Every Bride Has Her Day: a heartwarming and sweet southern romance (Magnolia Brides, 2) - Softcover

Austin, Lynnette

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1492618004 ISBN 13: 9781492618003

Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca, 2016

Synopsis

"The charming side of small-town living and some creative flower-arrangement tips make this sweet romance a delightful read. " ―Publishers Weekly

New York City detective Sam DeLuca came to Misty Bottoms, Georgia for solitude, but his bubbly neighbor Cricket seems intent on shining her happiness into Sam's heart, like it or not.

Cricket O'Malley can't wait to plant roots back home in Georgia, where she's returned to restore an abandoned flower shop to its former glory. The only blemish? Her neighbor's house is even more neglected than her old flower shop, and its occupant seems as surly as he is darkly handsome.

Devastated body and soul after a tough case went south, New York City detective Sam DeLuca thought he'd have no trouble finding solitude in the quiet Georgia town of Misty Bottoms, but his bubbly neighbor seems determined to shine happiness into Sam's life. Sam is equally determined to close himself off, but his heart says otherwise.

Magnolia Brides Series:
The Best Laid Wedding Plans (Book 1)
Every Bride Has Her Day (Book 2)
Picture Perfect Wedding (Book 3)

Praise for The Best Laid Wedding Plans:
"All about small towns, community, and sweet and sexy romance." ―Booklist
"Entertaining...the push and pull of emotion feels real." ―RT Book Reviews, 4 stars
"An intriguing premiere...well-developed characters and sensual romantic tension." ―Publishers Weekly

About this title

About the Author:

LYNNETTE AUSTIN loves Starbucks, peppermint patties, and long rides with the top down and the music cranked up! She grew up in Pennsylvania, moved to New York, then to Wyoming, and presently divides her time between Florida's beaches and Georgia's mountains. She's been a finalist in Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Contest, PASIC's Book of Your Heart Contest, and Georgia Romance Writers' Maggie Contest. Having grown up in a small town, that's where her heart takes her-to those quirky small towns where everybody knows everybody...and all their business, for better or worse. Visit Lynnette at www.authorlynnetteaustin.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter 1

Sam DeLuca had never run away from a fight. Until now. And look where it had landed him.

Smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

"This has to be the stupidest idea I've ever had."

He'd forgotten how dark country nights could be. A thin moon scuttled from cloud to cloud and only a rare star twinkled in the inky sky. His Harley's single headlight cut a narrow swath through the darkness.

Not a solitary light shone from the windows of any of the houses he passed. Was every single person in Misty Bottoms, Georgia, asleep?

He checked his GPS. He was close. As he approached an intersection, he slowed, watching for a street sign. And then he spotted it. Frog Pond Road. Thank God.

Eighteen years had passed since he'd last stepped foot in this town, and he'd been all of twelve. Sitting at the crossroads, he couldn't remember if he was supposed to turn right or left. Well, roll the dice and pick one. He could always turn around if his choice proved to be wrong. Traffic sure wasn't a problem.

The clock on his instrument panel read a little after one a.m. He'd expected to get here while it was still daylight. But between his late start and all the holdups due to interstate construction, well, it was what it was.

His already-sour mood took a further dip when he caught sight of his great-aunt Gertie's house. Hell, his house now. Or what remained of it.

Sam pulled up in front of the deserted building and sat on the motorcycle, legs spread, studying it in the nearly nonexistent light. No street lamps. No porch lights. He cursed small towns and rundown houses as the Harley idled smoothly beneath him.

He backed up and turned the motorcycle so that he sat perpendicular to the house, his headlight bathing the tumble-down two-story.

"Nope, not a very well-thought-out plan, bud."

Muttering a curse, he wondered if he shouldn't book a room at some little motel for the night-if he shouldn't pull a U-ey right here and head north, back to the city.

A person would have to be crazy to even consider doing anything with this place. But then he was crazy, wasn't he? Why else would he be here?

Maybe it was karma, and he was meant to move into this dump, which looked as broken-down as he felt. Maybe the two of them could nurse each other back to health or at least some semblance of sanity.

Squinting, he studied the place once more before setting his kickstand and climbing off the Harley. Nah. Who was he kidding? He and the house had both passed the point of no return.

Hands on his hips, he stood at the curb, sizing up the place the way he would a suspect and deciding on his approach.

The weeds and overgrown yard made it nearly impossible to even see the house itself. Tree branches, long overdue for a trimming, scraped against the siding, sending a chill along his spine. Damned if some film producer couldn't walk right in and shoot a horror movie here.

A New York City detective, he'd charged into many a dark alley, faced more than one drawn gun aimed at him by some badass high on meth or cocaine or simply the thrill. Yet the idea of wading through that waist-deep grass in the pitch-black had him sweating. Who knew what hid in those weeds?

From the time he was eight till he'd turned twelve and become obsessed with Little League baseball, he'd spent two weeks every summer here with Great-Aunt Gertrude. That was plenty long enough to learn that snakes lived in this stuff. Gertie had insisted they were more afraid of him than he was of them. Guess he'd have to take her word on that because if it were true, he sure as heck was safe. There wouldn't be any reptiles within twenty miles. They'd all have turned tail and slithered away.

And now here he was back in Misty Bottoms. Gertie was gone, but because of the bond they'd forged, she'd left this place to him when she'd passed two years ago. Some Southern lawyer had mailed him the deed and a key. At the time, Sam had sworn he'd never step foot in the house again. He'd had every intention of putting it up for sale.

But he hadn't, and now he needed a hidey-hole, a place to take stock of his life, to heal physically and emotionally. This place had seemed as good as any other. Until he'd seen it again, anyway.

Still, why was he hesitating? For Pete's sake, it couldn't be worse than those dark alleys of New York, could it? But then, hadn't one of those alleys betrayed him? Hadn't he ended up facedown on the rough pavement in a pool of his own blood, the stench of garbage permeating the air?

Not for the first time, the idea that the department had missed someone, that one of Nikolai Federoff's men was still out there set on revenge, wrapped him in a stranglehold. Fighting off the bleak memories, he shoved the paranoia into his back pocket and waded in.

Halfway to the house, an owl hooted, and he automatically reached for his shoulder-holstered gun, the gun that wasn't there anymore. His rueful laugh sounded loud in the once-again silent night.

Sam unlocked the door and winced as it creaked open. When he flipped the light switch, nothing happened. Mentally, he kicked himself. Of course he had no electricity or air-conditioning. Other than the taxes and insurance, he hadn't paid any bills or contacted anyone. After all this time, the electric company was bound to have shut off service. He wouldn't have water, either, and that was something he should have factored in, but because he'd been in such a hurry to get away, he hadn't.

Some insurance agent had sure been ripping him off because there was no way this place was worth the stated valuation. But he'd worry about that later, in the light of day.

A spider's web brushed his cheek, and he swiped at it. The flashlight on his cell played over the wallpaper in the hallway and up the stairs. Years of sitting empty hadn't been kind to the house. A neighbor had closed it up after Gertie passed. Sam himself had been undercover and hadn't made it back, then or since.

His nose wrinkling at the musty smell, he pried open the two living room windows. "Got to get some air in here," he mumbled. "Some circulation. Tomorrow I'll see about having the place fumigated."

Neither window had been locked despite the house having been closed up for so long, yet no one seemed to have been inside. No graffiti. No garbage. No used needles or beer cans and no whiskey bottles. Small town Misty Bottoms, so very different than the city he was used to.

Thankfully, both windows had screens that seemed to be intact. Hopefully they'd keep out whatever insects hadn't already made their way into the house. A moth had come through the door with him and fluttered around the edge of his phone. He swatted at it, and it darted away.

As his flashlight's beam swept the room, he swore again. Coming here had been as bad an idea as booking passage on the Titanic. He'd pretty much run out of options, though. After he grabbed some much-needed shut-eye, he'd see about making the place habitable. Right now, four- and six-legged varmints were about the only things that could have been comfortable in this house.

That said...

Sam waded back out to his bike, relieved to breathe clean, fresh air. He opened one of his saddlebags and removed a bottle of water, then grabbed the package that held his brand-new sleeping bag. In the other pouch, beneath his all-weather gear, he dug out a change of clothes. He'd crash on the living room floor tonight. Even Bill Gates couldn't pay him enough to venture up to the second story in the dark.

Back inside, he guzzled the water and wondered vaguely about the house's plumbing. Que será, será. With a shrug, he stripped off his jeans and shirt and slid into the bag.

Hot, road-dirty, and bone-tired, he hoped to sleep long and hard. His imagination, however, had different ideas. The thought of what might be keeping him company had him on full alert. When he did finally drop off, it was a light, uneasy sleep.

* * *

Bang, bang, bang!

What the hell? Sam sat bolt upright and glared at the weak stream of sunlight that stole around the edges of tattered drapes.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he tried to remember where he was. Aunt Gertie's. His gaze traveled over the room, which looked even worse than it had in the dark.

But none of Federoff's goons would announce themselves, so he cursed, flopped back down, and tugged the sleeping bag over his head.

The banging started up again.

Somebody'd better be in the middle of a life-or-death crisis. Throwing the bag open, he sat up again. Who in the hell would come barging in on a total stranger at practically daybreak? He glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. Okay, slightly past daybreak. It didn't matter.

He'd ridden hard yesterday and God only knew when he'd finally actually fallen asleep. Hauling on his jeans, his fly half-zipped, he staggered shirtless to the door, where the banging continued.

When he threw it open, a furious woman stood there in baggy clothes, her short, choppy blond hair framing a pixie face. She yanked a slim phone from the pocket of her oversized, olive-drab cotton pants. "I'm callin' the sheriff. You're trespassing."

Raking fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes and counted to ten. God save him from do-gooder neighbors.

"Good idea. See if he delivers coffee."

"What?" Storm-colored eyes widened.

He made to shut the door, but she crammed a sneakered foot in it.

"Oh no, you don't. Who are you?"

"The big bad wolf," he growled. "And I eat little girls like you for breakfast. Go on home to your mother."

She sputtered. "My mother? For your information, I-"

"I don't want any information. I want sleep. Move your foot."

"No, I won't. Who are you?"

"I already answered that question."

She simply raised a brow, and her foot stayed in his door.

Sam squinted. The bright morning sun behind this infuriating stranger hurt his road-weary eyes. Her hair looked like she'd stuck her head in a blender. Kind of. Snipped short at the top and in front, it hung just past her jaw on the sides. He'd never seen anything like it. Yet, now that he looked closer, that blond, blond hair with its darker roots framed one heck of a face. And those winter-storm eyes? Whew!

She smelled like fresh rain and sunshine. And wildflowers.

He didn't care. It didn't matter what she smelled like or what her face looked like as long as she removed it from his sight.

When he attempted to close the door again, she wedged her body against the doorjamb.

"What is wrong with you? You're not welcome. Go away."

"Who are you?"

On an exasperated sigh, he gave in. "Sam. Your name?"

"Cricket."

"Like the bug?"

She ignored that. "What are you doin' here?"

"I own the place."

"You do not. Ms. Gertie owns it."

A sense of sadness and loss pinched at his heart, and his voice softened. "Gertie died."

"I know." She raised the hand that still held her phone and hit a number.

He groaned.

The woman had absolutely no street smarts. Sam stood close enough that he could have plucked the phone from her hand if he'd wanted to, then dragged her inside and had his way with her. Was her naïveté the product of rural America rather than the worldliness of the cosmopolitan he usually dealt with, or was it only her? Could things really be that different here?

He heard a male voice answer and strained to catch his words.

"Hey, Cuz, did Ms. Gertie leave her house to some guy-"

"Her great-nephew," Sam snarled.

"Some guy named Sam." Her eyes traveled over him. "Dark, kind of surly. Claims he's her great-nephew."

"Yep." The answer, short and clipped, carried to Sam.

"Okay, thanks." Without so much as a good-bye, she ended the call and studied him again. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Have you been drinkin'?"

"Any law against that?"

"No, I guess not, since you're not behind the wheel of a car or a motorcycle." She glanced contemptuously over her shoulder at his Harley. "Still, it seems kind of early."

"See, there's the thing. You hit it right on the head. It is early considering what time I got to bed. And I was driving the Harley. For sixteen hours straight yesterday. I need sleep-which is exactly what I was doing till you started banging on my damn door."

She ignored that, her eyes narrowing. "So maybe I won't call the cops."

"I am the cops."

She snorted. "That's what they all say, Sam."

He toyed with the idea of badging her, then decided against it. She wasn't worth the bother. Besides, his badge wouldn't carry any weight here in Georgia, and he doubted it would even faze this woman.

"You don't know me from Adam, yet you come tromping over here pummeling my door, assuming I've broken into the house and am a squatter. No weapon, no defense at all."

"This is Misty Bottoms."

"So?"

"So it's safe here. Where are you from?"

"Not Misty Bottoms, that's for damn sure." Again, he closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them to meet hers. "Look, the fact remains that I could be a serial killer. Don't you have any survival skills, any sense of self-preservation?"

"I certainly do," she drawled. "And they're tellin' me to walk away from you. Think I'll run on home and fix myself a nice big stack of pancakes. I don't need your negative vibes."

"My negative-"

But she'd already made it down the rickety front-porch steps and was picking her way along the weed-choked sidewalk.

He started to slam the door but instead leaned against it and watched her cross the road, her pale blond hair shining.

Nothing, absolutely nothing about her matched his ideal woman, the type he found attractive. Still, there was something. Those eyes. Oh, yeah. And that mouth and sexy Southern drawl. She'd smelled good amid the decay of this house.

Speaking of smelling. Now that she'd mentioned them, darned if he couldn't all but smell a stack of warm, golden pancakes, swimming in syrup and melted butter.

His stomach growled, and he patted it absently.

There had to be somewhere in this flyspeck on the map where he could get a decent breakfast-without any of the complications a meal with Cricket would surely entail.

Slowly, he closed the door.

Talk about starting off on the wrong foot. But that was actually a positive, wasn't it? He didn't want to be a good neighbor, didn't want to get involved in anybody else's mess. He had a big enough one of his own.

He'd come to Misty Bottoms, to Gertie's, for solitude. He'd come to be left alone.

To get away from suspicion, betrayal, and lies. Away from sympathy and pity.

* * *

Cricket slammed into her kitchen. Holy Toledo! The man was hot! And rude.

So okay, she'd jumped the gun. In his place maybe, just maybe, she'd have been a little put out, too. She'd wakened him from a deep sleep and insinuated he'd broken in. The red eyes? He'd been telling the truth. She hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, so no doubt the bloodshot eyes were the result of long hours on that big motorcycle, li...

About this edition

• Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 1492618004
• ISBN 13: 9781492618003
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 416