The Bride Wore Chocolate

Bio

Chapter 1

Candace Woodrow stared at the gooey, sunken mess inverting onto itself like there was a Hoover under the table. This was supposed to be a groom's cake, not a pancake.

Rebecca poked at the chocolate failure. Did you cook it long enough?

I thought I did, Candace said. I lost track of time because Trifecta needed to go out.

I've seen you with that dog. Maria wagged a finger at her. Taking a three-legged dog for a walk is a comedy of errors. She gave an indulgent smile to Candace's shelter-rescued mutt, dozing in the front part of the shop, separated from the kitchen by a glass door. We still love ya, Trifecta, even if you are a living tripod.

Candace laughed. The best thing about working with her friends every day was the laughter. Without them, she swore she'd have gone crazy planning her wedding.

Two years ago, the three of them had started Gift Baskets to Die For in the basement of Candace's Dorchester duplex. Within a year, their food-themed baskets had hit it big with the corporations in Boston, allowing them to open a storefront in a quaint building not far from Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Business had been brisk enough to pay both the rent and decent salaries for all of them.

Candace's life was settled, secure. On an even, planned keel. She was twenty-seven, three weeks from being married, and her life was chugging along on the path she'd laid out.

Everything was perfect—except the cake.

Maybe the eggs were spoiled, Candace said. I mean, look at this thing. It's an overgrown hockey puck.

It's a sign. Maria nodded and her shoulder-length chestnut curls shook in emphasis. Yep. Definitely a sign.

Rebecca shushed her. Will you stop with that? This is Candace's wedding we're talking about. Don't make her more nervous than she already is. She took another look at the cake. I think you just underbaked it. Besides, this was a trial run. We'll make another one before the wedding.

"What if it is a sign? Candace threw up her hands. Look at all that's gone wrong with my wedding. The DJ I booked had a heart attack—"

He said the wheelchair won't stop him from spinning CDs, Rebecca pointed out.

If he doesn't electrocute himself with the IV drip, Maria added.

And then last week Father Kenny ran off with the church secretary.

Who turned out to be a Daniel, not a Danielle like we all thought. Maria grabbed a raspberry thumbprint cookie from the Tupperware container on the counter and took a bite. Maria Pagliano's method of dieting involved buying the latest issues of Cosmo, Glamour and Woman's World, picking and choosing the parts she liked from their diets of the month, then chucking the whole thing on weekends.

Don't forget the fire at the dress shop. I still can't believe the store burned to the ground, and with your dress inside. Rebecca twisted a scrunchie around her straight brown hair, creating a jaunty ponytail. On Rebecca Hamilton, almost any hairstyle looked good. She had one of those long, delicate faces made for Cover Girl. It was kind of heroic, though, how that cute fireman kept you from going in after it. He saved your life.

I would have rather he saved my dress, Candace muttered. At least I have insurance. But I still need to find another dress. I can't get that particular one anymore and even if I could, there's not enough time to order it.

You haven't bought one yet? Maria's jaw dropped. But Candace, the wedding's only three weeks away.

Since Candace had said I will to Barry, it had been one disaster after another. If she put stock in things like signs, she'd have called off the wedding months ago. But she didn't believe in any of that. The disasters encompassed a string of bad luck, no more. Marrying Barry was the right choice. When she’d weighed the options, Barry had come out high on the good idea side. She’d looked at her upcoming wedding as she had every major move in her life, with careful research, planning and analysis.

Only once had she stepped out of that box. A long time ago. Ever since then, Candace had subscribed to the more control is better life mantra. That was what made Barry perfect for her. They matched like plaid and stripes.

On her marrying Barry list the pros had far outweighed any cons. Now if Murphy's Law would just see that too.

Candace sighed. Between the business and all those last-minute glitches, I haven't had time to find another dress.

Rebecca looped her arm through Candace’s. Tonight we're going dress shopping, and then we’ll get good and drunk because tomorrow is Sunday, our day off, and we don't have a single delivery due on Monday.

Of the three of them, Rebecca’s status as the oldest by four months had made her the unofficial decision maker. She was also the thinnest and the only one who came equipped with both an iron will and a Blackwell-worthy fashion sense. And, as the sole married one, the wisest when it came to matters of weddings and bridal gowns.

Wow. An instant vacation. Maria grabbed a second cookie and finished it off in two bites. I hope the bar is well stocked.

Rebecca gave her a wry look. You mean you hope the bartender is well built.

Yeah, that, too. Maria smiled. But if he doesn't know how to make a killer margarita, what good are looks?

Candace laughed. She picked up the cake disaster and threw it into the trash, then dropped the springform pan in the sink to soak. The bell over the shop door jangled and a second later, an enormous backpack wrangled through the door into the kitchen.

Grandma?

Candace's petite grandmother twirled around, spinning the king-size bag in the kitchen with an ease that belied her age—and nearly took out the Cuisinart on the side counter. I'm making a pit stop, Grandma Woodrow said, swiping at her brow. The bag dwarfed her, and made her seem even smaller and thinner. Lord, it's hot out there for June.

What are you doing with that thing?

Hiking. What else would you need a backpack for? George is taking me hiking next month along the Appalachian Trail. I'm following the Paul Revere Trail today so I can break it in. Grandma lowered the dark green bag to the floor, slipping her arms out of the metal frame. She tugged off her Red Sox ball cap and fluffed up her short gray hair, using the toaster for a mirror.

Grandma was seventy-six but told everyone she was fifty-eight. Even Candace fell for the age lie once in a while and forgot her grandmother had been collecting social security for more than a decade. She'd inherited Grandma's hazel eyes and the long blond hair she'd had in her youth, but not Grandma's wild, adventurous personality. When are you going to get old like other self-respecting retirees?

Her grandmother waved her hand in dismissal. Never. Old equals dead. Besides, I'd have to buy a rocking chair and I don't even like to rock. She grinned and gave Candace a wink. Unless I'm rocking with George, of course.

Stop! Too much information. Candace poured a tall glass of lemonade from the refrigerator and handed it to her grandmother, then pushed the container of cookies across the counter. Grandma scooped up three. Candace smiled. Grandma never could resist any of the shop's baked goodies. Every evening after work, Candace brought home a few cookies and dropped them off at her grandmother's apartment before going to her own half of the duplex they shared.

Six years ago, Candace had moved in at her grandmother's suggestion, to help save money. And, Grandma Woodrow had added, to look after her because she was getting up there in years. Candace suspected the real, unspoken reason hit a little closer to home. Grandma, who had more energy than Carrot Top on steroids, missed the echoes of other people in the house.

Candace's father, Grandma's only child, had headed for a permanent tan in Florida years earlier, making occasional seasonal visits on his way up to his summer lake cottage in New Hampshire. Candace's mother, who seemed to be trying to break Elizabeth Taylor's husband record, was always away on one honeymoon or another.

That left just Candace and Grandma Woodrow. Truth be told, Candace liked it that way, despite Grandma's habit of offering quirky advice on everything from buying watermelon—look for one that thumps when you smack it—to kissing men—look for one that doesn't smack you when you thump him.

So, what are you girls cooking up today? Grandma asked.

Rebecca gestured toward the trashcan. A groom's cake. But it refused to stay up. Maybe we should have added some Viagra to the mix.

Grandma shook half a cookie at Candace. It's a sign.

I just undercooked it. It's not a sign of anything. Candace recovered the cookies and put them away.

Grandma's face took on a stricken look. She pouted.

Okay, two more. We need these for orders. She peeled back the lid and held out the container. Grandma grabbed four before Candace snapped the top shut again.

I'm an old woman, she said. You have to indulge me.

Candace laughed. You're only old when it's convenient.

Grandma ignored her. Are you sure Barry is your soul mate?

Too often, they retreaded this familiar ground. Candace wanted the wedding to be over, so all of them would stop quizzing her. Grandma, you know I don't believe in signs or soul mates or harbingers of evil. You meet a guy who doesn't have any outrageous fetishes or a criminal record, you marry him and you hope you can hang on for a few years before the lawyers start dividing the toys.

What about romance? True love? Undying devotion?

That only happens in Meg Ryan movies. Not in my life.

Across the room, Maria and Rebecca kept mute. As the maid and matron of honor, they supported Candace marrying Barry, but both still held this deep-seated belief in love at first sight, a statistical improbability according to the article Candace had read in Newsweek last month.

Candace knew her friends didn't quite agree with her numerical analysis of her future. The other two lived life on the right side of their brains. Rebecca had settled down, now married and with a three-year-old. Maria had a new love of her life on a regular basis. Right now, it was David, a cute gynecologist who'd moved into Maria's condo last month and pledged his undying devotion with a pearl necklace and one-half the rent.

Candace considered herself too levelheaded to get caught up in that wine and roses stuff. At three years from turning thirty, she told herself she needed to give up on the Cinderella fantasy.

Besides, any woman who had mice for best friends was probably legally insane anyway.

1 banana, chopped

1/2 container chocolate syrup

3 ounces milk

3 ounces rum

2 Tylenol, crushed

Dim the lights and for God's sake, don't open the blinds. Muffle the blender motor with a towel, then blend all ingredients until as frothy as a virgin's prom gown. Don't bother with a glass; drink straight from the damned pitcher.

Repeat as necessary. Then get to a mall and a Krispy Kreme store for further remedial help.

Chapter 2

The gnomes inside Candace's head hosted a fiesta worthy of Cinco de Mayo, complete with the flashing red jalapeno lights and a band of hammers pounding out the rhythm to Celebration in double-time. The sound waved and rolled with her stomach, increasing in volume every time she moved a fraction of an inch in the bed.

A snippet of advice from Grandma Woodrow floated through her mind. Candace latched onto it with every bit of consciousness she could muster. Put one foot on the floor and you’ll get off the hangover Tilt-a-Whirl.

Candace wasn't sure she could feel her foot, never mind move it.

She pressed her palms against her throbbing temples. Willing the headache away didn't work. Shutting her eyes tighter only made the pounding intensify. She moaned and rolled over, clutching the pillow beside her.

The sheet came loose when she moved and cool air tickled against her skin. Down her spine. Along her belly. Past her legs.

Not against pajamas of any kind.

Candace froze and did a mental inventory. Exquisitely soft bed linens. No gurgle of the fish tank she had in her bedroom. No Trifecta snoring at the end of the bed. No traffic sounds outside the window.

Without opening her eyes, she ran a tentative hand down her body. Her fingers skipped over the soft satin of her bra. Panties.

Nothing else.

She bolted from the bed, tripping over some shoes and landing in a heap on the floor. She scrambled to a sitting position, then peeked over the bed at the room. A room she didn't recognize. Her heart thudded in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.

The gnomes kept up their steady hammering. Maybe they were building a condominium in there. Candace closed her eyes again, but that intensified her vertigo. She hoped, no prayed, that she was at a friend's apartment. Yes, that was it. She was at Maria's. Who had—Candace scrambled for an explanation—gone on a major redecorating spree in the last twelve hours.

Yeah. That works. Doesn't it?

A pair of Levi 505s lay in a crumpled heap beside her. Jeans she'd never seen before. Jeans that definitely didn't belong to her. Or a woman, for that matter.

Okay. Take a breath. Try to remember.

Maria. Rebecca. The can't-find-a-dress pity party at the restaurant. A few drinks. Okay, a lot of drinks. And a man.

Oh God, a man. She was pretty damned sure his name wasn't Barry, either.

Candace bit her lip to keep from screaming. Nothing else existed in her memory—no name, no conclusion to the night, and especially no memory of how she'd ended up in someone else's bed wearing nothing more than her underwear.

She clung to the sheet, the one sane thing she had in Wonderland. She cradled her head with her other hand, praying for the throbbing to stop so the fog could clear. Oh Lord, why can't I remember?

Because you had too much to drink, a deep voice called.

Unless Maria had gotten a sex-change operation last night, that was definitely not her best friend's voice.

Candace ducked down beside the bed like a SEAL commando and peered over the edge for a glimpse of who had spoken.

The blinds were still drawn, but a tiny sliver of sunlight peeked through the slits. Most of the bedroom remained in shadow. Beside the massive four-poster sat a polished mahogany nightstand holding an empty bottle of German beer and a half-dozen books. Plenty of expensive furniture, but no body to match the voice.

She'd imagined this. A total tequila hallucination.

Behind her, a door creaked open. Candace spun around. Light spilled into the room from a bathroom ten feet away.

A man stood in front of a pedestal sink, shaving.

That was so not Maria.

Candace patted the hardwood floor. No luck. No magic rabbit hole to swallow her up so she wouldn't have to deal with this man and anything that might have happened between them last night.

Oh, God—anything that might have happened?

An ocean of nausea rolled through her, threatening to deposit whatever was left in her stomach onto the Oriental rug.

Who was he? And why was she in his bedroom, doing a private Victoria's Secret runway event? The obvious answer was too horrifying for Candace to consider.

He was definitely not the man she had promised to marry in twenty-one days. No, if today was Sunday, twenty days.

Her mouth went dry as she considered the possibilities of who he might be. Serial rapist. Psychotic killer. Deranged kidnapper. Right-wing Republican.

Using the bed as a crutch, she pulled herself to a standing position, ignoring the sudden blast of pain in her head and fighting with the sheet that had tangled around her feet. With a solid yank, she tugged it out from under her and lost her balance. She tumbled to the floor again, losing her grip on the cloth.

She staggered to her feet and prayed the light-colored sheet covered her. It didn't. A quick glance down confirmed the outline of black lace and a Wonderbra.

She didn't even want to think about how—or with whose hands—she had gotten undressed.

Her navy sundress sat a few feet away, draped over the arm of a wingback chair. Candace bent to grab it. But she didn't move fast enough.

Nice view, said a voice from behind her.

She spun around, at the same time wrapping the sheet tighter.

He held a foot's height advantage over her. His hair, still wet from the shower, was slicked back in a dark wave. Deep blue eyes that appeared almost black in the half-light of the room studied her with clear amusement.

Her gaze traveled down, past his bare muscular chest, following the vee of dark hairs to the waistband of a pair of checkered silk boxer shorts. The satiny material stopped mid-thigh along his lean, tanned and—okay, she had to admit it—inordinately interesting legs. She jerked her attention back to his face.

He's gorgeous.

He grinned.

And he knows it.

In her experience, which could fit on the head of a pin and still have room left over—men with that self-satisfied grin used their looks like shark hunters used chum. Bait, hook, use up the good parts, then toss the useless carcass to the seagulls.

I take it you don't remember anything that happened last night? He wiped his chin with a hand towel, then sent it sailing into a corner hamper.

She shook her head, wishing she were anywhere but here, standing in front of a short-haired Adrian Paul doppelganger wearing little more than thousand-count sheets.

He took a step closer, fingering the tip of the sheet. Even his eyes were rich, flecked with tiny bits of gold among the sapphire. He grinned again, either as a tease or a suggestion, Candace didn't know. Didn't want to know. You had a wonderful time, I can assure you.

The room swayed. Her stomach lurched. Candace smacked his hand away. That's a matter of opinion.

Perhaps. He sat on the bed and began to pull on the jeans. In my opinion, we enjoyed ourselves fully.

She ignored the implications, hoping that's all they were. But... where ... I mean, how ...

How did you get here? he finished for her.

She nodded, her cheeks warming.

In my car, of course.

And who are you?

He grinned. Think of me as your knight in shining armor.

Candace let out a few curses even Grandma had never heard. I mean, what is your name?

Last night, you were content to call me Romeo. A smirk played at his lips, displaying a crescent indent on the right side of his smile. He had a dimple. That caused a whole other kind of lurch in her stomach. I kind of liked it.

I'm not kidding. Who are you?

He rubbed his chin, ignoring her question. Of course, you also called me Loverboy. Oh, and—

Candace held up her hand. "Stop! Just stop. I get the idea. Forget I even asked. She drew in a deep breath and knew she had to ask the question, even if she didn't want to know the answer. Did I, I mean, did we ... Her gaze dropped to the floor. Amidst the plush fibers of the carpet, she saw her shiny red toenails—the pedicure she'd gotten because Barry had this thing about her toes. She gulped. Did anything happen?"

Well, that depends on how you define the word 'anything.'

Since I'm not packing a dictionary in my back pocket, I'd say anything beyond a handshake.

He got to his feet, which placed him closer, within touching distance. I was a gentleman, more or less. Your reputation, if you had a good one, he added with a grin, is still intact.

She didn't rise to the bait. Who undressed me?

His gaze swept the room. "There are only two people in this apartment and one of them was a little too drunk last night to do, I mean undo, anything."

Heat flooded her face when his gaze settled on the sheet. She clutched it tighter. I'd like to get dressed now, please.

Go right ahead. He zipped his fly. The vrrpp sound seemed as loud as a bullhorn in the heavy quiet.

Would you mind leaving the room?

It's my room, he pointed out. I don't have to leave.

Romeo/Loverboy had no intentions of making this easy for her. With a frustrated huff, she reached for her dress. He reached out at the same time, his hands closing over the garment, and over her fingers, before she could get away.

Electricity jolted through her. She stumbled back, trying not to stare at his bare chest, trying desperately not to think about what it would feel like against hers. Had he held her last night? Had he curled himself around her, draped a leg over her hips and pressed his—

She shook her head. The gnomes drummed those traitorous thoughts right out of her head. She was engaged. Three weeks from getting married. She'd leave thoughts like that for the nights when Barry was snoring like a chainsaw and the only sex she could get came with batteries included.

I'm sure you're enjoying this little game of cat and mouse— Her hand darted out for the dress. He whisked it behind his back. All she got for her efforts was a smug grin from him and a handful of air. —but I need to leave. My fiancé expected me hours ago.

A lie, but not a bad one. The only people waiting for her had four paws—well, some had three—and whiskers. Barry was away this weekend.

Do you always do what people expect you to do?

Of course. She held out a hand. My clothes?

He leaned closer. You've never once done something spontaneous, wild and unexpected? He glanced down at her white-knuckled grip on the sheet. Except for last night, of course, he added with a mischievous smile.

If you had so much as a shred of decency, you'd give me my dress and leave me alone.

If I were any less of a gentleman, you wouldn't be wearing anything at all right now. He rubbed the back of his head. "And I wouldn't have a stiff