Kiss a Bridesmaid (Always a Bridesmaid Book 3)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Book Launch Contest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Book Launch Contest Link
Kiss a Bridesmaid
A Novella in the Always a Bridesmaid Series
Courtney Hunt
Ingleside Press
Contents
Book Launch Contest
Readers Club
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Book Launch Contest Link
Readers Club Invitation
Please Leave a Review
About the Author
Have you read them all?
Book Launch Contest
Would you like the chance to win a Kate Spade prize package, valued at over $500?
One winner in the Kiss a Bridesmaid book launch contest will receive the following prize package:
1Kate Spade Shore Street Margareta Shopper in Rose Bed (Retail value $298)
2Kate Spade Shore Street Lacey Wallet in Rose Bed (Retail value $178)
3$50 gift card to the e-book retailer of their choice (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or iTunes)
Please go to the back of the book to access the sweepstakes link. Good luck!
Contest ends 20 May 2017.
No purchase necessary to win.
Due to mailing costs, only United States residents are eligible to win.
Readers Club
Courtney Hunt’s Readers Club members get free books, behind the scenes access, and unique items to accompany her stories.
Members are always first to hear about Courtney’s new books.
See the back of the book for details on how to sign up.
Chapter 1
On Savannah’s flawless first day of spring, Shortie Campbell tilted his face up to the sunshine and drew in a deep breath, enjoying the sweet scent of the blossoming Forsyth Park azaleas carried on the gentle spring breeze. He allowed himself two more deep breaths before he forced himself to get back to work. He reached into his battered white delivery van and picked up the wedding cake, careful to hold it away from his body, so he wouldn’t accidentally smash the frosting roses he’d created so painstakingly at five o’clock that morning. Balancing the three-tiered confection with care and precision, he carried it from his delivery van to the cake table.
As he stepped along the wide flagstone path leading to the reception site, the mid-afternoon sunshine warmed his skin, and the sweet, enticing scent of the sugary frosting overpowered the blooming flowers. Shortie's biceps cramped, but he held the cake steady, moving slowly, keeping his balance. He couldn't let himself feel the ache in the small of his back, the strain in his shoulders, or how tired his quads were. As one of Savannah's premier wedding caterers, he had miles to go before he slept.
They had to make the day perfect and memorable for this bride and groom, even if it was Shortie's tenth wedding just today. Thankfully, this catering gig for an outdoor wedding in Forsyth Park was his last and final of the day, though he had hours to go before they were done, including returning to the restaurant to clean up from today and prepare for tomorrow. He would be lucky to be done by nightfall.
Though he’d have to do it all again tomorrow.
Spring in Savannah was wedding season, after all.
"Beautiful,” Leo, his favorite minion, commented after Shortie slid the cake into place on the flower-wreathed cake table. Once he centered the cake on the table, Shortie arranged real blush and salmon pink roses on the top tier, working as fast as he could. "I like how the colors change from really bright pink on the bottom to white on the top."
“Ombre roses for the win, my man,” Shortie laughed. “It’s the eighth ombre cake today, too. I think it’s a trend.”
"Wedding season," Leo nodded, never stopping arranging canapés on gleaming silver trays, effortlessly making each one picture perfect. Shortie glanced toward the fountain, but the wedding party wasn't in sight yet. No doubt still snapping photographs along the azalea-bedecked paths of picturesque Forsyth Park, never more beautiful than in springtime when the azaleas bloomed.
“Make hay while the sun shines, my gramps always said,” Shortie squinted at the cake top as he debated adding more fresh flowers. Part of being an artist is knowing when to stop.
“When else would you make hay?” Leo cocked his head, his brow furrowing. Being from Argentina, he didn’t always understand American idioms. “And how do you make hay, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” Shortie huffed out a laugh, his nimble fingers arranging the just-blooming roses. “It’s just what he always said. I think it means like take advantage of the good times. Recognize your opportunities. Like the ant and the cricket, you know.”
"I have no idea what bugs have to do with anything,” Leo shook his head, fanning prosciutto wrapped asparagus spears artfully across a silver tray. "I also have no idea what dogs are doing in a wedding."
“The puppy isn’t getting married,” Shortie laughed. “He’s just the ring bearer.”
Leo shook his head again just as the wedding party strolled into view around the fountain. The bridesmaids wore fuchsia dresses, the same bright pink that he’d created the lower layer of ombre roses out of. The grooms wore matching ties and cummerbunds. Even the canine ring bearer wore a bow tie to match, with bright pink flowers trailing up his leash. This bride really liked pink. With the gorgeous matching azaleas in full bloom around the famous white fountain in Forsyth Park, even Mother Nature seemed determined to make it an ideal bridal day.
And if Mother Nature happened to need a bit of assistance, professional bridesmaid, Erin Delaney, and her brother, Dylan, the world’s only professional groomsman, were on hand to help. The Delaneys owned and operated Always a Bridesmaid, which was fast becoming known as Savannah’s best wedding planning business. The Delaneys could make any wedding perfect. As Shortie happened to be a childhood friend of Erin’s husband, Matthew Westbrook, he also happened to be their favorite caterer. Which was how he came to be arranging flowers on the top tier of his tenth wedding cake of the day, instead of enjoying a game of pick-up ball or a nice nap on this gorgeous spring Saturday afternoon.
Still, with Erin's help, his restaurant, The Pie Plate, was booming and his catering business was expanding daily. Shortie couldn't complain. No matter how much he would rather be one of the picnickers enjoying the first warm spring day in Savannah or the kids playing horse on the basketball court or just strolling under the shady canopy of trees.
The sun shimmered on the Delaneys blonde hair as they expertly corralled the group into wedding picture poses. Dylan carefully positioned Jasper, the silver-gray Weimaraner puppy ring bearer, in front next to the pint-sized flower girl in her adorable petal pink dress. He artfully draped the flower-bedecked leash in front of Jasper and stepped back in line with the tuxedoed groomsmen for the perfect shot.
And likely it would have stayed perfect, had it not been for one neon pink Frisbee sailing through the cerulean sky, tossed by a group of happy kids near the playground.
At the sight of the floating disc, Jasper let out a joyful bark and bounded after it, running flat out through the
grass, mud splashing up from his enormous paws. Dylan shouted and dashed off in hot pursuit, but his dress shoes were no match for a canine on a mission. Shortie tossed the remaining flowers on the table and took off running after Jasper, not even pausing to remove his apron.
Shortie weaved through the picnic blankets sprawled over the grass and leapt over a bench, his heart thrumming along with the slap of his feet on the pavement as the dog led him on a merry chase. He cut in front of Jasper, but the Weimaraner was too full of puppy energy. The dog seemed delighted that someone had joined in his game.
Jasper turned on a dime and dashed toward another Frisbee. Shortie and Dylan chased after him, Dylan sliding in his dress shoes. Shortie gained on the dog, sprinting flat out, his lungs on fire as he sped up. Behind him, Dylan yelled, “Somebody catch that dog.”
Jasper snatched a Frisbee mid-air before turning and running pell-mell back toward the fountain, eager to bring his ill-begotten prize to his owner. His ears flapping in the spring breeze, Jasper ran between Shortie's legs, still holding on to his prize Frisbee. Shortie scrabbled for the end of the leash in vain as the dog dashed past. Shortie whirled, dashing back toward the fountain as a girl, dressed all in brown, strolled down the wide flagstone walk, directly in Jasper’s path.
"Grab his leash!" Shortie called, just barely able to push out the words as he sprinted after Jasper. The girl, her chestnut ponytail swinging, bent and seized the looped end of the leash trailing behind Jasper. She flashed a beaming smile at Shortie, but fifty pounds of Weimaraner puppy at full speed pulled her off her feet. Her head hit the flagstone with a sickening crack before dog and girl rolled into the muddy grass just a few feet from the path.
The dog plopped down beside her and dropped the colorful Frisbee between his paws, his gray sides heaving with exertion. Shortie stopped next to the girl as Dylan came to a halt behind him. Shortie bent over, his hands on his knees, his breath sawing in and out of his chest, as his heart pounded. He really needed to exercise more. Finally, Shortie managed to gasp, “You okay, miss? Are you hurt?”
Though he’d mistaken her for a teenager, the woman was probably in her late twenties. She wore dark brown corduroy pants, a floral shirt in tones of beige and tan, with a chocolate colored cardigan over it. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes the exact color of vanilla extract. Her hair was her crowning glory—a shade of rich chestnut with highlights of cinnamon, copper, and gold. Fleetingly, Shortie flashed to the wrens that chittered around the bird feeder in his backyard.
“Shortie, you got this?” At his nod, Dylan took Jasper’s leash and led the dog back toward the wedding party, Jasper trotting proudly with his prized Frisbee still in his mouth.
“Miss, are you hurt?” Shortie asked again. She struggled into a sitting position, clutching her head. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, gently helping her to sit on a nearby bench. By now, they’d attracted quite a crowd, gawking at her. Someone brought her a bottle of water which he opened for her and pressed into her hand, wrapping her slim fingers around the bottle.
“Are you hurt?” he asked for the third time. She shook her head, clutching at her forehead, a spasm of pain crumpling her round face. “I’m Shortie Campbell. That was a hard hit you took. Let me take you to get checked out.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered, her voice little more than a rasp. She glanced around, seeming to notice the crowd for the first time, and clutched her mud-streaked cardigan over her chest. The woman stood and took a step, before swaying. Shortie leapt to his feet, wrapping his arm around her to hold her up. She was a tiny little thing, her shoulders thin under his hand and nearly weightless as she leaned against him.
“I think we better take you to get checked out.”
She sank back to the bench but held onto Shortie’s hand. He didn’t think she realized she did it, though he clasped her hand, hoping to reassure her. “I’m just a bit dizzy.”
“Back off, everyone. Give her some space,” Shortie called as the crowd dissipated. She drew a few deep breaths, her fingers flexing around his. “What’s your name?”
“Abigail Browne.”
“Wow, I never saw anyone dressed to match her name before.”
Her forehead furrowed but she clutched her head, her mouth tight with pain. Shortie crouched in front of her and held up two fingers. “Okay, Abby, how many fingers am I holding up?”
Chapter 2
“Three?" Abigail squinted at the man crouching in front of her, blinking to clear her myopic vision and count how many fingers he held up. Her head pounded and already her muscles ached, especially her shoulder. But it was nothing compared to the embarrassment flooding through her. Her cheeks flamed, and her heart thumped against her chest. She wasn't used to making such a spectacle of herself. She just wanted to go home and hide.
"Yeah, come on,” Shortie stood, casting her into shadow. His incredible height gave him a hulking presence, but his denim blue eyes were kind in his freckled face. The sun highlighted the reddish tint in his strawberry blonde curls, giving him an angelic nimbus. "There's an urgent care place just up the block. Just give me one second to call my favorite minion."
“Minion?”
Without answering, Shortie raised his cell phone to his ear and said, “Leo, I’m taking Abby here to urgent care. She caught Jasper’s leash and cracked her head. You good? Be back soon, man.”
“You have minions?” Abigail asked. “Like an evil supervillain?”
“Like a busy wedding caterer,” Shortie chuckled. “Let’s get you checked out.”
"No, I'm fine, Mr. Campbell,” Abigail stood.
Pain radiated from her ankle. She pressed her lips together, but a tiny squeak escaped. He wrapped an arm around her, taking her weight against him, his fingers patting her shoulder awkwardly. Though Abigail wasn't used to being touched by anyone, it felt companionable and comforting, not threatening. She leaned against him for an instant, enjoying the warmth in the way he tucked her against him until she got her balance and then stepped forward with faux confidence. She ignored the twinge of pain in her ankle. She could make it home.
“It’s Shortie,” he corrected her as she limped toward Gaston Street. He fell into step next to her, close enough to catch her or help if needed but not crowding her.
“That’s not your given name.”
"I got to be taller than my mama when I was about nine. She started calling me Shortie then and it just stuck."
Abigail chuckled. He continued, "And before you ask, I'm six feet, seven inches tall. The air up here is fine, and I'm not related to a giraffe. I do play pick-up basketball now and then, but the closest I ever got to the NBA was watching the Hawks play."
“Why are you wearing an apron?” Abigail asked, surprising herself. She didn’t usually talk to strangers much at all and certainly not to strange men. But Shortie didn’t feel like a stranger. Over his worn jeans and heathered gray Henley shirt, he wore a navy-blue chef’s apron, spattered now with mud and inexplicably streaked with pink.
“I was delivering a wedding cake,” Shortie pointed across the park where a large wedding party posed for pictures, the fuschia bridesmaids’ dresses bright among the flowers.
Abigail smiled at the bride and groom’s obvious joy and then squinted at the puppy seated in front of the party, still clutching a neon pink Frisbee in his mouth. “Is that the same dog?”
“Yep, that’s Jasper, the canine ring bearer,” Shortie nodded. “At least the menace didn’t knock over my cake.”
“You’re a baker?”
“You know The Pie Plate? Over on Liberty?”
"The cafe?” Abigail nodded and then, when pain shot through her skull, clutched her head. Shortie grasped her elbow to help steady her, and they paused for a moment under the shady trees. “The one with the murals on the walls?”
"That's the one,” Shortie nodded. "We recently started catering weddings. I've been making wedding cakes for a while, but we're branching out. Urgent care is this way.
"
“I’ll just put some ice on when I get home,” Abigail wanted to go home and hide. She’d gone out for a simple stroll and ended up covered in mud, with a headache and an aching ankle. This was exactly why she usually stayed home. She hobbled toward the edge of the park, biting her lip to keep from crying out as pain shot through her twisted ankle.
“You hit your head pretty hard, Abby.”
No one called her Abby anymore, not since she was very little. Still, she didn't correct him. She'd forgotten how much she liked being Abby. "I'll be fine."
“At least let me walk you home?” Shortie offered.
Abigail nodded, grateful that he’d walk next to her in case she couldn’t make it the two blocks home. He took her elbow, supporting her. His free big hand wrapped around hers, warming her chilled fingers, as she limped along, concentrating on each step.
“What do you do, Abby?”
“I’m between jobs, at the moment,” Abby gritted out, her ankle throbbing. Even though it was a cool day, perspiration bloomed on her forehead from the effort. There was no way she could explain her complicated, checkered odd job history to him at the moment. It was all she could do to keep walking.
“My friend, Erin, is always looking for bridesmaids.”
"Looking for bridesmaids?" Abby asked as they crossed Drayton Street. Just a block and a half to go.
“She’s a professional bridesmaid.”
“What on earth is a professional bridesmaid?” Abigail peeked up at Shortie’s face as he chattered away. Despite being tall and hulking, he wasn’t overwhelming. Probably because he had such an open, kind face.