Chapter One
Five days until the wedding
Rookie mistake number two for crashing a wedding: allowing an official guest to take her picture.
Too late, Kennedy realized, she’d just handed over evidence of her presence. With a thumbs-up and an overly wide smile to boot, because why not really stick out among the more calm and cool attendees?
Mistake number one: losing track of her coconspirator.
Her best friend handled mischief much better than she did. He blended in to any situation with confidence and ease. Case in point: there he stood across the beautifully decorated outdoor welcome brunch talking to the man of honor without a care in the world. Andrew did incognito like Tom Brady threw a football—effortlessly. She, on the other hand, lingered at the periphery of the event, awkwardly trying to appear casual and hoping to get the groom alone for an urgent conversation.
Much to her dismay, the groom and his bride-to-be hadn’t arrived yet. At least fifty other people mingled around the “backyard” of the three-story inn, talking, laughing, and filling their plates with food. (There was a doughnut cake! Of course there was. The groom loved glazed doughnuts. As did she.) The inn and ranch stood on acres of land, and a tall decorative fence surrounded this particular grassy area. To keep the ranch’s animals at bay, she’d overheard someone say.
She smiled to herself. She’d accidentally met one of those animals yesterday.
White tables and chairs, ocean-blue umbrellas, flower arrangements inside mason jars, and small shrubs in burlap bags tied with white silk ribbons painted a beautiful picture personifying the sea meets the trees image that made this particular Northern California ranch unique. The bride loved the ocean and the groom loved the forest and mountains, and they’d found the perfect destination to offer both. This morning, a cloudless sky kept Kennedy’s sunglasses on her face, while a slight breeze carried the scent of salty air and pine and kept the summer day at a comfortable temperature.
She walked along the fence line toward the mimosa bar. A drink ought to help her blend in—standing by herself like a fish out of water was no way to get in the wedding spirit. She poured equal parts orange juice and champagne into a glass flute and added a splash of pineapple juice.
“Cheers,” an older woman beside her said.
“Cheers,” Kennedy answered, clinking glasses and blowing out a small sigh of relief. That went well.
Drink in hand, she found a quiet spot to stand beside the fence with a clear view of the deck and steps that led down to the first of many pre-wedding gatherings. From this position, she’d for sure see the groom’s arrival. Hopefully sooner rather than later, because she was positive she had “wedding crasher” written all over her face.
“Caught you.”
Ugh. That deep, masculine voice belonged to her least favorite person and startled her into choking down her sip of citrus bubbly.
She turned around to find Maverick on the other side of the fence, a cowboy hat on his head, his blue eyes pinned to her with a sparkle that annoyed as much as it galvanized.
“Not too hard to do,” she told him, “since I’m not trying to hide.” Not really.
He stood above the top of the fence and looked down at her with a mix of interest and displeasure. “Then what are you doing?” he asked.
The gentle wind carried his scent to her nose, and the combo of man and soap upped his rugged appearance beyond fairness. She twitched her nose to try to get rid of it.
“Brunching, obviously. What are you doing?” He couldn’t see her eyes through her sunglasses, but they were narrowed at him anyway.
He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I like your shades, but you get a little crease in your forehead when you frown at me.”
She instantly relaxed her face. “It’s such a common occurrence, of course you’d notice.”
“I’m pretty sure I should be the one giving you a dirty look.” He took quick stock of the event behind her. “Given you haven’t been invited to this wedding.”
“Shh!” At his raised eyebrows, she reluctantly added, “Please.”
So began a staring contest, just like they used to do in college when they’d each stand their ground, unwilling to see the other’s point of view. Only this time, Maverick held all the power. Damn him.
A bell tinkled. Someone declared, “They’re here!” And a ripple of excitement stole over the celebration.
Kennedy spun around to watch the engaged couple join their family and friends. The bride-to-be wore a shimmery aquamarine shift dress while the groom-to-be wore a Stetson with his khaki pants and collared shirt. Huh. She had no idea he had a bit of cowboy in him. Glancing over her shoulder at Maverick, she could admit that he wore the hat a hundred times better. Not that she liked it or anything.
“Remember what I said, Shortcake.” His tone, while friendly, brokered no compromise.
Grr.
If Maverick called her that one more time, she’d put cow dung in his boots. Or itching powder in his boxer briefs. (Not that she knew what he wore under his Wranglers.) Or better yet, beat him at his own game. Cause him a little bit of trouble.
Guests tapped their forks and spoons to their glassware and chanted, “Kiss, kiss…”
The smiling couple obliged, the groom dipping his bride for a dramatic lip-lock. Family and friends cheered and whistled. Kennedy stayed quiet. The kiss ended with Reed plopping his cowboy hat on his future wife’s head. Then, from across the bright green lawn, his gaze collided with hers.
He shook his head. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to say, Not now. She tried to use telepathic communication to ask, When? But his focus turned to someone else.
“They look happy to me,” Maverick said from over her shoulder.
“Oh, are you still here?” She twisted back around. Big mistake. He’d folded his arms on top of the fence, his tanned, sinewy forearms on display in a relaxed pose. His easygoing composure did not help her novice wedding-crashing skills.
“I’m here all week,” he reminded her, a lilt to his voice indicating he had the leg up on their little cat-and-mouse game.
She might be on his ranch, but she never gave up on a goal she set for herself. Kennedy looked beyond his wide shoulders toward the mountains and reminded herself of the rules of wedding crashing that she and Andrew had discussed this morning:
1. Act the part. Not much of a stretch, since she did honestly know the groom. So she lacked an actual, physical invitation. At five feet nothing, it wasn’t like she took up much room.
2. Hang with the crowd. Okay, she needed more practice at that. Standing at the fence line with Maverick might look suspicious.