Suddenly a Bride / A Bride After All: Suddenly a Bride

KASEY MICHAELS is a USA Today bestselling author of more than one hundred books. She has earned three starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, and has won a RITA^>® award from Romance Writers of America, an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award, Waldenbooks and Bookrak awards and several other commendations for her writing excellence in both contemporary and historical novels. Kasey resides in Pennsylvania with her family, where she is always at work on her next book.

Readers may contact Kasey via her website, Kasey Michaels.com.

Suddenly

A Bride

A Bride

After All

Kasey Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Suddenly

A Bride

Kasey Michaels

Dear Reader,

In high school I worked as a bridal consultant in an upscale women’s clothing store. Then my boss went on leave of absence and I became the seventeen-year-old in charge of the entire bridal salon for one crazy summer. And I fell in love with everything to do with brides and happily-ever-afters.

There is nothing like the special glow that comes over a bride when she puts on that perfect gown. But why should that special glow be reserved for first-time brides? That’s why I created Second-Chance Bridal and Chessie Burton, a young woman who has devoted herself to second chances.

Come along as Chessie and her friends meet Elizabeth Carstairs, a prospective second-time-around bride who is far from sure about taking another trip down the aisle. How fortunate that she chose the right bridal salon.

I’m having a blast writing the books that make up this series, and I hope you’ll have a blast reading them. Oh, and I hope you’ll like the gowns I—that is, Chessie—picked out for her brides.

Kasey Michaels

To Gail Chasan,

for allowing me the pleasure of writing this series.

Prospective bank robbers probably cased the joint less thoroughly. Elizabeth Carstairs had driven down Chestnut Street in her five-year-old compact SUV at least six times in the past week—and three times in the past hour.

Down Chestnut, right on Sixth, right on Maple, right on Seventh, right on Chestnut. She had been going in squares rather than circles but getting just as dizzy. And each time, she slowed the car as she passed the old, Victorian three-story, painted a whimsical shade of violet with darker violet and green trim. A beautifully restored painted lady, as Elizabeth had heard such houses called, set back from the street and surrounded by clever shrubbery that drew the eye toward the house and the painted sign on the front lawn.

Second Chance Bridal. And, beneath that intriguing name, in flowing script, this further explanation: Because sometimes two (or three) is the charm.

Elizabeth now stood on the sidewalk in front of the house, having finally parked her car a block away when she’d at last convinced herself she was being an idiot. She stared at the herringbone-design gray brick walkway that led to the covered wraparound porch and the double doors set between matching bay windows displaying gowns on headless mannequins.

A bridal shop. That’s all it was. People went inside bridal salons all the time. Looked around. Didn’t always buy something. Although it was probably a foregone conclusion that the person was there to buy, because the person wouldn’t be looking at bridal gowns unless she was getting married. It wasn’t like bridal salons also sold jeans and underwear or something. If you went inside a bridal salon, it could pretty well be determined that you were there because you were going to get married. And if the salon you entered was named Second Chance Bridal, it was also reasonably certain that you weren’t exactly new to the process. Still, walking into a bridal salon was like being committed to the thing. Or, as Elizabeth was beginning to wonder about herself, like she should be committed.

No. She couldn’t do it. The part of her that wanted to do it was hiding somewhere while the part of her that was scared spitless was standing front and center, feet itching to move back down the block, to the car, to escape.

“Hi there. I’m late, aren’t I?”

Elizabeth turned toward the sound of the voice. A bouncy, bright-eyed woman of about thirty, her head a mop of wonderfully casual, light copper curls that all ended bluntly at chin level, was heading toward her, a wide smile on her face.

“Excuse me?” Elizabeth asked, tempted to look behind her, hoping the woman was talking to someone else.

The redhead was digging in her oversize shoulder bag now, obviously on the hunt for something. “I always think I’ll have enough time for lunch and at least one errand, and I’m always wrong. I should have known there’d be a line at the dry cleaners. Ten dollars for two measly blouses? Two. Remember when everything was wash-and-wear? No muss, no fuss? Whatever happened to those days?”

Elizabeth only nodded, agreeing with the sentiment. She’d found herself ironing everything again when, for years, she’d pretty much used her steam iron as a doorstop. Now everything seemed to come out of the dryer in wrinkled clumps, especially the boys’ shirts.