The Beginning: Brides of Beaufort, #0

By Jess Mastorakos

Asking the gorgeous and alluring florist to be my plus-one to tonight's wedding should have been weird, but instead, it was as natural as breathing.

 

And to my shock, she said yes.

But I can't get my hopes up that it will go anywhere. Hattie has no interest in dating a Marine. She's trying to save her family's struggling flower shop, and she knows I'm only a temporary fixture in this town.

So, we only have tonight. After that, we'll go our separate ways, each of us thankful for a fun evening.

It shouldn't be too hard. After all, we don't even know each other. It should be no problem to walk away and pretend my heart hadn't recognized hers the moment we'd met.

 

Besides, love at first sight is only for the movies, right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jess Mastorakos
• Release date: Apr 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986442983

Book preview

1

THATCHER

Stop tailgating.

I slid my gaze to my mother and adjusted my grip on the steering wheel. I’m not.

Yes, you are. You should be two seconds behind that truck.

The pink flower truck ahead of us passed a street sign, and it was exactly one-point-five seconds later that we passed it too. I slowed a fraction of an inch, then gave her a tight smile. Better?

Much. She adjusted the box on her lap. It was so big she could barely see over it, and yet she still thought she needed to side-seat drive. I still can’t believe that girl canceled on you hours before the wedding. I hope you’re not planning to see her again. I didn’t like her.

I smirked. I think it’s safe to say she’s not planning to see me again. That’s pretty much what it means when you tell someone you’re just not that into them.

Did she say that?

She did.

Oh, now I really don’t like her.

I chuckled. I guess I don’t like her much either. But now it looks like I’m going stag to this wedding.

Mom frowned. That’s a shame. Now there will be an empty seat at your table, and they’ve already paid for her meal. Don’t you know anyone else you could bring?

Uh, no.

We pulled into the lot of the venue, the flower truck apparently going the same place as us. Which made sense. It was a wedding, after all. I parked next to the truck and hopped out to help my mom unload. She’d been close with the bride’s mom for years, even though we’d lived in the next town over, so she was here early to help set up.

And I was here because now that I’d gotten stationed forty minutes away at the Marine base in Beaufort, my mom took full advantage of the unpaid labor that came with having a son.

I heaved a box of centerpiece items out of the trunk, careful not to break any of the glass bowls stacked inside. When I looked up, a gorgeous blonde hopped out of the flower truck, her long ponytail swaying behind her.

She offered me a small wave and a smile, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

Hey, I said, approaching her on the way to the curb. You’re the flower lady for the wedding?

Her blue eyes flicked to the sign on the truck, and she smirked at my ever-so-smooth opening line. I’m the florist, yep.

Florist, right.

And you’re the… She leaned forward, peeking into the open box in my arms. Bowl guy?

Centerpiece deliveryman, I said, raising my chin.

She grinned. Ah, important job. I believe you’ll be scattering some of these rose petals around the bowls, then.

Oh, no scattering for me. I’m just the manual labor. If I tried to put all this stuff together it would definitely look like a five-year-old did it.

Thatcher Charles, are you going to bring those bowls over here, or would you like me to take them off your hands? my mother asked, having already dropped off the box she’d held and returned for more.

In my mind, the answer was swift. I’d love to ditch the box and continue talking to this beautiful florist. But since she probably had work to do and my mother would probably kill me if that were my response, I sighed. Duty calls.

Well, if you happen to be bored when you’re finished unloading, I could use some manual labor myself.

I blinked at her. Uh…

With the flowers, she said quickly, hooking a thumb at the truck. I’m short-handed today. Well, every day lately, and I have a lot to carry. I can’t pay you for your time, but I would be really grateful for an extra set of arms."

I refrained from commenting on the lunacy of her having to pay me. I wouldn’t take her money even if she’d tried to give it to me. Yeah, of course. It’s only a few boxes, so I can help in a sec.

Her shoulders dipped with relief, and she nodded. Thank you.

You’re welcome. My gaze held hers, and my stomach tightened. Man, she was beautiful. And totally out of my league.

"Thatcher," Mom said, breaking the spell between us as she grabbed another box from the back seat.

With a small chuckle that I hoped hid my frustrated sigh, I turned toward the venue. Without her face in my line of sight, my pulse returned to normal.

What was that?

It was like that woman had me under a spell or something. She could have asked me to take a nosedive off the bridge between here and Beaufort right then, and I probably would have agreed.

I set the box down on a table next to the others and gave my mom a small smile. I’m going to help the florist unload when we’re done if you don’t need me for anything else.

She quirked a brow. I know better than to ask you to help me set all of this up. It would be faster to just do it myself.

I gave her a tight smile. Gee, thanks.

I’m only teasing. Well, sort of. You don’t have much of an eye for design.

She had me there. I’d never been what you’d call artistic.

You know, my mother said, her voice dipping in that telltale way it did when she was about to meddle, she’s really pretty, that florist.

I smirked, thinking that was the understatement of the century. That woman wasn’t pretty. She was stunning.

She had the kind of smile that dragged you in before you even knew what was happening, and her blue eyes were so striking that they’d make even the smoothest guy forget his own name. Which meant I was a goner from the start. When it came to women, I was far from smooth.

Just ask the chick who dumped me first thing this morning, citing a lack of chemistry.

My mom leaned closer conspiratorially when I didn’t respond. Maybe you should ask her to the wedding.

I balked. Ask her to the wedding? Are you crazy? I don’t even know her name.

So learn it.

My mother was a force. My dad—may he rest in peace—was more like me. Soft-spoken and more of a numbers guy than a people person. But my mom? She knew everything about everyone, had a million and one friends, and spent the better part of my life trying to get me out of my shell.

When I’d joined the Marines at eighteen, becoming an Aircraft Rescue and Firefighting Specialist, the first thing she’d told me was that she was excited for me to get out and see the world.

Make new friends, she’d said.

Have some fun, she’d said.

Well, she’d gotten her wish. I had friends, I’d had fun, and I’d done two overseas deployments in my seven years as a Marine.

I scratched my head, looking back toward the flower truck where the blonde was loading her arms with floral arrangements. I don’t know.

Suit yourself. But you know what I always say, it’s always a no unless you ask. With a wink, she turned back toward the car.

On an absurdly-bad-idea scale of one to ten, asking a woman I didn’t even know to a wedding that would start a few hours later seemed like an eleven.

No. I couldn’t do that. She’d probably look at me like I was a freak.

Shaking my head, I snapped out of it and got back to work. I wouldn’t ask her to the wedding, but I did promise to help her. And in doing that, maybe I’d at least have time to work up the nerve to get her number.

She headed my way with a basket of petals sealed in individual bags, and I nodded at her as I approached. What’s your name?

Harriet, she replied without stopping. But I hate it, so everyone just calls me Hattie.

I kept going as she breezed away, fighting the urge to turn and watch her go.

Hattie. Fine.