Bride and Tested: Bennett Brothers Bridal, #1

By Brenda St John Brown

Exes running a wedding business? What can go wrong?

 

EVIE

Having inappropriate dreams about my ex-husband is problematic. The fact that he's applied to be the business partner in my wedding business - and is an infuriatingly savvy businessman - is even more so. 

 

Our marriage ended because we were both more married to our jobs than each other, but now I can barely look at Lincoln without imagining him naked. How the hell am I supposed to work with him?

 

LINCOLN

My ex-wife, Evie - aka Evil (thank you, random autocorrect) - runs the most successful bridal shop in the whole of the Finger Lakes region and she needs a business partner. Happy coincidence because I need a steady income. ASAP. 

 

I also need to stop noticing Evie's curves. And her smile.  And everything about her that makes me want a second chance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brenda St John Brown
• Release date: Apr 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201916039

Brenda St John Brown

Brenda is a displaced New Yorker living in the English countryside. She’s lived in the UK long enough to gain dual citizenship, but still doesn’t understand Celsius. However, she has learned the appropriate use of the word “pants”. And how to order a proper bacon bap/barm/buttie. Because, well, bacon. Brenda writes contemporary romance to make you giggle and swoon. When she’s not writing, she enjoys hiking, running and reading. In theory, she also enjoys cooking, but it’s more that she enjoys eating and, try as she might, she can’t live on Doritos alone. For more information or to connect with Brenda visit http://brendastjohnbrown.com/

Book preview

before you start…

I’m so excited to be kicking off the Bennett Brothers Bridal series with Lincoln and Evie’s story, BRIDE AND TESTED and I hope you love them as much as I do.

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You may have already read my free prequel, ALONG FOR THE BRIDE, but if you haven’t, I highly recommend it.

You can download your copy here.

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Happy reading!

one

Is moving out of town too drastic after the most mortifying encounter of my life? Judging by the way my face still flames every time I think of it, I’d say no. I’ve always wanted to live in California for a while. I could do weddings for the stars! Or maybe I’ll find a resort in the Bahamas in need of an on-site wedding planner? Better yet, a cruise. No permanent address means Lincoln can’t track me down.

To be clear, I am not in hiding from my ex-husband. Our marriage imploded, yes, but it was mostly from neglect and immaturity, not anything requiring witness protection level scheming. Lincoln’s a decent guy and I never stopped liking him as a person. My subconscious obviously still finds him attractive enough for him to be starring in my sex dreams.

A fact he now knows after he heard me blurt it out to my best friend, Mika. In my defense, I was flustered—by both the sex dream and the fact it’s Lincoln who finally woke up my libido—but it’s a small consolation.

As for Mika, well…she’s had a ringside seat to all of my highs and lows, so of course my instinct was to call her for advice. If anyone is going to be honest about how to handle a sex dream about your ex, it’s my ride-or-die best friend. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the benefit of Mika’s wisdom before colliding with Lincoln on the sidewalk.

Who heard every word of my so-called confession.

Just thinking of the moment again, my face flushes like I’m in the throes of menopause. I’m technically too young for hot flashes, but I’m old enough to own my mistakes. Yet here I am. Hiding out in my office at Bennett’s Bridal, tensing every time the bell sounds at the front door. All because Lincoln was at the wrong place at the right time, looking damn pleased about what he overheard. Too pleased, considering we’ve been divorced for four years. Unless seeing each other again has sparked the same reaction in him it has in me?

Is that possible? I mean, he did look awfully entertained, but there was more to his grin than just amusement. I think. I know Lincoln—his expressions, his smiles, his body language. Or at least I did. He can’t have changed that much in four years? Can he?

Evie, your ten o’clock is here? Shanna, my assistant, pokes her head in and gives me a smile. Brooke Baker? Her wedding is in August and she’s interested in the full service package.

Full service is Bennett Bridal’s bread and butter and the fact it doesn’t make me jump up in anticipation is testament to how far into my own head I’ve let myself get in the past hour. I need to focus on my brides and my business, not Lincoln Bennett.

I nod at Shanna and shuffle the papers on my desk. Shanna’s not one to judge, but I don’t need her to know I’ve been sitting here staring at the wall for the past forty minutes either. Great. I’ll be out in a minute. Any initial impressions?

Well, Shanna bites her lip. She seems, um, intense?

What do you mean exactly?

She’s sipping a green smoothie and the first thing she did when she came in was call her assistant to remind her she’d be unavailable for the next hour. Shanna offers a tentative smile. She comes across like she’s a high-powered woman and she wants everyone to know it.

Okay, I can work with intense. I like nothing better than a bride who knows what she wants. Even though we’re in commuting distance of Rochester, you don’t see many executives in the small town of Enita Springs. But maybe Brooke is a New York City transplant who moved upstate and isn’t quite ready to trade her green smoothie for a milk and honey coffee from Molly’s Café down the street. It takes a while to realize there’s no shame in slowing down. Sometimes to a crawl.

Although after ten minutes with Brooke, it’s clear she’s not quite the no-nonsense business executive she appears to be. Her dark hair is pulled up in a high ponytail and her mocha skin is as flawless as the black Stella McCartney dress she wears. A fact I know only because she told me. Twice. The thing she hasn’t told me? How many people are in her wedding party. What style of wedding she’s looking for. What her budget is. I’ve asked her all of those questions, but she doesn’t know. If not for the rock on her finger, I’d wonder if she was even the bride.

I hate florals. Brooke looks around my shop, which is decorated in shades of pink, cream and gray and adds, And pink.

No problem. Neither of those are mandatory. I make a note on the bridal intake form I use to start every file. It’s a simple one-pager I developed when I first opened Bennett’s Bridal and it still works six years later. Any thoughts about what you do like? Have you thought about your dress or venue or even whether you want an afternoon or evening reception?

My mother is insisting I get married here, you know. I wanted an island wedding. Brooke’s tone is flat as she says this.

Okay, So not only is she indecisive with a side of disinterested, but it sounds like her mom is calling the shots because she controls the purse strings. I wonder if her mother sent her here. It wouldn’t be the first time. I keep my expression neutral as I say, We don’t have the Caribbean as a backdrop, but I’m confident we can put together a package you’ll find just as lovely.

Mmmm. Brooke’s tone is noncommittal.

Maybe you can give me an idea of what’s important to you about your big day? Don’t get me wrong, it’s all important, but some couples really want to get married in a church, for example. Or some brides really want to wear a family gown. I think this last one is a stretch, but I might be wrong. Maybe Brooke has a hidden sentimental streak.

I don’t care about getting married in a church and there’s no family gown. Brooke has an eyeroll in her tone but she resists actually doing it. My fiancé is a pediatric surgical resident at Strong Memorial in Rochester. We’ll be inviting his colleagues and his attending, so it needs to be worth their time.

Of course. I do my best to keep my expression bland as I write a small Z in the corner of my form. It’s my personal shorthand for bridezilla and Brooke Baker has potential to be the worst kind. I’m willing to reserve final judgement, but all the signs are there and forewarned is forearmed.

I’ll look at dresses once I choose a venue, but— Brook glances around my shop. Say I wanted to order something in from the city? I assume you can accommodate orders from other shops?

Yes, of course. We order gowns in all the time. If there’s a designer you have in mind, I can reach out. We often get samples in and I can certainly request on your behalf.

That may be useful. Brooke nods. What else?

Um, everything? We’ve been talking for fifteen minutes and I still have no idea what Brooke wants. Her only concern seems to be impressing her fiancé’s colleagues. My initial meetings usually last an hour minimum, but judging by the way Brooke is twirling her engagement ring on her finger, she’s ready to bolt.

I say, There are a lot of different things to consider. Maybe the best thing to do is for me to give you a couple of books to look through so you get a better sense of what your options are regarding venue. It sounds like your decision about your dress will depend on the venue, and obviously catering will as well.

Great. I’ll look it over and get back to you. Brooke pushes back her chair and stands.

She’s left me no choice but to do the same. I give her one of the several books Shanna compiled with our most popular venue choices and wave her on her way.

Shanna waits until the door closes firmly behind Brooke to say, Wow. Twenty-three minutes might be a new record.

Is that how long she was here?

Yep. Start to finish.

Damn. I look at my watch and it’s only 10:23. Brooke Baker is officially the shortest appointment I’ve ever had. But at least it was twenty-three minutes I didn’t think about Lincoln. I even temporarily forgot about this morning’s fiasco.

Although now I’ve remembered it again and my chagrin comes rushing back. It’s not quite as bad as it was before, but my face still heats. When Shanna notices, turning to me with her eyebrows raised and a question in her eyes, I quickly shake my head and say, I’m going to go check the thermostat. It feels hot in here to me. Then we can get Sophie Green’s dress out for her fitting?

I don’t wait for Shanna’s reply, heading towards the back of the shop where the thermostat is. I know it’s set at sixty-nine like it always is, but it gives me a minute to recover my senses. Until I can get Lincoln out of my head, I’m going to need every second I can get.

two

Hangry? Check.

Mired in thoughts of my ex-wife? Double check.

Frustrated at my youngest brother, Eli, sprawled on the sofa scrolling his phone, his dirty sneakers propped on my book?

Triple. Fucking. Check.

I’m tempted take my mood out on Eli, but there’s a chance I’d end up goading him into an actual fight and I’m annoyed, not stupid. He’s got inches and muscle on me if it turns physical, and a tendency to hold a grudge if it doesn’t. We’re living under the same roof for the foreseeable future and I swore I’d do my best not to go all Type-A on him.

But, Jesus, you don’t have to be Type A to keep your shoes off someone else’s stuff. I take my book to bed with me. God knows I’m not taking anything or anyone else to bed with me these days…

Sexually frustrated? Another check for my ever-growing list, although I’ve been feeling that way for a while. Evie’s not the only one having sex dreams these days.

If I don’t stop thinking about my run in with my ex-wife this morning I’m going to lose my damn mind. It’s bad enough I’ve been thinking of her at all, but add in the vision of Evie’s face lost in the throes of pleasure and, yeah, it’s no wonder I’m feeling like a balloon caught in the power lines.

I hear tires crunching the gravel outside and my stomach cartwheels in anticipation. Me and my mood need it to be the pizza I ordered.

It’s not, but it is the next best thing.

Sorry I'm late, but I made cheese scones, Gage says, letting the screen door slam shut as he places the tinfoil-covered plate down in the middle of the dark wooden coffee table which still has an E carved in the top, compliments of Eli when he was eight.

I let out a grunt in an attempt to sound annoyed, but I can’t be mad when my middle brother's brought homemade scones—and the first real food I've had all day. If you don't count the Snickers and Gatorade I picked up at the Flying J along Seneca Lake on my way back from my meeting with Dad’s physical therapist. Which I don't. I hate junk food. And I hate truck stop sandwiches more.

After he shrugs off his coat and tosses it on the coat rack by the door, Gage takes the foil off the sturdy white plate and I grab a scone, inhaling it in about three bites.

You could sell these at your stall on Saturdays when the farmer’s market starts back up in a couple of weeks, I say through a mouthful of crumbs.

And miss out on you eating them like it's your last supper? Gage rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me, even though he's used to me by now.

It is a sight to behold, says Eli, who finally puts his feet on the damn floor where they belong.

My mother would roll in her grave at the way Eli treats her furniture, although she would never say anything because she loved nothing better than having all of her boys together. She always said her happiest moments were when all the Bennett boys were around her kitchen table. My dad used to say his happiest moments were when all the Bennett boys moved out and he didn’t have to feed them every day, but the truth is, he was happy if mom was happy.

It’s weird being here at my parents’ house, now Eli’s place—and mine, for the time being – without them, having a family pow wow. Mom’s been gone for seven years, but I still keep expecting Dad to come out of the bathroom and settle himself in his old rocking chair with a groan and a complaint about his knee.

How’s Dad? asks Eli. Any progress?

He’s not worse, but his left foot is still basically useless and drags when he walks, and he can’t button anything because his left hand is too stiff. He can pick things up, but he doesn’t have any dexterity back yet. I say through another bite of scone. The OT says he’s being a pain in the ass. Apparently he threw his fork across the room last night because he couldn’t cut his chicken.

At least it wasn’t his knife, Eli says.

Only because one of the orderlies grabbed his hand before he could. I shake my head. Rookie mistake not to grab both hands, but the stroke has made him look like a frail old man.

Frail old man, my ass, Gage says. He should wear a warning label – objects in the mirror are crankier than they appear.

I know. I feel a smile creep across my face. Those scones are hitting my bloodstream and I’m starting feel human again. "I talked to him about controlling his temper and trying to work through his frustration instead of giving in to it. He told me