Chasing I Do (The Eastons #1)
An Excerpt from Promise Me You
CHASING I DO
ALSO BY MARINA ADAIR
The Eastons
(Coming 2016):
CHASING I DO
The Eastons
MARINA ADAIR
“Adair writes with heart and sizzling heat.”
~ JILL SHALVIS,
New Your Times
bestselling author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Marina Adair
Excerpt from
Promise Me You
copyright © 2016 by Marina Adair
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author and copyright owner of this book.
ISBNs: 978-0-9974832-0-8
Cover photograph by Devi Pride of Devi Pride Photography
http://www.devipridephotography.com/
Headshot by Tosh Tanaka
To my dear friend and Kappa Sigma Hottie sister,
Catherine Bybee. Thank you for the support,
the laughs, and the friendship.
I treasure you!
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XOXO,
Chapter 1
Darcy Kincaid had dreamed about this day since she was six and uncovered her mother’s stash of
Southern Wedding
magazines in the basement. After a lifetime of planning, hand picking two thousand of the palest of pink peonies, and her entire life savings, she was about to pull off, what she believed to be, the most romantic I Do in history. The sun was high, the sky was crystal blue, and a gentle June breeze carried the scent of the nearby primrose blooms and ever after.
Today was the perfect day to be married, and the rose garden at Belle Mont House was the ideal backdrop. And Darcy wasn’t about to let a tail-chasing wedding crasher ruin her moment. No matter how charming.
Not this time.
“Nuzzling the bride’s pillows before the wedding will only get you escorted out,” Darcy said to the four legged powderpuff in matching pink booties and hair bow.
The dog, who was more runway than runaway, dropped down low in the grass, eyes big black circles of excitement, tail wagging with delight—her jewel-encrusted collar winking in the sunlight.
Darcy squinted, but could only make out the first word, “Fancy.”
The little dog’s ears perked up and her tail went wild.
“Such a pretty name,” Darcy cooed, taking a cautious step forward. “I’m Darcy, it’s nice to meet you. I’m going to come a little closer so I can get a better look at your collar and find your mamma’s number. Is that okay?”
With a playful snort, the animal’s entire body began to wiggle, as if so excited by the idea of making a friend she couldn’t contain herself. Darcy reached out to ruffle her ears and Fancy, confusing Darcy’s movement for
time to play,
snatched up the pillow—and gave it a good shake.
“No!” Darcy cried, halting in her tracks while little bits of stuffing leached into the air, causing perspiration to bead on her forehead.
Fancy, on the other hand, wasn’t worried in the slightest. Nope, she gave another rambunctious whip of the head before jumping up and down with the pillow as if this were all fun and games.
Sadly, this situation was about as close to fun and games as natural child birthing. Not only was the vintage silk pillow, a family heirloom passed down from the bride’s great-grandmother, in danger of becoming a chew-toy—but the bride’s ring was swinging dangerously from the aged ribbon.
And this wasn’t just any bride. Candice Covington was the former Miss Oregon, a Portland mover and shaker, and the first bride to be wed at the newly renovated Belle Mont House. Candice was already in the bridal suite, her beloved in the tower room, and two-hundred of their closest friends and family were set to start arriving in just over an hour—and the dog looked content to nuzzle the pillow all afternoon.
With its teeth.
“Stop,” she said, in her most authoritative tone, putting her hand out.
To Darcy’s surprise, the dog stopped. Her snout going into hyper-sniffer mode, she dropped the pillow to the grass and rose up to smell the air. Seemed Fancy had caught the scent of the prosciutto wrapped figs sitting on a chair that Darcy had been tasting, and stood up on her hind legs, then walked around in three perfect circles.
“Someone’s got moves,” she said. “Not bad, but mine are better.”
A decade of planning events for Portland’s pickiest clients and four years in the trenches as a single mother had taught Darcy the art of positive redirection. She’d lasted through potty training, teething,
and
the chicken pox. This stubborn ball of fluff didn’t stand a chance.
Eying the flower arrangement on the closest table, Darcy grabbed a decorative stick and gave it a little shake. “Want to play with the stick for a while?” The dog sat, eyes wide, head cocked to the side in an explosion of cuteness. “We can switch toys before you destroy the pillow, okay?”
“
Yip!”
Tail up like a heat-seeking radar, the dog hit the fetch-and-retrieve position, pointing her nose toward one of the open fields.
“Ready?” Darcy wiggled the stick again for show. “Go get ‘em.”
The stick flew through the air, going as far in the opposite direction as it could. Darcy released a sigh of relief when it cleared the fountain and landed in the middle of the field.
A low growl sounded, followed by a blur of white fur that bolted past.
Those little legs working for the prize. A position Darcy could relate to.
Located in the prestigious West Hills, Belle Mont House was three stories of Portland history with extensive manicured gardens, six bedrooms, a grand salon, and captivating views of the city and Mount Hood—all of which needed to be meticulously cared for. And Darcy was the sole caretaker.
She had driven by the old property a thousand times over the years. But hadn’t really recognized its potential until after her world had fallen apart, and a heartbreaking betrayal had left her life in tatters—much like the foundation of this forgotten house. Unable to watch something so beautiful and full of history crumble, she’d saved it from demolition, then spent every penny and waking moment renovating it back to its original grandeur. In return, Belle Mont had given her something even more precious—a future for her and her daughter.
Today marked Belle Mont’s first day in operation as the year’s “Most Romantic” wedding destination in the Pacific Northwest, and Darcy as it’s planner extraordinaire—according to the editor at
Wedding Magazine
, who’d left a message earlier about sending a high-profile couple to check out the location.
A couple so hush-hush, the editor refused to give the name for fear that the press would show. But if they decided that Belle Mont was their dream wedding venue, and Darcy could accommodate them with the last Sunday in July, the only date that worked around the couple’s hectic schedule, then Belle Mont would land a huge spread in the August issue.
The endorsement alone was enough to make her say yes on the spot. Not to mention the profit for hosting such a lavish event would go a long way toward helping pay back all of the money she’d invested into the renovation—and secure her future in Portland.
A future which now resided in the jaws of a dog that could fit in her pocket.
Fancy snatched the stick and darted across the lawn toward the twinkle lit and peony covered gazebo in record time—all with the pillow still in its jowls.
“Hey,” she called out. “We had a deal!”
The dogs tail went up as if flipping the bird at their deal, before she ran beneath a row of chairs and struck a different kind of pose all together. A move that showed enough doggie bits to prove that under that pink bling, Fancy was all male. And about to shit all over Candice’s perfect day.
A situation Darcy knew all too well.
“Had I known you had a stupid stick down there, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to reason with you.”
In Darcy’s experience, men loved the forbidden, almost as much as they loved their stick. So she fumbled with her skirt, pulling it above her thighs, and gave chase.
Fancy took off, and man, those toothpick legs could fly. Ears flapping behind him, butt moving like lightning bugs in a jar, the pooch headed straight for the rose garden, which lay directly across from the aisle runner that had
CANDICE AND CARTER
spelled out in the palest of pink peony petals.
“Not the runner,” she cried, only to watch in horror as Fancy raced up the center of the white pillowed Egyptian cotton, his legs pumping with the speed and grace of a cheetah in the wild, leaving a few dozen miniature muddy paw prints and a tornado of petals in his wake.
“No no no,” she called out. “Not the rose garden.”
Terrified of the damage he could do to the roses, and the pillow, she picked up the pace and rounded the white iron fencing, gravel sliding under heels as she burst through the gate and snatched the pillow right before the Fancy dove his fancy ass—and Candice’s ring—into the fountain.
