LITMIR.BIZ

      About the Author

      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.

      Chapter One

      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.

      The woman pulled a set of keys out of her bag, along with a cell phone that she flipped open and then grimaced at, wrinkling her pert nose. “I stopped wearing a watch, thinking I could just see the time on my phone, you know? Very hip, very modern. I probably should have stuck with the watch. Yup, late. Nearly five minutes late.”

      Because she was naturally polite, and because she thought it might be time she tried to say something, Elizabeth said, “Oh, but—”

      Which was as far as she got before the bouncy redhead held out her hand, leaving Elizabeth no choice but to take it.

      “Hi, I’m Chessie Burton. And you must be my two o’clock. What do you say we get out of this hot sun?”

      “I, um, I …” Elizabeth couldn’t seem to get past Chessie’s beautiful, open, smiling face and velvet steamroller charm. “Yes, sure. It is hot, isn’t it?”

      “For this early in June, yes. I think so,” Chessie said, leading the way up the gray brick path—or The Last Mile, as Elizabeth had been thinking of it. “But that’s the beauty of Pennsylvania, don’t you think? We get all four seasons. I couldn’t imagine living with such heat year-round—or never getting to see the trees turn colors in the fall. Of course, after the first snowfall I always think I’ve seen enough, thank you, and begin hoping for spring. Ah, here we go.”

      Chessie had inserted one of the keys from her ring into the big brass lock and pushed open the old-fashioned door. An air-conditioned breeze rushed out at them, and Elizabeth hastened inside, drawn by both the coolness and the sweet smell of fresh cut flowers.

      While Chessie flipped the sign in the front window from Closed to Open, Elizabeth looked around the high-ceilinged room made welcoming by the clever arrangement of chairs and tables that spoke more of a fancy parlor than a place of business.

      “What a pretty room,” she said, pretending not to notice the glass cases displaying gloves and headpieces and ring-bearer pillows and pretty white leather-covered books with words like Our Wedding stamped on them.

      “Thank you.” Chessie walked to the half-circle reception desk and flipped open an appointment book. “Hmm, that’s funny. I don’t have a two o’clock anymore. Eve marked it as canceled.” She looked at Elizabeth. “Good Lord, don’t tell me I just kidnapped you off the street.”

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