Jingle bell rock a sweet.., p.1
Jingle Bell Rock: A Sweet Christmas Romantic Comedy (Underground Granny Matchmakers Book 3), page 1
JINGLE BELL ROCK
A SWEET CHRISTMAS ROMANTIC COMEDY
UNDERGROUND GRANNY MATCHMAKERS 3
TAMIE DEAREN
Copyright © 2022 by Tamie Dearen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
1. Marquietta Darmaine, aka Marki, aka a Woman On The Run in High Heels
2. Drake Channon, aka a Man Determined to Eat GeeBee’s Cookies and Yet Remain Single
3. Marki
4. Drake
5. Marki
6. Drake
7. Marki
8. Drake
9. Marki
10. Drake
11. Marki
12. Drake
13. Marki
14. Drake
15. Marki
16. Drake
17. Marki
18. Marki
19. Drake
20. Marki
21. Drake
22. Marki
23. Drake
24. Drake
25. Marki
26. Marki
27. Drake
28. Marki
29. Drake
30. Marki
31. Marki
32. Drake
33. Marki
34. Drake
35. Marki
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Tamie Dearen
1
MARQUIETTA DARMAINE, AKA MARKI, AKA A WOMAN ON THE RUN IN HIGH HEELS
I pause, my finger inches from the doorbell, to practice my introduction. “Hi! I’m Marcia Martin.” I repeat it a few more times for good measure. “Marcia Martin. Marcia Martin. Marcia Martin.”
I’m twenty minutes early for my 11 a.m. appointment. But once I saw my picture on the news channel at the coffee shop, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.
I pat the crossbody satchel at my side for reassurance. Inside is the non-disclosure agreement that must be signed by the resident of the house, whose name is supposedly Granny B.
I still hear my grandmother’s voice, insisting on this one precaution. “Do not, under any circumstances, reveal your identity to anyone who hasn’t signed the agreement.” Only after I have the signature can I tell her my true name... Marquietta Darmaine.
Yes, it’s a mouthful, but I’m used to it. Nicknames have been strictly forbidden since the age of two. That’s what happens when a sworn bachelor suddenly becomes the guardian of his niece and two nephews. He used my great-great-great grandfather’s memoirs as a guide to parenting. And in those days, the rules for daughters were evidently a lot stricter than those for sons.
That’s why almost everyone calls me Marquietta: my uncle, the staff, my bodyguard, the press. Even my governess calls me Marquietta. And she purses her lips when she says it, like she’s irritated to be distracted from whatever she constantly looks at on her cell phone.
I wouldn’t know about that, since I’m not allowed to have a cell. “Too risky,” my uncle’s head of security said. “Phones can be hacked.”
If I had one, who would I call? It’s not like I have any friends. Just one more thing that’s always been “too dangerous” for a girl like me. Even in college I was secluded, prevented from fraternizing with my peers lest I be tainted.
I know what you’re thinking. Why is a twenty-five-year-old woman letting her uncle control her? I’m not a girl anymore, even though my stupid freckles make me look like one. But I promise, I had no choice but to obey. Everyone does.
Well, everyone but my brothers. They call me Marki, even though it infuriates my uncle. But they never get in trouble for anything they do. And my uncle doesn’t give orders to his mother, my grandmother Geesa. She calls me whatever she likes. It’s Marki unless she’s peeved at me. Then I get the full name—Marquietta Francesca Darmaine—and she makes each word sound like a curse.
That’s what’s going to happen if I don’t hurry up and get inside this house. Geesa’s really sticking her neck out for me this time. I can’t get caught.
I press the doorbell button five times in quick succession. Then I jab it again for good measure. As I stare at the cheery yellow door in front of me, willing it to open, I tap out a nervous rhythm with the pointed toe of my high-heeled pump. Yes, my feet are aching after an entire night in these shoes. Believe me, I would’ve donned my exercise shoes before my escape if I’d had the opportunity.
I tuck a stray hair up into the cheap baseball cap that covers a stiffly sprayed updo. I bought the hat at a corner stand while waiting for my taxi. Not that my hair is all that distinctive, but I thought the hat could make me slightly less recognizable.
An eternity later—probably all of five seconds—there’s still no answer. Then the rumble of an engine warns me of an approaching vehicle. My breath catches in my throat.
They must’ve tracked the taxi! Geesa warned me that might happen.
I dive behind the adjacent hedge, ignoring the bite of the rough mulch against my knees and elbows. Jammed between the bush and the wall, my feet still extending out onto the porch, I freeze, waiting for the slam of a car door and the pounding of footsteps up the walkway. Soon harsh hands will grip my ankles and drag me out.
But the car passes by, and adrenaline rushes out like air from a popped balloon. With quivering arms, I shove up onto my hands and knees, peering through the leaves to be certain the coast is clear.
I’m about to back out of the space when I spot a movement from the corner of my eye. Ever so slowly, I turn my gaze toward the shrub. There, on a branch at eye level, sits a prehistoric beast from my nightmares. A lizard!
He spears me with his tiny terrifying glare. My lungs refuse to work.
Why a lizard? Why not a spider? Or a snake? Why does it have to be the horrible creature my brothers tortured me with over and over growing up? I’m convinced the only reason boys want lizards as pets is to terrify normal people like me.
I blink, and he disappears. Where did he go?
My diaphragm convulses in a desperate gasp, my heart thumping against my ribs like a bongo drum. I’m breathing again, but I’ll probably die from a stroke.
Then I feel it... something prickling my spine!
Still on my knees, I contort, slapping at my back. I can’t feel him, but I know he’s there, biding his time before he creeps up and into my hair. Or maybe he’ll dart down the neck of my shirt.
If he does, I’m ripping off this blouse!
My scream is loud enough to be heard all over Los Angeles. The police will soon come, and men in black suits will take me into custody. By tonight, I’ll be locked up in a dingy isolation cell. Or worse, I’ll be on a plane, headed home to Gurland to face my uncle. I’ll take a dungeon any day.
But at the moment, I don’t care. Nothing else matters. Nothing but getting away from this attacking lizard.
The sharp limbs grab at me as I scramble backwards. But I prefer painful scratches to the grotesque tickling of tiny, clawed feet. I’m hoping he’ll get scraped off.
I edge back onto the brick porch. Maybe I can escape without having a reptile invade my clothes, after all. And so far, I haven’t heard any sirens. It’s a miracle!
Then my hair yanks hard. Tears sting my eyes. I jerk my head again, but I’m stuck fast. My hand investigates the problem. Somewhere in the melee my cap came off, and a stiff branch snagged my hair. My attempts to untangle it make it worse.
At least there’s no one to witness my predicament. I can imagine if the authorities had shown up to find my rear end sticking out with my tight linen skirt inching its way up my thighs.
Yes, I had a dress on, but don’t judge me. I was on my way to my graduation when I bolted. Not that I even own a pair of jeans.
“It’s unseemly for a princess to wear trousers.” My uncle said it, and it was law. Literally!
That was only the beginning of his successful campaign to control every aspect of my life. Heaven forbid I should ever do something unseemly. We wouldn’t want to disgrace the throne by having a single hair escape the tight bun my governess plastered with hairspray on a daily basis. All in the futile effort to make me into a princess.
In contrast, my two older brothers are considered acceptable princes though they wreak havoc everywhere they go. Even now that we’re adults, they get away with murder. Ughh! It makes me so mad.
I yank my head again, but the branch doesn’t budge.
Only last month the press caught Luc, the heir to the throne, in a drunken brawl. On my biweekly video call with Uncle André, I magnanimously offered to lend him my governess to keep an eye on the guys.
My uncle hadn’t even cracked a smile. “They are grown men, Marquietta. They don’t need anyone to supervise them.” Why couldn’t he have the same regard for me? “I look forward to next month when you finish this superfluous degree and return to take up your royal duties.”
If he could see me in this undignified position, he might permanently relieve me of my royal duties. And that would be fine with me.
Who am I kid
I reach up, determined to snap off the limb that snagged me, but it feels as thick as my thumb. Moving forward doesn’t work either.
On a high note, the lizard must have scampered away. Though I’m thinking if I feel him climb down the neck of my blouse, I’m going to have a stroke. That might be a better way to die than slowly starving to death, my hair impaled on a shrub.
I wasn’t surprised my uncle considered my MBA superfluous. He only allowed me to pursue it because my grandmother had nagged him for six months.
I wanted to make a crack that my only royal duty was to stay hidden away at the castle with no outside contact. But what was the point?
Fighting him isn’t worth the effort. Surely somewhere, tucked in the back of a closet, is the trophy my uncle won in the Universal Control Freak Contest. I gave up rebelling against his rules long ago.
Until yesterday. When one phone call changed everything.
I had learned to accept my lot, that I would never get to live a normal life. I could only watch the rest of the world from a distance. I never had a boyfriend, but I’ve fallen in love a thousand times in my books and movies.
I’ve dreamed about my perfect guy so many times I can picture him in my mind. He’s educated and sophisticated—probably a college professor—and appreciates all the refined skills I’ve been forced to acquire over the years. Sweet and thoughtful, he devotes himself to me, treating me as a valued treasure. Unlike my brothers, he would never tease or provoke me in any way. And he would love me for me, and not because of my status.
Then yesterday, my grandmother—the only sane person in my family—dropped the proverbial bomb that put an end to my reveries. She told me the secret of my uncle’s diabolical plan.
Oh, I’m certain Uncle André believed he was acting in my best interest. Yet, in his last communication with me, he failed to mention this one tiny little detail.
It would have been thoughtful if he’d told me…
“By the way, we’re planning a royal wedding… and the bride is you.”
It must have slipped his mind.
Argh!!
Yes, arranging my marriage without my consent is within the king’s legal rights. I’ve always known Gurland has these archaic laws, but I never dreamed my uncle would use them against me.
And worst of all, the wedding is taking place on my birthday—December twenty-fourth—at the annual Gurland Festival of Bells. It’s all a big publicity stunt to boost the festival and gain world-wide attention. What a way to ruin my birthday and Christmas forever!
Fortunately, my Geesa did some research before her call. She booked me an appointment in Los Angeles with a TikTok matchmaker named Granny B.
You see, the only way to ensure my uncle can’t force me into a marriage against my will is to snag a husband of my own. Not a real one. That would be disastrous. I break out in hives just thinking about it.
I’m almost twenty-six years old, and I’ve never spent time alone with males, other than my brothers. Even my bodyguard is female. The only way I know to interact with guys is to exchange insults, with a few kicks thrown in for safekeeping. Something tells me that method wouldn’t work well in an actual relationship.
No, I don’t intend to interact much with this temporary husband. That’s why I need Granny B’s help… to find a quiet, educated man who’ll be willing to contract for a platonic marriage and keep his mouth shut about the details. Geesa is providing monetary compensation for his time and trouble, since I don’t currently have access to my funds. Hopefully, we won’t even have to live together for more than a few weeks to make it look legitimate.
On the other hand, the marriage must be legally binding. Geesa even contacted an attorney and paid in advance for an iron-clad prenuptial agreement.
All this is how I ended up skipping my graduation at Stanford and catching an overnight bus to LA. Wouldn’t you know; the first time I’ve ever been anywhere by myself I’d end up with my head snagged on a shrub?
My fingers wrestle with the offending branch, which has somehow punctured the extra-thick layer of spray my governess applied to ensure my mortar board wouldn’t disturb my elaborate coiffure.
A loud crack announces the opening of the door behind me.
It must be Granny B! And here I am greeting her with my rear end. She’s going to think I’m a weirdo and match me with some freaky guy.
“I’m sorry,” I say, waving an awkward hand somewhere in the vicinity of my bottom before tugging vainly at my hiked-up skirt hem. “My hair got caught in your bush.”
“Interesting…” says a voice that’s much deeper than I expected.
At least my face, which is certainly beet red, is hidden from sight. “I don’t suppose you’re a little old lady with a really bad cold…”
A low chuckle rumbles out. “Not the last time I looked.”
2
DRAKE CHANNON, AKA A MAN DETERMINED TO EAT GEEBEE’S COOKIES AND YET REMAIN SINGLE
I suppose I shouldn’t tease this poor woman, but it’s hard to pass up such a prime opportunity. I step outside and quietly shut the door behind me.
“You can stand up now, miss,” I say in a pompous voice. “There’s no need to kneel in my presence. Though I can see why you might mistake me for royalty.”
“Ha ha. Very funny.” She has a slight accent I can’t quite place… almost British, but a little off. She jerks, rattling the leaves around her. “Listen, sir. I must be at the wrong house. So, I’d appreciate if you went back inside and pretended you never saw me. Just erase this whole episode from your memory.”
“I don’t think I could ever wipe this image from my brain.” I hold back a laugh. “Why don’t you let me help you, instead?”
I bend and peer into the hedges, trying to see how she’s snagged without draping myself on top of her.
“I’m okay. I’m almost loose, I think.” Her hand grasps a limb, and the entire shrub shakes, as does the shapely bottom I’m attempting to ignore, with little success. “I’m looking for the house that belongs to a woman called Granny B. Do you know where she lives, by any chance?”
“You’re at the right house.” Heavy dread settles in my stomach. GeeBee sent me to answer the door for a new client, and I know what that means. She and Grandma Loretta are at it again! Plotting to end my days as a single man. Why won’t they believe me when I tell them marriage is simply not in my stars?
It’s true that Race Madden, my bandmate, and West Garrison, our former manager, seem happier since their respective marriages. (West even has a kid now. How weird is that?) But both of them were at low points in their lives before the Underground Granny Matchmakers hooked them up with their future wives.
I, on the other hand, am quite content with my life. As the drummer in Race Madden and the Hatters, I’m just famous enough. Some die-hard fans recognize me, but not so many that I can’t walk down the street without being mobbed. I have plenty of money and more female attention than I could ever want.
