, where the rent is still only barely cheap enough for me to live without roommates. Thankfully, I’ve always been lucky, and have never forgotten to double-bolt the door after I leave.

Wheezing with effort—and from the four flights of stairs I climbed to get up here—I bring my luggage into my room. It matches, of course, my leopard-print bedspread, and complements my hot pink curtains and spray-painted black furniture. I immediately light some incense and then flop back onto my bed. The cheap mattress isn’t the most comfortable, but, God, does it feel like heaven after weeks in a tour bus.

The second I begin to drift off, my phone buzzes in my leggings pocket. I withdraw it and squint at the screen. My best friend and bandmate, Sarah, grins cheekily at me from her contact photo.

“Hi baby!” she crows as soon as I answer.

“Hi sweet thing,” I reply. “Didn’t I just see you for two months?”

She laughs. “Yeah, but I missed you. I’m going to brunch tomorrow at 11:30 in Chelsea. Let’s drink a zillion Bloody Marys.”

“Ugh, that sounds amazing,” I say, already daydreaming about stacks of pancakes dripping with