the whole day had made her feel gloomy, not just because she didn’t hold out much hope for Amanda and Charlie—why would they be the one out of two couples who succeeded when they hadn’t ever managed to go more than three days in their whole relationship without a squabble—but because Sam didn’t like change.
Her five friends were the unchangeable anchor in her life. Vivian, Amanda, Charles, Colton and Sam’s brother Bryce had all hung out together for as long as she could remember. Oh, some of them moved, went to college, came back, but the ties remained unbreakable. The constancy of family and friendships were what made life in the small Cape Cod community idyllic for its three thousand permanent residents.
This was the biggest change they had experienced. A wedding. Sam didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
Though she had to admit Amanda did look beautiful in her wedding dress, beaming at them all from the front of the room.
The dress, considering the sudden haste to get married, was like something out of a fairy tale, a princess design of a tight-fitting beaded bodice and full floor-length skirt with about sixty-two crinolines underneath it.
Amanda’s eyes met hers, full of mischief, so Sam was relieved when someone suggested Amanda turn around with her back to them all, so she couldn’t choose who to toss the bouquet to. As soon as Amanda did turn around, Sam shuffled positions, moving closer to the burbling chocolate fountain, still close to the front, gambling on Amanda’s good arm.
What she couldn’t have gambled on was this: Amanda threw the bouquet over her shoulder with all her might. It arched up and up and up toward the ceiling.
Those who really were eager to catch the thing moved back in anticipation of where it would fall back to earth.
But the bouquet hit an exposed beam, and instead of completing its arc, it fell straight down like a duck shot out of the sky.
It was going to land right in the middle of the chocolate fountain.
Unless someone intervened.
For an uncharitable moment, Sam swore it was not going to be her.
But she caught a glimpse of the horrified look on Amanda’s face and wondered in that split second if it wasn’t some kind of bad luck for the bouquet not to be caught, to land smack dab in the middle of a pool of burbling chocolate.
Amanda and Charlie were going to need all the luck they could get.
Reluctantly Sam reached out an arm, and the bouquet fell into her hand as if it had been destined to find her.
A cheer went up, though she could hear the lusty challenge of Mitch.
“Anyone who thinks they’re going to marry my sister is going to have to arm wrestle me first.”
Sam smiled, with so many teeth she felt like a dog snarling, waved the bouquet and headed for the exit.
So that’s my future wife, Ethan Ballard thought, watching the bridesmaid head out the exit onto the stone veranda that faced the sea. He bet she was going to hurl that bouquet right off of there, too. He hadn’t missed her thwarted attempt at escape earlier, or the way she had looked during the dinner and the toasts. Cynical. Uncomfortable. Bored.
The least romantic woman in the room. Perfect.
He’d been pretty sure she was the one from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Despite the sexy outfit, and the abundance of rich chocolate upswept hair, he could tell by the sunburn and freckles that she was the wholesome, outdoorsy type that he imagined the Finkles would love.
She’d be perfect for the task he had in mind. When he’d held her hand a little too long in the reception line she’d yanked it away and given him a dirty look with those sea-mist eyes of hers.
Ditto for his offers to dance with her. Though Ethan felt faintly stung—who didn’t want to dance with him—it boded well for his plan.
Samantha Hall was the girl least likely to appreciate his offer of marriage. Least likely to want anything else once the assignment was over.
And he only needed a wife for one day.
Tomorrow. Combining his cousin Amanda’s wedding with business, Ethan was in Cape Cod looking at real estate. He’d seen a promising property on the Main Street of St. John’s Cove this morning, but what he really wanted was an old family cottage up the coast, between St. John’s and Stone Harbor. He’d been drooling over the Internet pictures of Annie’s Retreat for over a week, and had an appointment to see it tomorrow.
Then his lawyer had called. He’d done his homework, as always. The current owners, the Finkles, had turned down a lot of offers on the place. They knew exactly what they wanted, and it wasn’t to sell to a businessman who would see their property as an investment, who would see the development potential in that rare amount of oceanfront.
The Finkles would be more amenable to an offer made by Mr. and Mrs. Ballard, who wanted to raise a dozen children on the place.
Trying not to whistle at his good fortune in finding the perfect Mrs. Ballard so quickly, Ethan headed out the door after her. Job one was to find out if she knew the Finkles. If she did, he wouldn’t proceed.
Samantha Hall was in the shadows, on the wide deck behind the exit door, standing so still that for a moment he didn’t see her. And when he did he was struck by her loveliness, her slender figure silhouetted by moonlight, her face lifted to the breeze.
She was looking out at the sailboats and yachts bobbing in their moorings, something faintly wistful in her expression.
Very romantic.
She turned, startled when she heard him come out, turned away instantly. He almost laughed out loud when she pulled at the front of her dress, again. The dress fit her graceful lines perfectly and showed off her slender curves to mouthwatering advantage.
But for some reason he found her discomfort with it far more delightful than the dress itself.
“Gorgeous night,” he said conversationally.
“Hmm.” Noncommittal. Suspicious.
“Lucky catch on the bouquet.”
“I guess that depends what you think lucky is.”
“Isn’t the one who catches it the next one to get married?” he asked.
“There’s a disclaimer clause if you’re just saving the bouquet from a disastrous dip in chocolate.”
Ethan laughed, and not just because it was the perfect answer for a man with a mission like his.
“What did you do with the bouquet?” he asked.
Her eyes slid guiltily to the left and he saw the bridal bouquet had been shoved in a planter, the elegant lilies bright white against red geraniums.
“I’m Ethan Ballard,” he said, extending his hand.
“We met in the reception line,” she said, pretending she didn’t see it.
The music started inside. He wondered
