Their “premium” price is exorbitant, but my savings account is ample, ready, and waiting. I will spare no expense to get exactly what I want on extremely short notice.

  I tell Melissa that C and I want to be married on Saturday, June 15, at the Old Gretna Parish Church, with a small supper to follow at Gretna Hall for me, C, and Aunt Lucy. I ask for white and peach roses in my bouquet, a calla lily boutonniere for C, simple gold bands, a minister of any protestant denomination to perform the service, and Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” to play as I walk down the aisle.

  I choose the traditional Scottish vows, which include the words “With my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

  I won’t lie, a shiver goes down my spine when I think about sharing my body with C.

  While I’m not against having sex on our wedding night if we have chemistry and an instant connection, I know the likelihood of us clicking that fast is slim. I hope he will be patient with me if I need some time to get used to him.

  On the Lifetime television program, which I binge-watched on my flight over and have continued to watch during my free time in the UK, the biggest problem the arranged couples face is often a lack of chemistry. They see each other, and what they see just isn’t what gets their motors revving. What if that happens with us? What if C wants someone stick-thin and brunette? What if he’s some Ed Sheeran look-alike, all red and freckled, short and stocky?

  I am instantly ashamed of myself.

  No matter what he looks like, he will be my husband.

  My forever.

  I remind myself that physical attraction can grow out of love, which can grow out of friendship, which grows from mutual respect, common goals, and kindness. Maybe we won’t have that zing—that je ne sais quoi of immediate attraction. And maybe we won’t have sex for a week or a month or a year, but when we do, it’ll be because we chose each other on our wedding day and took our time falling in love.

  I’m okay with that.

  I’m more than okay with that.

  I can’t wait to fall in love with my husband.

  When I finish entering the final details about our wedding ceremony on the web forms, I scroll to the next page, which requests the details of our honeymoon, should we wish for ArrangeMyWedding.com to plan it for us.

  I consider this for a moment, thinking about the fact that I’m headed back to London tonight and I’ll be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow, headed to the office. My next two weeks are spoken for, and I’ll be burning the midnight oil right up until the day before the wedding, when I’ll travel to Scotland with Aunt Lucy. If I want a honeymoon at all, it’s probably best to hire someone else to do the planning.

  But…where to go? Back to London? Over to Edinburgh?

  I bite my lower lip, glancing up at the bookcase across from me that flanks a large fuchsia-cushioned window seat. My eyes land on the spine of one of my all-time favorite books, Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, and suddenly my fingers fly across the keys of my laptop, asking Melissa to please schedule a five-day, four-night honeymoon in the Scottish Highlands, to begin the day after the wedding.

  I click “Send” before I can change my mind, then close my laptop. That’s it. My planner has all of my requests and everything she should need, including a photo of my passport and—

  Knock, knock.

  “Come in.”

  Aunt Lucy peeks her head into my room. “Put your shoes on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  The door closes, and I hop up to throw on a cardigan sweater and slip my feet into silver ballerina flats. I grab my purse and head downstairs to find Aunt Lucy waiting for me by the front door.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  “Nope.”

  Earnest opens the door and we step outside, where Aunt Lucy’s Jaguar is waiting for us. She opens her door and sits down behind the wheel as I take a seat beside her.

  “Another psychiatrist?”

  “Hush up,” she says, leaning forward to turn on the radio.

  A medley of fifties and sixties music accompanies us on our otherwise uneventful drive to the Mall in Luton.

  “The Mall?” I ask, grinning at her as she enters the parking garage. “We’ve been here a million times. This was your big secret?”

  She parks close to the entrance, and I dutifully follow her into the lift, watching as she presses the button for the Gallery.

  “Are we doing some shopping, Aunt?”

  “You are.”

  The elevator doors open, and she steps out, heading briskly to the left.

  “Where in the world are we…”

  That’s when I understand.

  She’s stopped outside of an elegant wedding boutique. Two mannequins dressed in frothy white creations stand in the windows that flank the front door. My eyes dart from the dresses to my aunt’s beloved face.

  “You need a wedding dress, darling,” she says simply, just as the store manager arrives to open the glass doors and welcome us into the bridal salon.

  “Lucy Salinger?” she asks, shaking my aunt’s hand. “Then this must be Courtney. The bride.”

  The bride.

  I know I should look at the boutique clerk, shake her hand, and thank her for accommodating us at the last minute, but I can’t. All I can do is launch myself into my aunt’s arms, murmuring my thanks as I try to keep the tears at bay.

  Because for the first time since I started this entire process, I feel like a bride.

  ***

  Two weeks fly by with days full of work and hours spent online every evening with Melissa as we finalize the details for the wedding and honeymoon together.

  I pack up my London apartment, sending almost everything back to New York and only packing what I need for my wedding and honeymoon.

  On Friday afternoon, Aunt Lucy picks me up at work. Before I know it, we’re Scotland-bound by train, racing north on the tracks, ever closer to my wedding, to my husband, to my chosen destiny.

  While Aunt Lucy sleeps across from me, I think about tomorrow—or do my best to think about it without totally freaking myself out.

  It’s been thirteen days since I received my one and only message from C, and if it were written on paper, it would be worn from handling by now. As it is, I have it mostly memorized.

  My favorite parts are when he writes that when he says, “I do,” he’ll mean it and that he’s going to do everything he can to make me happy. I love the promise and optimism in those words. I love the hope he has for us, because I share it.

  In the first paragraph, he mentions his reasons for “doing this” might be different than mine, which has made me wonder over and over again what they might be. Like me, did he come to loathe modern dating? Or are his reasons completely different? Perhaps he isn’t good at choosing the women in his life and wanted help from experts. Or perhaps he’s a very busy executive and isn’t able to date very often. Maybe he’s just a fan of the television show. I have no idea. I don’t really care, even though I probably should. But from the moment I happened upon Arrange Me Too, I’ve cared less about who he is than what we will share, and that hasn’t changed. Whoever he is, I will marry him, and I will grow to love him. The rest, frankly, doesn’t matter.

  An announcement on the overhead system wrestles me from my dreamy thoughts: “Passenger Dalton, please come to the conductor’s office in car four to retrieve your lost passport. Passenger Dalton.”

  Dalton.

  The name presses against my chest and steals my breath for a second, some erstwhile feelings making my heart race, pounding in my ears as the conductor repeats the message.

  Dalton. Like Josh.

  Not Josh, of course. Josh is in New York.

  But maybe a distant cousin from Ireland. Someone who has his dark-brown hair or bright-blue eyes or little dimple that only shows up sometimes, when something really makes him laugh.

  I sit up as straight as I can and crane my neck to see if anyone stands up in our car to answer the page, but everyone stays put, and the melancholy that passes through me feels…awful.

  I look out the window at the passing darkness, willing myself not to be affected by the mere mention of a familiar name, but it’s futile. Though I’ve been distracted by living in London and planning my wedding, thoughts of Josh have lurked close to the surface, and now they’re pushing up, up, up, into my consciousness, into my now.

  My stomach buzzes and my eyes water.

  I miss him.

  God, I wish I didn’t miss him.

  I blink at my reflection, surprised by my sudden and intense reaction. I haven’t heard from him in weeks. Certainly he’s forgotten me by now. I mean, we weren’t actually together. We weren’t a couple. What’s to remember?

  And yet, when I think of him, my heart fists and I feel so lonely, I almost shiver from it.

  For such a short-lived relationship, Josh Dalton had more of an impact on me than any other man I ever dated.

  I check my watch to see it’s a little after six here. He won’t be arriving at Tidewaters for hours yet, but I picture him behind the bar—the way his eyes would light up when I walked in, how he’d linger by me to talk and joke about making the “perfect” gimlet. Suddenly, I’m transported forward in time to the night we kissed on the sidewalk. Courtney, Courtney, Courtney, I knew it would be like this…

  My fingers reach up to brush across my lips, and a soft mewling sound escapes from my throat.

  Am I making a mistake?

  My wedding dress is in a box over my head, plans have been made for a Scottish wedding with my arranged fiancé, and my bags are packed for a Highlands honeymoon, but—Oh, God—could this all be a huge mistake?

  I pick up my phone and tap on a text box, bringing up Josh’s name. But the longer I stare at it, the more I realize that I have nothing to say. I still want to be married. He doesn’t. And that’s precisely why this isn’t a mistake.

  Nevertheless, my mind flits back to our very first conversation that strange night in April, when I first told him that I was sick of the dating game and was going to figure out a way to get married. It even makes me grin, in a sad sort of way, to remember saying that to him and to think of where I am right now—literally headed to my wedding.

  I type out a quick message, half closure and half bait, because for whatever reason, I am longing to hear Josh’s voice again. Just one more time. One last exchange.

  I’m getting married tomorrow. I just wanted you to know.

  I hit “Send,” then clutch my phone to my breast with white knuckles.

  It buzzes a moment later.

  Beautiful. Smart. Funny. Kind…and brave.

  He’s the luckiest guy in the world, Courtney.

  The tears in my eyes spill onto my cheeks as I read and reread the simple and sweet message. It breaks my heart a little, but in its own aching way, it’s perfect. It makes me feel brave. And gifts me unexpected peace.

  Maybe it’s okay if I always care for Josh Dalton just a little bit.

  Maybe it’s okay because he was an important part of this journey.

  Because I wouldn’t be getting married tomorrow if it wasn’t for a conversation with Josh Dalton so many weeks ago.

  Still clutching my phone to my heart, I curl up in my seat and fall asleep.

  ***

  Saturday is a whirlwind of activity with Melissa at the helm. She is British and bossy and totally in control, which I find I love. I place myself in her competent hands, and off we go for prewedding preparations.

  I’m waxed to within an inch of my life, but a full-body massage makes it all better. Aunt Lucy and I get our hair done and our nails painted. A girl from the salon comes to the Gretna Hall Hotel to do my makeup while Melissa takes my dress to be steamed, and as the wedding draws nearer, Aunt Lucy begs me to rethink my “crazy scheme.”

  At four o’clock, I fasten my white strapless satin bra, pull on my matching satin-and-lace panties, and take my brand-new kitten heels from their brand-new box. Just as I ask Aunt Lucy to help me with the clasp on my pearls, there’s a knock on our door.

  “I’ll get it,” says Lucy.

  She returns a moment later with a small blue box sitting atop a card-sized white envelope.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Come on. Is this from you?”

  “No, darling,” she says. “I promise it’s not.”

  She hands me the box and envelope, and I open the latter, which reveals a white card with two gold wedding bands on the front and reads, “Our Wedding Day.”

  “It’s from him!” I gasp.

  “Well, read it!”

  I open the card with shaking fingers.

  Dear CJS:

  I’m not scared anymore.

  I can’t wait to see you. I can’t wait to marry you. I can’t wait to be your husband.

  Today, I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

  Xoxo

  The words are incredibly romantic and sweet, but there’s a streak of melancholy that passes through me as I read words so similar to the ones Josh used last night to encourage me from thousands of miles away.

  “That’s lovely,” says Aunt Lucy with a sniff, as though she’s still reserving judgment on C’s character. “What’s in the box?”

  I place the card back inside the envelope and open the box to find a ring. Decorating a simple gold band is a single emerald-cut garnet, and that’s when it occurs to me: my fiancé has sent me an engagement ring. And not just an engagement ring, but a ring that bears my birthstone too.

  And for a second—just a split second—I wonder if I might actually be the luckiest girl in the world.

  “He’s thoughtful,” says Lucy, “if not a little thrifty.”

  “Aunt Lucy!”

  “Well, it’s no diamond, is it?”

  I give her a dirty look before taking the ring from its velvet bed and slipping it on the fourth finger of my left hand. It fits perfectly, and I have a sudden rush of hopefulness that makes me feel almost giddy.

  Melissa sweeps into the room with my dress a moment later, and she helps me get dressed as Aunt Lucy finishes her toilette in my bathroom. When she returns, I’m dressed, and she gasps with surprise, covering her mouth as tears rain down on her cheeks.

  “You’ll ruin your makeup!” I say, rushing to hug her despite my too-tight shoes and snug dress.

  “Forget my makeup,” she says, holding me close. “You look so beautiful. Like a bride.”

  “I am a bride,” I say, leaning away to look into her blue eyes. “Thank you for everything. For going along with this and walking me down the aisle and not telling my mom and dad.”

  “I’ll regret it, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not making a mistake,” I insist.

  Her eyes are sad as she releases me to find her purse.

  “I hope not, because I checked on your groom, and he’s already waiting for you at the church,” says Melissa. “Which means it’s time for us to go.”

  “You’ve done an amazing job,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”

  She nods in her businesslike way, ushering me toward the door and calling to Aunt Lucy to meet us at the car.

  On the way to the church and to calm my nerves as we wait for the ceremony to start, I think about a movie I once saw.

  I think it took place in the Middle Ages…or maybe Viking times? I’m not sure, but I know one thing for certain: in the movie, there was an arranged marriage. A man loyal to the king of England, but without land or wealth, was betrothed to a woman who had both.

  But he’s never seen her, and she’s never seen him. And in the movie, she’s wearing this thick veil that keeps her face hidden.

  There’s no way for him to know what’s behind the veil.

  There’s no way for him to know to whom he’s about to bind his life.

  A priest tells them to hold hands, and they do.

  But just before she takes her vows, she reaches for her veil, and—

  Ooof.

  An elbow in my side brings me swiftly back to reality. I’m standing beside Aunt Lucy in the vestibule of a very old, very charming church in Gretna Green, Scotland…and I’m about to get married to a stranger.

  “You don’t have to do this,” my aunt hisses, her breath hot on the shell of my ear. “This is craziness, Courtney. Utter insanity.”

  I clench my teeth together. Hard.

  “I love you, Aunt Lucy, but you don’t have to stay.”

  “I’m not leaving.” She takes my hand in a death grip. “But there is absolutely no reason for you to do this! Darling, reconsider—”

  “Please, Aunt Lucy,” I bite out, touching the garnet ring on my left hand.

  “We can turn around right now,” she continues, her tone passing panic and veering into hysteria. “Run out of here. The car’s waiting in the parking lot. We’ll drive straight to the airport. We could just—”

  “No.”

  I try to take a deep breath, which reminds me that I’m in a corseted white dress. I think I’ve been stress eating over the past two weeks because it’s tight around my lungs, and I can’t fill them completely.

  “You can still change your mind,” she insists with tears in her voice.

  “No.”

  “Please don’t do this,” she begs me in a thin whisper.

  I feel a bead of sweat start at the nape of my neck, just beneath a careful updo, and make its way down my spine, which is covered in white lace. Suddenly, at the very moment I might have reconsidered what I am about to do, I hear Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” start playing inside the small church. Not a second later, the ancient dark-wood doors before us are whooshed open.

  I gasp softly, instantly turning my gaze downward to the threadbare red carpeting that runs from the narthex to the altar.

  To calm myself, I think of the man in the movie.

  How many others have done the same in this very place? I wonder, taking my first step down the aisle. Married someone they’ve never met before?

  One step. Another.

  It probably worked out fine for them, I tell myself.