Eat, Drink and Be . . . Married

by Faith Andrews

  By Faith Andrews

  Copyright © 2018 by Faith Andrews

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Except the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles and lyrics contained in the book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Leila

  2. Jude

  3. Leila

  4. Leila

  5. Jude

  6. Leila

  7. Jude

  8. Leila

  9. Leila

  10. Jude

  11. Leila

  12. Jude

  13. Leila

  14. Jude

  15. Leila

  16. Jude

  17. Leila

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Books by Faith - Standalones

  Books by Faith - Series

  About the Author

  Connect with Faith

  Dedication

  To Candace Cameron Bure, the queen of 2018 Hallmark Channel Christmas movies. You made me a believer again and gave me the wonderful excuse to veg out on my couch with hot cocoa by the light of my Christmas Tree.

  1

  Leila

  Just ignore her, Leila. It’ll be over soon.

  But it won’t be over anytime soon. We have a whole trail on Seneca Lake left to tour. Not to mention another day of cackling and girl bonding to deal with tomorrow.

  I roll my eyes for the umpteenth time, trying hard as I might to drown out the ear-piercing, spine tingling, nails-on-a-chalkboard pitch of my sister’s—sorry, half sister’s—yammering drowning out the Christmas music the bus driver insists on making us listen to.

  “Russell knew better than to buy me anything other than platinum. And don’t get me started on the diamond. This baby is worth more than every one of our ‘nips and tucks’ from Dr. Goleb . . . combined!” She guffaws with her hand over the chest Dr. Goleb created for her, flashing that shiny boulder and air-quoting nip and tuck to make the truth sound less ostentatious than it is.

  Melissa’s fourteen—yes, I said fourteen—bridesmaids giggle, worshiping their queen, as if she didn’t just out all of them for having fake noses and even faker tits. I mean, who says something like that? Not anyone I want to have anything to do with. Only thing is—I have no choice in this pairing. We’re related. Not fully, thank the good Lord—that would be a travesty I couldn’t live with. But knowing our father was once married to her troll of a mother makes me second guess his sanity.

  Which brings me back to my sanity. It’s currently being tested to the max by this perversion of friendship. I can bet my own left tit—all natural, by the way—that not one of these girls even likes Melissa, let alone wants to be part of the circus act she calls a bridal party. How could they? She’s who the term Bridezilla was coined after. And even before she was an insufferable bride-to-be she was, well . . . insufferable. It’s a wonder she hooked Russell in the first place. Who would want to spend a lifetime waking up to her? Then again, they’re two peas in a pretentious pod. Made for each other. How disgustingly cute.

  Unlike her beloved Russell, however, I’m only here out of obligation. My father begged me to put on a happy face and play the role of sweet little sister to make him proud. How could I say no after all we’ve been through in the last four years? Mom passed a short year after she was diagnosed with breast cancer and it wrecked Dad. Seemed wife number three was his one true love, his soul mate. He hasn’t been the same since, though, and I haven’t been able to say no to him. Only this time he isn’t getting away with a regular old, “Do it for Daddy, will you?” No way, Jose. This kind of commitment is gonna cost him. The kind that affords me to replace my cracked iPad and buy the new graphic design software I’ve been drooling over for months. Win win, except I am totally losing it in the confines of this luxury party bus.

  Three wineries in and I am not nearly as tipsy as I need to be to endure this day and the rest of the weekend. Who nauseates at the thought of pampering—manicures, massages, facials, the whole nine? Me, that’s who. If I were enjoying this kind of royal treatment with my best friend Morgan, that would be one thing. But there will be no enjoying any part of this trip under the watchful, analytical, malicious eye of Melissa Burke, soon to be Melissa Montgomery. She is a killjoy. She actually kills all the joy. Stomps on it. Buries it so far underground you imagine it never existed in the first place.

  Remind me why the hell I’m here again? Oh yeah . . . Daddy. I think I should make him pay for the three months of therapy it’ll take to get over this retreat, too.

  “We’re here!” Melissa sings, making me wish I were deaf.

  “Oh this one looks cute,” her friend Lara coos. “They already decorated for Christmas!”

  The thought that yet another business has totally overlooked Thanksgiving—my favorite holiday, by the way—garners yet another eye-roll from yours truly.

  “It says here on the pamphlet thingie that this place is known for their bold and fruity Red Steel Reserve.” One of Melissa’s sorority sisters reads from the map we were given at the bed and breakfast. I think this one’s name is Stephanie, but who can keep track of fourteen girls who all look and sound the same? Blonde, plastic, and loud.

  When the bus comes to a full stop, they pop out of their seats and flood into the center aisle, matching Louis Vuittons in tow, each vying to be next in line after Melissa. It’s been this way the entire trip. They’re all up her ass as if the further up they crawl, the more she’ll like them. Crazy if you ask me. Melissa only likes herself. Don’t they already know that?

  By the time number thirteen is aligned in the Melissa-led single file, I’m still in my seat. No one has cared to look back to see if I’ve joined them. Not my sister, not Lara, not Stephanie, not even the bus driver. Isn’t he supposed to check for sleeping children? Or is that just for elementary school kids? Whatever; I digress. The momentary separation from the gaggle allows me to contemplate pretending to be asleep. They won’t miss me, anyway. No harm in opting out of one stop of twenty or more, right?

  I settle into the very last row of seats at the back with my feet curled under my butt using my oversized purse—a patched denim number I saw at a thrift shop that just spoke to me—as a pillow. As I close my eyes and ready myself for a good fifteen to twenty minutes of silence, there’s a knock on the window above my head.

  “Crap! I was so close!” I drag my body back into a sitting position and peek outside.

  The bus driver is smiling at me—well, it’s not really a smile but more like a nice try, hun smirk. Seems bus drivers check for left behinds after all, and this one is most likely craving the same escape from Melissa’s gang that I am.

  I sling my bag over my shoulder, pull up my big girl panties, and march off that bus like I’m being forced to walk the plank of a pirate’s ship. I’d take that over this any day of the week, matey.

  “Ohhh Em Geeee. How cute is this place! It looks like tiny little elves worked their magic in here.” One of the girls—I’m done learning names at this point—screams out.

  Again—it’s not even Thanksgiving yet. I
love Christmas as much as the next guy, but what’s the rush?

  “Halloween was only a week and a half ago,” I mumble, but no one pays me any mind as half the girls bum rush the ornate Christmas tree of silver and gold, and the rest turn up their noses in disgust at my Scroogyness.

  “I decorated it myself,” a voice calls out from behind me and I whip around to see who the velvety male baritone belongs to.

  I don’t know if it’s that I’ve been choking on estrogen for the last twenty-four hours or if I’m just that smitten, but the mixture of sexy voice, gorgeous face, and super hot bod has me all tingly. Well, hello there. I’m suddenly ecstatic the bus driver didn’t let me sleep through this stop.

  The mystery man and I lock eyes and the tingles travel to the spot where my heated cheeks are no doubt a flustered shade of pink. He smiles—a dashing but crooked grin—and I beam back. I’m the only non-blonde in the group with pin straight brown locks. I’m sure I look totally out of the place amongst the designer wearing crew in my ripped jeans and flowy peasant top, not to mention the tattoo peeking out of the cold-shoulder. I’m momentarily self-conscious that I don’t fit Melissa’s bridesmaid mold, but then I remember his eyes are on me, not any of them.

  “Welcome.” He walks toward me with one hand in the front pocket of his faded denim and a white linen napkin hanging from his other arm. I can’t help but notice he too has ink on his arm. I almost jump up and down in delight at the notion that I have something in common with another human being for the first time in twenty-four hours.

  “We’re here for the tasting,” I blurt, biting my lip and stating the obvious. I feel like Baby in Dirty Dancing, announcing that she carried a watermelon.

  “Kinda figured that.”

  The handsome, tattooed man winks at me and I whisper, “Yeah . . . uh . . . duh.” I’d like to hoist myself between the branches of the enormous Christmas tree to hide from further embarrassment, but luckily, Melissa steps forward—literally shoving me aside with a huff—and announces her presence.

  “Burke. Party of fifteen. It’s my bachelorette party. We have a reservation.”

  “You have a circus is what you have, but you’re in luck because my boss, set aside this time to give you and your guests a private tasting.”

  I suppress the urge to high-five the guy, and giggle to myself. He notices my amusement and offers me another panty-melting wink.

  After a few more formalities and a quick explanation of what to expect, our tour guide—and resident elf by the looks of things around here—ushers us all inside, waiting for the entire parade to enter the room. Waiting for me.

  “This should be . . . fun,” he joshes, nudging me with one very well-defined bicep.

  I gulp down the fact my skin is burning with excitement from merely brushing with his bare arm and offer him a warning. “It’ll be anything but. I hope you have ear plugs. You’re gonna need them.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of our guest of honor?”

  “That’s an understatement.” I snort. “I’m just here for the booze.”

  “And here I was hoping those goo-goo eyes were for me.” He huffs and boldly places a hand at the small of my back. “I’m Jude, by the way. Come on, let’s get this over with, huh?”

  “Hey Jude,” I sing the famous melody. “I’m Leila.”

  He laughs at my corny Beatles quip and my heart leaps in my chest from all the flirting. All of a sudden I’m not so sure I want to get this over with so quickly after all.

  2

  Jude

  This day is shit. My cousins are away on some romantic rendezvous and they left me to deal with everything. Maintenance, the tours, which includes working this massive bachelorette party that’ll be here any minute and . . . hanging the rest of the Christmas lights outside. Don’t get me wrong, this is certainly the most wonderful time of the year, but I thought since I was promoted to wine server over the summer, my days of climbing ladders and wrestling with knotted wires were over. But my mother, bless her meddling Italian heart, made it a point to tell Rebecca I could take on any and all responsibilities while she and Trent were away. Thanks, Ma. Love ya, too!

  I’m sure this whole thing is just some test designed to entice me into the “family business.” My cousin and her husband have a great thing going here. Becca purchased the land from our grandparents just before the winery craze took flight in the Finger Lakes. With her love and knowledge of wine and her husband’s Ivy league business degree, they managed to turn this spot into one of the most-visited wineries on the Seneca trail. Good for them. It’s lucrative. It’s impressive. It’s everything Uncle Bruce ever wanted for his daughter—especially since it keeps her close to home.

  But, me on the other hand, I’m a musician, not a winemaker, an enologist, or an entrepreneur. I like to use my hands for strumming strings or tickling the ivories rather than staining them with grape pulp. I won’t admit this out loud, but . . . I don’t even like wine, for God’s sake. I’m a beer guy. A man’s man. None of that swirling it around and sniffing before you take a good long pull of whatever the hell is on tap. Just drink it, damn it!

  Nonetheless, I prepare myself—like an actor would for his next performance—for what lies ahead. I know my stuff. I’ve done my homework and paid attention. I’m not a total slacker. And I know the group of women set to arrive in five minutes doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the three things to consider during a proper tasting—color, aroma, and palate. These chicks on their bachelorette parties are all the same. They travel up and down the wine trail or take part in the vineyard crawl just to get trashed. They don’t want to hear about the history of the land or the lakes. They don’t care if our wine is fermented in oak barrels or steel basins. And they certainly don’t give a shit that I’m trying to put the finishing touches on a compilation of my music that I think will put me on the map, far beyond the confines of Seneca Falls, New York. But I have to care. I can’t screw up. I owe it to Becca for getting me this gig and shutting my mother up.

  As I set up the bar with clean glasses and fresh booklets that list the different types of wine we offer, I hum a tune to a new song I’ve been working on and stop dead in my tracks when the melody I’ve struggled to nail down finally comes to me. Grabbing one of the tiny pencils out of the box and a booklet off the top of the pile, I jot down the chords so I won’t forget. It’s then, while I’m in my groove, that I hear the bus pull onto the gravel lot. The pencil stills, but my brain races, visualizing notes and harmonies as my song comes to life in my own ears.

  “Damn nine to five. Can’t get anything done,” I mumble. Only good thing is, thanks to the vacationing lovebirds, I’ve been clocking a lot more than eight hours a day. At least I’ll have some extra cash to for Christmas shopping this year—silver lining.

  I hear the boisterous group before I see it. The reservation says fifteen but from the echoes of their awful attempt at caroling the classic tune of Winter Wonderland it sounds as if there are fifty of them. I drag my feet to the entry, remembering the last party of this size and intensity. That day ended with me chasing four Advil with an unfinished serving of our best-selling bottle. Occupational hazard, I suppose. Could be worse.

  I plaster a smile on my face and rehearse my lines as I step outside. I hadn’t noticed how bright the sun was shining or the pleasant mildness of the temperature because I was too busy this morning to notice. The good nature of the weather adds a zing to my crappy attitude as I call out to the sea of blondies—half of them gawking over the massive Christmas tree in the entryway, the other half already eyeing the tasting bar behind me.

  “I decorated it myself.” I puff out my chest.

  The words barely escape my cocky grin when she spins around and my eyes take her in. A light breeze wafts her lavender scent in my direction, her hair floating around her stunning face. Brunette, brown-eyed, gorgeous, and pert—all of her. One thorough look at her and my mind is creating another thousand songs inspired solely by her beauty. Be
autiful Stranger—it’ll be my first number one hit.

  Beautiful Stranger’s cocoa-colored eyes scan me from head to toe and when they find their way back to mine, she’s flustered, a natural, rosy pink dusting her cheeks. I immediately want to throw in the towel—aka the stupid serving napkin draped over my forearm—and whisk her away for an afternoon of getting to know each other. But one look at the blonde stampede of chicks forming behind her reminds me that I’m on duty.

  “Welcome,” I announce, walking closer to her. It’s a magnetic pull I want to ignore, but damn it if it’s impossible. I want to reach out and touch her. I quickly remedy that by digging a hand into my front pocket.

  She smiles, looks down at her dainty feet, and then brings those soft brown babies right back up to me. Biting her luscious lip, she says, “We’re here for the tasting.” What I hear is, “I want you, Jude. Marry me and love me forever.”

  I can’t exactly blurt out, “Yes, yes, yes!” the way my brain is coaxing me to, so I say, “Kinda figured that,” referring to the reason for her visit but keeping the hope alive that she is indeed here just for me.

  Her cheeks are bright again as she responds. “Yeah . . . uh . . . duh.”

  I can tell she’s feeling this strange yet hot connection too, but before I can act on it and convince her to run away with me, Queen Blondie steps up, pushing the new love of my life aside. “Burke. Party of fifteen. It’s my bachelorette party. We have a reservation.”