Harden My Hart Read online

  Holiday Hookup

  by Jamie K. Schmidt

  Most people would kill for two weeks of relaxation. But being shipped off to navel-gaze at a health-nut resort in Maui is Blaine Stephens’s tofu-laden version of hell. Until curvaceous personal chef Selena Thompson shows him the most delicious—and seductive—way to unwind. But a tropical hookup may leave them craving something neither can afford.

  The Rebound

  by Stefanie London

  CHAPTER ONE

  Presley

  MY MOTTO HAS always been: Life Is Better with a Mimosa. What’s not to like? It has bubbles, orange juice, a pretty glass. A mild buzz, which is enough to lower my social inhibitions without pushing me into hot-mess territory. It’s like the sweet spot of alcoholic beverages—good for brunch, good for a quiet night in. Good at a family barbeque.

  Good anytime except right now.

  Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit.

  Sucking in a breath and willing my stomach to behave, I sag back against the door I’ve just closed behind me. The room is spinning. My lungs feel like they’re about to cave in behind the strength of a boned bodice I’d thought was a good idea because, you know, breathing is optional on your wedding day.

  I clamp a hand over my mouth.

  I can’t even think the W word anymore without wanting to be sick. Which is a problem. A huge freaking sequin-encrusted problem.

  You see, I’m still wearing my wedding dress. And my groom is hanging out two rooms away with his portion of the bridal party. Our family and friends are waiting in the garden outside, dressed to the nines and anticipating the day’s festivities.

  My chest heaves with each breath, straining against the dress and undergarments forcing my straight up-and-down figure into Kim K curves. Well, baby Kim K curves... There’s only so much I can do without having a rib removed.

  I have to get out of here.

  I wring my hands in front of my dress and catch sight of the huge diamond flashing on my left hand. It suddenly feels like a noose. I claw at it, dragging it off my finger and tossing it onto the dressing table next to my beaded clutch and bouquet, which sit picture-perfect where the photographer snapped a close-up of them less than five minutes ago.

  I don’t have much time before everyone is back, ready to fluff my train and adjust my veil and walk me out to meet my future husband. Panic is like a fist around my throat. I can’t marry him. Not now.

  Not ever.

  I jump as footsteps walk past the door. The clack of heels is like a tiny pickax beating against the inside of my skull. My mother, twin sister and the bridesmaids will be back any minute. Without thinking, I reach behind me and feel for the lock, turning it with a soft snick and trapping myself inside. I need a moment to think.

  No... What I really need is an escape route.

  Here’s what I know. There are only two ways in and out of this old Victorian building—through grand double doors at the front or via a small side door near the kitchen. Neither is a viable option, because the chances of me being seen are near guaranteed. And my outfit isn’t exactly easy to miss.

  The sound of birds tittering through an open window snags my attention. Outside the bridal dressing room, greenery stretches out as far as the eye can see—gum trees and other native plants, yellow flowers of some kind. We’re at ground level.

  I rush over to the window and peer out. From here, I can see the driveway snaking into the venue, and a few remaining cars slowly trickle in. This could be my way out! But the second anyone sees a woman in a big white dress, it’s game over.

  Where will you even go? You’re never going to get out of this mess.

  My subconscious mocks me for making this mistake not once...but twice. That’s right. This is not my first time running away from my own wedding. Only last time, I’d had the forethought to realise the man I was about to marry was totally wrong for me before I got to the venue. This time the revelation came a little late. Until ten minutes ago I’d still been ignoring the red flags flapping in my mind, telling myself it was nothing but normal wedding day jitters. That it was nerves about stupid things like tripping on my way down the aisle or stuttering while saying I do.

  Now I know that I should have listened to those warning signs.

  I reach behind me, fumbling with shaking hands as I slip each small button painstakingly through its loop. I can’t escape in this dress. It’s too risky. The door rattles behind me, as if someone is trying to push it open. Then there’s knocking.

  “Pres?” It sounds like Sherilee, one of my bridesmaids. “Are you in there?”

  Silence will only make her worry, which will make her fetch someone who has a master key. Shit. I need a few more minutes to get out of this stupid freaking dress.

  “I, uh... I’m doing a meditation.” I shake my head. Will she ever believe that? “I need a few minutes to get into a loving headspace so... I can bring good vibes to the ceremony.”

  “Awww.” Her sweet croon makes me cringe. “That’s so lovely. Okay, I’ll tell the celebrant you need a few more minutes.”

  My fingers work frantically and I’m almost tearing the buttons open now. Eventually, I get far enough that I can wriggle out of the dress, shoving it over my hips and awkwardly stepping out of the giant pile of fabric. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is pale, even enhanced with photo-ready makeup, and my hair is a little askew. Extra strands have escaped the up-do, loosened from my battle with the dress. I’m wearing a mini corset, skimpy baby-blue lace underwear—because of course I needed to do the whole “something old, something new” thing—and a pair of towering white stiletto sandals with a delicate strand of crystals at my ankle.

  My eyes prickle with tears, but I blink them away. Now is not the time to fall in a heap. I can cry my eyes out after I’ve gotten myself out of this mess. I kick my shoes off and scan the room. The only thing I can find to even remotely cover me up is the gauzy chiffon shawl that my mother brought with her. It’s pale blue and very see-through.

  Where are you even going to go?

  I don’t have any money with me, because who brings cash on their wedding day? I don’t have my keys because we were going straight to a hotel room after the reception tonight, and they didn’t fit in the stupidly tiny clutch I bought to match my dress. In any case, home is the first place people would look for me. And I don’t have my phone—because I didn’t want to be that bride taking selfies on my big day. The only things in my clutch are my lipstick and breath mints.

  Super useful, Presley. Well done. You’re ready to give a blow job but not get out of this bloody building.

  “Think, dammit,” I mutter to myself.

  My twin sister was right all along. She’d warned me about Mike, sensing his bullshit a mile off while I acted like a happy, naive little lamb trotting all the way to the marital slaughterhouse. All the way to a loveless union and a lifetime of misery.

  Drew!

  An idea hits me suddenly and I spy my sister’s evening bag sitting on an overstuffed couch, next to the bouquets. I snatch it up and inside is her phone and the keys to the apartment she’s been staying in on her trip home for the wedding.

  Twenty-One Love Street. Thanks to the cutesy name, I remember the address. If I can flag someone down and convince them to drive me there, then I can get inside and...

  I’ll figure the rest out when I get there. For now, all I know is that I can’t be here. I wrap my mother’s shawl around my lower half, knotting it hastily at one hip like a sarong. It’s still mostly see-through, but it’s the difference between flashing a vague hint of ass and showing the full moon. And a half-naked woman is not in a position to be picky over fashion choices.

  Laughter floats into the room from down the hall.

  “Crap crappity crap.” I push the window open as far as it will go and swing a leg over the windowsill.
Thank God these old buildings don’t have fly screens.

  “Pres?” Someone’s knocking at the door again. “Are you almost done? It’s time. Everyone is waiting.”

  I swing my other leg over and jump down, wincing as my feet land on something sharp—a stick, most likely. There’s something crawling on my arm and I brush it away, my heart hammering in my chest. My leg throbs. I think I’ve scratched myself, but none of that matters now. How the hell have I ended up in this position again?

  I’d overheard my soon-to-be-husband just minutes before we were supposed to walk down the aisle.

  We only need to stay married a few years, long enough for Dad to hand the company over to me. After that, I’ll think about whether I want to keep her or not.

  Fuck you, Mike. I hope your Dad doesn’t give you a cent.

  My stomach knots as if reminding me that the remains of my mimosas aren’t safely digested yet. There’s more knocking inside. I need to get out of here now!

  I inch along the side of the building, extracting myself from the buzzing lavender bush and heading slowly toward the car park out front. I peer out around the corner but immediately have to shrink back as I spot one of my colleagues walking up the steps with her husband. That’s the shittiest thing about this situation—given this is my wedding, I know most of the guests. Thankfully, Mike’s invitations were vast and, out of our four-hundred-strong guest list, I haven’t met all of his colleagues and extended family members.

  But then it dawns on me.

  What if I don’t have to be me right now? One of the best things about growing up as an identical twin was all the mischief Drew and I made by switching places. I’ll pretend to be her.

  A car with a loud, rumbling engine pulls into the long, winding driveway. I squint. It’s a lone guy, and he looks to be early thirties. Could be one of Mike’s friends from overseas. I glance around the corner again. Most people appear to be inside already—the wedding should have been starting by now. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig deep to find some bravery. If I don’t go now, this could be it. Then I’ll have to face Mike and his parents and my mother and...everyone.

  “Don’t think about what could go wrong, think about what could go right,” I say to myself.

  Sucking in a breath, I leave the safety of the bushes and sprint across the carpark, the shawl fluttering against my hip. If anyone comes outside they’ll get a good look at my practically bare backside. But I can’t care about that. I won’t care about that.

  The only thing that matters is getting behind a locked door as quickly as possible.

  I practically skid to a stop beside the sleek black Mercedes that’s pulled into an empty parking spot, and I yank the passenger-side door open before the guy has a chance to do anything about it. I slide into the seat, my heart pounding from the adrenaline.

  “Please,” I say, my voice shaking as I gulp in a breath. “You have to help me.”

  Copyright © 2020 by Stefanie Little

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  ISBN-13: 9781488062285

  Harden My Hart

  Copyright © 2020 by Clare Connelly

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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