Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner (Accidentally Marrying #5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

MIRABETH

“Please don’t be mad at me,” I say, clutching my small white purse to my chest as I plaster my back to the front door of my messy studio apartment. “I’ll only be gone for a few hours, but I promise I’ll be back in time to make your dinner, ok?”

He glares at me from the full-sized bed on the left, lazily lounging atop the three weeks’ worth of laundry that I dread having to fold and put away by myself, the corner of the fluffy pink comforter shredded to pieces during one of his fits of rage.

Just as I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ll be able to escape without him throwing another childish temper tantrum, he suddenly lunges at me.

I scream and whip open the door, slamming it closed before my cat, Merlin—who was the saddest, most adorable orange kitten I found huddled for shelter from the rain under my car a year ago…

and who grew up to be the loudest, bossiest, most spoiled little devil—can attack my legs for daring to leave him. I love him so much.

Merlin whines behind the door, crying out for me, breaking my heart.

But I can’t go back inside to soothe him and give him more kisses and a million treats.

If I do, I’ll be late for my volunteer gig at the nearby minimum-security prison.

I don’t want to limp inside with fresh claw marks along the hem of my pale blue satin dress that falls just past my knees.

Turning left toward one of the two exterior concrete staircases, I hurry down and across the small parking lot to my pearlescent VW Beetle, praying I don’t twist an ankle in the white high-heeled sandals my mom convinced me to wear.

From my time spent visiting my dad in prison when I was a kid, I know the rule about avoiding anything too cute or revealing, but this is different. Encouraged, even, or so Mom told me.

The thirty-five-minute commute is plenty of time for my hands to turn clammy and for my anxiety to ratchet up at the thought of meeting so many new people at once.

I second—or tenth—guess letting my mom sign me up for the dance the prison is hosting.

It’s supposed to be some kind of new outreach program the state concocted, bringing a little joy to an otherwise bleak atmosphere, allowing prisoners who have been locked away for at least five years to practice socializing with people not employed at the prison before they’re released.

I’ve been assured that those in attendance aren’t exactly hardened criminals, but rather men who made mistakes that they regret, like my dad, who was the kindest man I ever knew.

Mom and Dad actually met during his first stint in prison.

Mom has been working there as a nurse for almost thirty years now, and it was love at first sight for both of them.

Not even going back to prison for a second time for two years after Dad unknowingly ended up working as a mechanic at a chop shop the next town over, which got busted when I was ten, could drive a wedge between them.

I don’t think anyone has ever been loved as much as my mom and I were by my dad before he passed away four years ago.

After going on a string of disappointing hookups and crappy first dates that never turned into seconds throughout college, I’m not convinced I’ll ever find someone as wonderful as Dad was with Mom, which is why I stopped so much as even looking at guys.

It’s really easy to do since I’m self-employed and work from home, and I’m mostly content with my life.

And besides, Merlin is enough for me, so why even bother?

I grip the fuzzy white steering wheel with both hands when I pull into the familiar, vast parking lot.

Gulping the late spring, humid air, I will my racing heart to slow as I watch a line of women and a few men dressed in their finest disappear into the intimidating, gray block and razor-wired compound.

What I want most is to turn around and go back home so I can cuddle up with Merlin and beg his forgiveness, but my dad taught me the importance of keeping my promises.

Since I promised Mom I would do this for her, I slip my ID from my wallet, leave my purse and phone in the car as instructed, and nervously make my way to the guarded entrance.

I’m the last to arrive at check-in, and when it’s finally my turn to be patted down, a guard with thick gray hair and a small paunch scans my ID. “Mirabeth Perkins? Nurse Perkins’s kid?” he asks.

He probably could have guessed simply by the fact that I’m the spitting image of Mom, with the same light blue eyes and wavy, ash-blonde hair that brushes my waist. I’ve chosen to wear it half up, half down, the top portion pulled up in a high, tight ponytail that I’ve teased to hang like curtains at the sides of my face.

Now I’m questioning whether it looks too babyish compared to the shiny, styled curls of some of the other volunteers.

“That’s me,” I say, my fingers tingling with nerves as I pull the sweetheart collar of my dress away from my neck to slip my ID in my bra since my dress doesn’t have pockets.

The guard, whose badge reveals his last name to be Waller, respectfully averts his eyes. “I haven’t seen your mom in a week or so. Is she feeling alright?” he asks once I’m properly covered. “She didn’t quit, or anything?”

Being escorted toward another locked entrance by another guard, I tell Waller, “She’s on a girls’ trip with my aunt in Costa Rica right now, but she’ll be back in a few days.” I was invited on their last trip, but I could never leave Merlin for that long.

Waller blushes and sucks in his stomach, standing taller when he says, “Good, good, I’m glad to hear that. I’ve missed—” He coughs into his fist and looks away again.

Someone has a crush. Perfect. Now I’ll have something to tease Mom about the next time she gets onto me about dating and finally giving her a grandbaby. Finally. As if I’m some spinster at twenty-three years old.

“Bye, Mr. Waller,” I say, wiggling my fingers at him, my anxiety briefly abated by this potential new development in my mom’s love life. She deserves some happiness after four hard years. “Maybe we could have dinner with my mom when she gets back?”

Waller’s cheeks are blazing red when he says, “That would be lovely. And the name’s Garth.”

Right before the door closes, I say, “She loves peonies, pink Moscato, and gambling.”

Garth hurriedly jots the note down on a piece of paper and tucks it into the front pocket of his black uniform top.

Taking a deep breath, pleased by the prospect of my mom finding some companionship, especially when I’m always so worried about her traveling alone to the casino resorts in Louisiana and Mississippi, my nerves don’t start trickling back in until I’m led into a room emptied of furniture with the group of about thirty volunteers.

With only one mesh-barred window, harsh fluorescent lighting, and zero decorations, food, or music, I’d say this program needs a lot of work if it’s joy the admins are trying to provide the inmates.

Hoping this is just a waiting area, I hug the wall beside an older woman who’s wearing a long, silky white dress that clings to her hour-glass figure with a bird’s cage veil clipped to her bright turquoise hair while she chews her French manicured nails.

White attire seems to be popular with this crowd, with only a few others wearing pale shades of pink or yellow.

Maybe there’s some kind of dress code Mom forgot to mention, but it’s too late for me to change now.

A door on the right opens, and in strides an intimidating woman dressed in heels and a black suit, her dark brown hair pulled back in a slick bun.

She introduces herself only as Rosario in a booming voice.

“Alright, folks, listen up,” she says, holding a clipboard in the air, waiting until a hush falls and she has everyone’s attention.

She points to a yellow line painted on the concrete floor.

“When I call your name, you’ll line up here. ”

A few volunteers whoop and bounce excitedly on their toes.

Rosario cuts them all a stern look until they quiet down. “When it’s your turn, you’ll sign your name and initials along the Xs.” She taps her clipboard with a pen. “When you walk through this door, you’ll be assigned an inmate.”

The face of one of the volunteers falls, and the tiny woman around my age, with narrow shoulders, slumps. “We don’t get to pick?”

“I told you,” says a woman, who looks like she could be the girl’s mother. “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit,” she says from the side of her mouth, like my mom has a thousand times over, rubbing the girl’s arm encouragingly. “This is our chance to be happy.”

Weird to put so much pressure on one dance, but whatever.

“I don’t know about this,” says the girl hesitantly, picking at a pearl on her beaded, white cocktail dress, already backing away in her glittery white cowgirl boots. “Maybe…maybe next year, if they do it again.”

Rosario raises a brow. “If that doesn’t suit you, then there’s the door,” she says, nodding to the one we all came through.

The crestfallen volunteer shuffles out, giving her mother an apologetic look, as do three others, but the rest remain.

Ok. Even weirder. I have no idea why they would care who they danced with, since all the inmates have been vetted.

Only those with nonviolent convictions and without a single mark on their records while incarcerated are allowed at the dance.

Unless any of them turn out to secretly be creeps, it’s kinda sucky, if you ask me, to just walk out because you don’t get to pick your dance partner when the inmates have been looking forward to this for weeks now.

Rosario clicks her tongue and tugs on the bottom button of her suit jacket, squaring her shoulders. “Right. Let’s begin.”