by Beth Carter
Table of Contents
BRIDES AT COCONUTS
Books by Beth Carter
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
BRIDES AT COCONUTS
Coconuts Series Book 5
BETH CARTER
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
BRIDES AT COCONUTS
Copyright©2020
BETH CARTER
Cover Design by Wren Taylor
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-64716-169-9
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Books by Beth Carter
Sleeping with Elvis
~ ~ ~
Coconuts Series
Thursdays at Coconuts
Chaos at Coconuts
Babies at Coconuts
Cowboys at Coconuts
Brides at Coconuts
~ ~ ~
“Santa Baby” in the anthology
Sizzle in the Snow
To my incredible, cherished soulmate.
I love you more!
~ ~ ~
And to everyone who finds their
loving spouse or partner early on,
at mid-life, later in life, or are perfectly happy alone.
Cheers.
Acknowledgments
To my long-suffering husband who puts up with my laptop and multiple, scattered notes on our kitchen table—and eating out a little too much when I’m on a deadline, which is often. Thanks for your undying support, honey! I couldn’t do this without you.
To my cousin, Marty, her son, and daughter-in-law who had a fabulous wedding in a barn. Their unique ceremony was an inspiration for the nuptials in this novel!
To classmate, friend, and retired firefighter Mike Owens who assisted with my elevator scene. Thank you for your 22 years of service at Fire Station 8 for the SFD!
A big thanks to my dad, Jay Holmes, who helped with farming terms. I’m a city girl and appreciate your assistance and wonderful family stories more than you know.
To my fabulous doctor, Dr. Manuel Camejo who epitomizes optimal patient care for expectant moms. And to his beautiful wife, Bruny, who has been an integral part of his practice as well as my good friend. Thank you for inspiring the caring doctor for Suzy.
A big thanks to long-time reader Amanda Brown who said two words—winter wonderland—which inspired my wedding scenes.
Thanks to my stepdaughter, Jessica Connolly, who aided with birthing room advice for the twins.
Thanks to my incredible, loyal readers and members of Beth’s Book Babes! I cannot tell you how much your ongoing support, reviews, and encouragement mean to me.
Beta readers are invaluable and I have the best. Thank you to Amanda Brown, Shirley Hales, and Carol Holmes who always help me find those pesky errors that become elusive after 400 pages.
As always, enormous gratitude goes to my editor, Debby Gilbert, founder of Soul Mate Publishing. And to my wonderful cover artist, Wren Taylor, who continually manages to capture the essence of each of my novels.
Chapter 1
I think I might vomit. Hope broke out in a sweat as she stared at the enormous bouquet of pink roses. Mouth dry, she swallowed. What’s wrong with me? It’s just a date—never mind my last date was in high school and he was a no-show. Her thumping heart simulta
neously kept pace with the deafening wall clock as she attempted to gather the nerve to accept his offer. I’m being ridiculous. Rolling her office chair across the hard floor, she straightened her blouse and caught a glimpse of her ashen face in a mirror near the door. It’s just flowers. It’s just a date. Get a grip.
~ ~ ~
After pacing her tiny counselor’s office, Hope sat behind her desk, leaned back in her chair, and replayed every last delicious detail of her first-ever flower delivery. When a man whose head was completely blocked by an enormous bouquet of roses knocked on her door, Hope nearly spilled her coffee in surprise. Ready to tell the delivery person he had the wrong office, she stiffened—in a shocked, almost delirious way—when he asked, “Are you Hope Truman?”
She managed a shaky, “Y-Yes.”
“Where would you like these?”
“Um, er—” Hope shoved her student files to the other edge of her desk so fast a few fell onto the floor. “Right here. I guess put them here. I’ve never had to make room for flowers before.”
As he handed her a slip of paper to sign, Hope asked in her best nonchalant, almost singsong voice, “Who are they from?”
Shrugging, he pointed toward the tiny envelope stuck in the middle of the arrangement. “You’ll find out soon. Enjoy.”
With shaky hands, Hope reached for the card while concurrently glancing at her desk calendar. It’s not my birthday and I haven’t been sick. Maybe Dad sent these to cheer me up. I’ve never gotten flowers before. Wow, this is exciting.
Her mind swirled with possibilities. Before she could open the envelope, her favorite student, Britney, popped inside to say hello. “How was your weekend, Miss Truman?”
A scuffle in the hallway, followed by what sounded like something breaking in a glass bookcase, diverted Hope’s attention “Move aside, Brit.” Rushing into the hallway, she spotted two star football players shoving each other against the lockers. “Break it up, boys.” Putting her arms to the side, umpire-style, she yelled, “Now.” Standing with her hands on her hips, and with her scariest high school counselor glare, she said, “If Dr. Holmes hears about this, you’ll be in detention and the fall semester is only one month in. What’s this about?”
One muttered something about a girl. The other said, “Whitney’s my girlfriend. Stop hitting on her.”
Clearly out of her league since she was old enough to be their moms but didn’t date—until possibly five minutes ago—Hope told the boys to get to class. She wanted this silly conversation over with so she could do some detective work to determine who had sent the flowers. Standing between them, she stared each of the male students down until they finally stepped apart. Both had squinted eyes, clenched jaws and fists, and scowled at one another like two angry bulls. Crossing her arms with her best I’m-in-charge counselor’s stance, Hope asked, “Are you going to charge each other? I forgot my red cape today.” The comment made the boys laugh. “That’s better. Now shake hands and get to class.”
Once the commotion ended, Hope retreated to her office with only one goal: to find out the sender’s name. She took a photo of the bouquet to mark the happy occasion. Squeezing behind the roses, she held the phone up, then down, in an attempt to get the best angle of her growing double chin. Shutting her office door, Hope took a deep breath, plopped down in her squeaky office chair, and opened the card. Her eyes widened as she read the note: Hope, you’ve been on my mind ever since we danced in Nashville. We need to pick up where we left off. I’m on the road all week but would love to take you out to dinner on Friday night. Wear your dancing shoes! Tucker P.S. Call or text: 417-555-5555
Hope reread the card three more times. Oh. My. God. Tucker wants to go out with me. Feeling her cheeks pinken, she fanned herself with a student’s file. I won’t know how to act. I won’t know what to say.
Smiling so wide her cheeks hurt, Hope texted him before she lost her nerve. Hi Tucker! I’d love to go out with you. Just name the restaurant. I love to eat anything and everything, unfortunately. Thank you for the beautiful roses. ~ Hope
Staring at her cellphone, Hope’s finger hovered over the “send” button. Before she lost her nerve, she pushed send and clapped a hand over her mouth. I’m going on a date. A real date.
Fluffing her unruly hair, Hope Googled local nail salons. I’m probably the only woman in Crystal City who has never had a mani-pedi, but a first date definitely calls for one. She noticed one nearby with many starred reviews and began dialing.
Chapter 2
It was already mid-morning, and Cheri had gone for a run, petted the neighbor’s dog, and returned to her kitchen to polish off the rest of her morning coffee while eating an orange and yogurt. Reaching for her iPad, she pulled up some of her most-requested dishes. The Vandivort Theatre had hired her company, Fifth Avenue Catering, to cater a small plate menu. Making notes, she listed several suggestions including dessert. She was in the middle of emailing the planning committee when she received a Google alert.
Clicking on the link, her eyes widened as she read the headline on her phone: “Fifth Avenue Catering’s Meteoric Rise Going Down in Flames.” Oh, my God. Speedreading the article from an infamous, highly detested food critic in New York City, Cheri broke out in a sweat. Apparently, no one bothered to tell her a celebrity client’s vegan menu requests had been completely ignored and were replaced with three meat entrée options—pork loin, filet mignon, and lamb shanks. When the food arrived, the vegan client had freaked out and made a scene according to the article. The food critic’s write-up mentioned guests screamed and were horrified about eating dead animals at the outdoor gala. Cheri groaned as she scanned the photos of the unhappy partiers throwing platters of food on the ground. This is unbelievable. Julio, what the hell were you thinking? You’re going to destroy my business.
Cheri reread the article before calling her chef. The renowned, insufferable food critic Clark Rigby, who vacillated between being a vegetarian but ate bacon—which she knew for a fact—was at said event, saw the commotion, and overheard several complaints, which he happily added verbatim to his scathing piece.
I bet the fact that I rejected Clark years ago when he asked me out gave him great pleasure in writing this hateful rebuke.
Feeling her pulse quicken, Cheri began dialing her catering company in Manhattan. The second her chef picked up, she said, “What’s this?”
“What’s what?” Julio asked.
Practically hissing, Cheri said, “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. The horrible article the food critic wrote in The Times about Fifth Avenue Catering.” Her voice broke. “I’ve worked damn hard to build this business from the ground up, and you aren’t going to destroy it.”
“That prick.” Julio huffed into the phone. “Just ignore him.”
Julio’s dismissive nature got her even more riled. “He may be a prick but he is capable of ruining my reputation in one fell swoop. This cannot happen. I won’t have it. What the hell happened? How did you get your wires crossed on the client’s menu request?”
Sighing, Julio said, “The YouTube sensation who thinks she’s all that requested a ridiculous vegan menu. You can’t tell me not one of her guests wanted meat. I wanted to show her what we’re capable of.” He paused. “I thought some guests would be thrilled with the delicious spread.”
Cheri counted to five before responding. “Our job is to respect our clients’ wishes. If our clients have special requests, we meet them. And to be clear, we don’t try to meet them; we meet them. Do you understand?”
“My Cheri, you sound so stressed—not like the little girl who once adored watching me cook in your parents’ kitchen.”
“I’m no longer a little girl, Julio. I built my catering business.” Which you’re destroying in a matter of months. Rubbing her temples, Cheri wished she could rewind the past and tell Julio on that tarmac that
she was sorry he hadn’t saved a dime but she already had a head chef. An excellent chef. But it was done. Now I’ve lost Chef O’Leary because of Julio. This never would have happened under Liam’s watch.
“Are you still there?” Julio asked in his once-sexy, now-annoying Italian accent.
“I’m here. Listen closely, Julio. If a client has a special request—whether it’s vegan, vegetarian, beef, pork, chicken, duck, fish, lamb, goat, squirrel, opossum, turtle, squid, or squab, for that matter, abide by their exact wishes. Also, pay close attention to food allergies. We cannot afford any more bad press. Email me every event you have scheduled over the next few months. I want to see our clients’ menu requests. And . . . I’ll contact the food critic. Do not talk to him. Understand?”
“You’re overreacting, My Cheri.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“You used to like that nickname,” Julio said.
“I’m over it.” Her pulse raced. “Keep me posted on every detail at Fifth Avenue Catering. I want to know each menu you’re serving, any client issues or complaints, media inquiries about this article in particular—I’ll handle them—but let me know any time you hear from the media.” She paused, thinking fast. “Also, send me a list of upcoming celebrity events, menus, and absolutely anything else that arises. Got it?” Not waiting for his response, she added, “If I need to fly back to New York, I’ll charter a plane within the hour. Keep me in the loop.” Exhaling loudly, Cheri stared into the phone.
“It’s all under control,” Julio said, then added, “Boss.”
Somehow I doubt that.
Cheri hung up without a goodbye.
I’ve got to convince Chef O’Leary to come back. Even though it was just noon, she opened the mini bar fridge, grabbed a tiny bottle of rosé, and poured a glassful. Her trilling phone made her jump. After taking a swallow, she rolled her eyes at the screen. “Hi, Mom.”