But the sight of my reflection in the mirror is a situation that needs addressing now.
There are bad hair days, and then there are haystack-hair days. Today is definitely the latter. No wonder I got a few odd looks when I took my hat off on the plane.
Note to self: Don’t sleep in a fancy updo and think it’ll still look good on the second day.
Ten minutes of brushing, smoothing, and applying hair products from Juniper’s salon, I look marginally more human and significantly less like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
Pizzaz.Sure, Emerson.
This will have to be good enough for a dissolution-of-accidental-marriage meeting.
Why am I so jittery? It’s not as if he wants to give us a shot.
I’m grabbing my keys to head over to the bakery early, aka my happy place, when my phone rings.
Yes, I bake at home, too. No, I never tire of it.
I guess that’s the upside of my life goals going in a very unexpected direction. Considering I also got married by a hypnotist last night, I suppose this is all par for the course—though, women’s hockey is more my sport than golf.
The number isn’t labeled, but it is familiar.
My stomach swims with nerves. The bakery’s landlord is calling. After they increased the monthly cost, I got behind in making payments. They sent a final notice, but because I’m holding out hope that I can make a stack of money materialize, I’ve been avoiding all forms of communication.
Admittedly, not my finest moment.
Ignoring the call, at the same time, someone pounds on my front door hard enough to rattle the Christmas wreath I haven’t taken down yet. My blood pressure shoots through the chimney. Are they here to arrest me?
Someone calls, “Nina Elizabeth Bruun, open this door right now!”
Then I realize it’s Bree.
I barely get the door unlocked before she’s pushing her way inside, followed by what appears to be half the Nebraska Knights’ wives’ auxiliary at my house on Sweet Corn Court.
“We came as soon as we heard,” Jess announces, holding a Bundt cake aloft like it’s a peace offering.
“Heard what?” I ask weakly, though I’m pretty sure I already know.
“That you’re meeting with your husband this afternoon.” Ella parades inside along with Gracie and Jess.
Whit follows behind her with a plate of cookies and a gallon of fresh milk from her cows.
“He’s not my husband,” I protest automatically. “I mean, technically he is, but?—”
“But nothing,” Gracie interrupts, her romantic heart practicallyglowing. “You’re married to Lane Sheridan Junior. Do you have any idea how many women would kill to be in your position?”
“Probably the same number who would kill to get out of it,” I mutter.
Bree gives me a look that could melt steel. “After we hightailed it back here in your hour of celebration, don’t you dare try to act like this is some terrible tragedy. You pushed me into that mail-order bride situation with Fletch, and look how that turned out.”
I knew it!
That’s what I call sneaky revenge. But she couldn’t have known I’d end up married to a hockey player. That was pure chance. Sure, the odds were high given the guests at the event, but still. Then again, Lucian Little did ask me if I’d met my true love. The guy with the green eyes instantly came to mind. Even in my hazy state, his image was as clear as a biscuit—which I suddenly feel like baking.
The stress is real. But is love at first sight?
“That was completely different. You made that choice as research for your romance novel. I was under hypnosis!” I protest.
“Were you?” Whit narrows her eyes, settling into my favorite armchair like she’s planning to stay awhile. “Because I watched the video, and you looked pretty aware to me.”
