The best man held out an umbrella for the minister and Ami giggled. She mouthed a thank you to everyone and the minister smiled.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God,” he looked up a moment and smiled, “who has graced us with His cleansing power, as we are to witness the union of these two people.”
The words washed over Ami as she looked deeply into Duncan’s eyes. He was hers, she was his, and together they would create a new family. Through thick and thin, through rain or drought, they would work together for the rest of their lives.
As the minister finished and pronounced them husband and wife, the rain stopped and a pocket of sun peeked out from the clouds, sending a beam of light onto the lake in front of her. The beauty and serenity of the moment pierced her soul. She smiled brightly at him.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the minister said.
Ami didn’t wait for Duncan to come to her. She grabbed his hand which held the umbrella and pulled him closer. The kiss was sweet and tender with the promise of a wonderful life together.
***
Desperately Seeking Mr. Right by Sally Johnson
Phoebe wasn't looking for love. In fact, she had just gotten off a Reality Love TV show that didn’t end well. A baggage mix up introduces Phoebe to Bryan, and suddenly love seems like a possibility. But when the TV show catches up to her, Phoebe wonders if she will ever meet Mr. Right.
Meet me at Sunrise by Lucinda Whitney
When Vanessa boards her grandfather’s ship for a river cruise in northern Portugal, she doesn't expect him to ask the handsome captain to take her ashore on day trips.
But as she and the captain spend more time together, they find their assumptions of each other are wrong, and maybe eight days are not enough after all.
12 Days to Love by Lisa Swinton
Lily is free from everything and she’s scared to death. To kick off her fresh start, she embarks on an Italian cruise with her best friend, Maddie. On board is Zander, the man who refused her kiss. She tries to keep her distance, but fate keeps throwing them together.
Kiss Me in the Moonlight by Lindzee Armstrong
When Paige’s secret agent boyfriend dumps her in an email, chaperoning hormonal teenagers through Europe seems like the perfect way to cope. She doesn't bargain on working with her ex, who’s investigating his partner’s suspicious death. As sparks fly and the investigation heats up, one kiss in the moonlight changes everything.
***
Keep reading for a sneak peak at the first book in the
Destined for Love: Europe Collection
***
My dream was turning into a nightmare.
I watched the luggage turnstile stop, but I had yet to see my luggage. My stomach tightened as I wondered what I should do. I waited a few minutes, willing the turnstile to start up again, as if there were a second load of suitcases coming. But it didn’t.
I walked around the turnstile, hoping I had somehow missed my suitcase as it had gone by. After all, it was a non-descript, roll-around black canvas suitcase. Maybe someday I would splurge and buy the pink polka dot luggage set I wanted, but I had splurged on this trip to London and decided to make do with the boring, black luggage I already owned.
Looking around, I felt overwhelmed and defeated at the same time. This trip was supposed to be an adventure. I had planned it carefully—had looked forward to it. And I was not going to let some temporary frustration allow the negative voice in my head to chant, “I told you so.” I could do this. Tons of tourists came to London every year, and they were able to manage.
I finally located a bag on the other side of the turnstile, lodged under an edge. It must have come out so fast that it had gotten stuck. Since I didn’t want to assume it was my bag—even if it was the only bag—I checked the luggage tag for confirmation. I was overjoyed to see the words This bag belongs to: Phoebe Bryan. I hefted it and cursed myself for packing way too much. I was only going to be in London for eight days.
As I followed the signs to the passenger pick-up area to meet my hotel shuttle, I recognized a few people on my New Jersey to Heathrow flight. There was the sweet, old couple who looked identical to each other, probably because of their matching silver hair and paper-white skin. They had sat across the aisle from me on the plane and kept trying to feed me Nilla Wafers. Then there was the mom who looked younger than me, who had endlessly bounced her fussy baby up and down the aisle. Every time I nodded off, her baby would start crying. And then I recognized the handsome face with the Boston Red Sox baseball cap, who sat in the very last row by the bathrooms and always seemed to be sleeping. Just the sight of familiar faces, even though they were strangers, gave me comfort. They made me feel less alone.
When I arrived at passenger pick-up, the shuttle company had a sign with my name and a few others scrawled on it. Seeing my name helped push down some of the anxiety growing inside of me. I didn’t want to be stranded at a foreign airport and not know how to get to my hotel.
I was the last to enter the bus. The driver took my bag and set it with the rest of the luggage. I glanced back and saw the bus wasn’t very full. I recognized the cute guy with the Red Sox cap, but he wasn’t looking up. He was staring intently at his phone, tapping the screen.
There was also a family. The mom and dad looked as if they had dropped everything on the floor the moment they sat down. They had two worn backpacks, not upright, and then two kid backpacks, each sporting a TV show character.
As soon as the driver shut the door and put the bus into gear, the fatigue hit me. My head felt fuzzy, my throat dry and swollen, my eyelids heavy. I leaned my head back against the window just to rest for a moment.
“Mooom,” the girl cried. “Matt keeps touching my backpack with his foot.”
I didn’t open my eyes to see the scene. I could imagine it clearly.
“Matt, don’t do that,” the mom said, her voice weary.
We must have hit a pothole, because we jolted suddenly.
“He did it again—see? Did you see it, mom?”
This time I did open my eyes. I rolled my head in their direction and peeked out from under my lids.
The mom grabbed the boy’s knee. “Enough,” she snapped.
The dad, meanwhile, was either asleep or pretending to sleep. He didn’t flinch. His head was resting in his hand, propped against the wall of the bus.
I turned my attention back to my own thoughts. The ride from Heathrow to our hotel was supposed to be twenty-five minutes. I fought falling asleep. I had this fear I would miss my stop and end up lost somewhere in London.
I kept myself awake by checking my phone. It beeped at me when I turned it on. The battery was in the red and informed me it was “critically low.” I hoped it would stay on long enough to check my texts. I had two new messages. One was from my mom, telling me to text her when I arrived. The other was from my best friend, Evangeline. It was a warning: Don’t even think about watching that show. My phone flashed another low battery alert, then completely died.
“Ow!” screeched the boy. “She poked me.”
I put my phone away and watched the family intently, curious of what drama would unfold.
“Enough,” the mom hissed. “Ted. Do you think you could wake up long enough to help?”
The dad open his eyes halfway and scowled at his wife. “What do you want me to do?”
“Tell them to cut it out!”
The dad looked from the boy to the girl. “Cut it out.”
I didn’t know how effective he was at parenting, but if he felt like me, he was too tired to deal with much of anything.
“Calf slap!”
“He hit me!”
It went on—brother annoying sister, mom scolding children, dad escaping into sleep. I was thankful when we pulled up to the hotel and they didn’t stand.
The driver took a couple of bags off the bus and set them on the sidewalk. I grabbed my suitcase and darted for the hotel.
Th
e entryway’s ceiling was filled with rows of shiny, bare lightbulbs, glowing like a marquee sign. But these lights nowhere near prepared me for the lobby. The room was lit like Times Square at night. It was like the set for the reality TV show, Desperately Seeking Mrs. Right, which I had recently been on. The ceiling was vaulted, probably upwards of three floors. There were two pairs of massive white, marble columns, flanking the marble floor on each side. There was also a round table in the center of the lobby surrounded by a low, circular, chartreuse velvet couch. An oversized floral arrangement served as a centerpiece on the table, with a huge crystal chandelier hanging above it. Off to the sides behind the pillars was a seating area with upholstered armchairs and coffee tables angled to drive conversation.
I stepped up to the front desk, which matched the marble from the floor. The wall behind the desk was covered in thousands of iridescent circular chips, with three rows of lights hanging down from fiber-thin wires. The chips reflected the light, reminding me a little of fish scales—tastefully done fish scales. But they made everything just a little too bright.
A man behind the desk greeted me. “How may I help you, ma’am?” His name tag read Nigel.
“I’m Phoebe Bryan. I’m here to check in.”
“Very well.” Nigel nodded. “If I could see a picture ID and a major credit card, I’ll have you checked in immediately.”
“Thank you.” I handed him the cards, then leaned an arm on the counter. It took all my effort not to fall asleep against the desk.
I thanked him when he returned my ID, and credit card and passed me a key card, then grabbed my bag and made my way to the elevator and up to my room. I opened the door to an elegant, yet simple, room, complete with a small writing desk, an arm chair, and a glorious king-size bed. Although, it could have been a closet with a cot and I wouldn’t have cared. I just needed to sleep.
I dropped my bags a few steps into the room. After a slow, exasperated sigh, I fumbled through my carry-on and retrieved my phone charger cord and foreign adaptor. I wondered if I was supposed to plug in the adaptor first and then the cord or vice versa. I also wondered what my odds were for causing a power outage or an electrical fire. I took a chance on the first approach and was pleased when the phone powered up rather than exploded. I sent a quick text to my mom before folding down the bedsheets.
I made it.
My phone buzzed without missing a beat. How was the flight?
Fine, once we actually took off. Boarding was delayed, and we sat on the tarmac for twenty-five minutes.
The ping on my phone startled me. I had drifted off to sleep.
That’s inconvenient.
It was. I stretched out on the bed. Be in touch tomorrow morning. Goodnight.
I smelled like stale fast food and sweat, but I didn’t care. I was jetlagged and desperate for some sleep, so I rolled over and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, all will be well, I told myself. I would be rested, I could shower, have clean clothes, and I could go off exploring on my adventure of a lifetime.
***
I woke up, confused. And tired. And groggy. I looked at the clock with bleary eyes. One o’clock. Is that a.m. or p.m.? It was light outside, and I imagined it must have been after noon. I flopped back on the pillow, dismayed at wasting half a day sleeping. I rubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock again. This time it read 10:01 a.m. I had misread it the first time. I was off by a couple of hours, but I felt better knowing it was still morning. Kind of.
I stumbled out of bed and staggered into the bathroom, squinting as I turned on the lights. I noted the bags under my eyes, the tangled brown mess called my hair, the sizeable wrinkles in my clothes that I hadn’t changed since before my flight from Jersey. I was relieved, knowing a refreshing shower was minutes away. I squatted down by my suitcase and unzipped it.
Someone had been in my bag or at least rearranged it. The card stating it had been inspected by the TSA, was not in there. But I didn’t remember packing an olive-green t-shirt, tube socks, or a kilt.
Wait.
I froze. These weren’t mine. The shirt, the socks—obviously not the kilt. How did that get there?
I shuffled through the bag: grey sweats, a white dress shirt, men’s underwear—I dropped the stack immediately, realizing these were the contents of a man’s suitcase. Definitely not my bag. I scrubbed my hands against my thighs and then read the ID tag. Bryan Edwards.
I had grabbed the wrong suitcase when I got off the shuttle.
I realized my mistake: our names were similar, and we both had similar taste in bags. It was an easy mistake to make and, hopefully, an easy mistake to fix. All I had to do was call the guy and arrange a bag switch. No. Big. Deal. “Okay,” I said out loud. “I can fix this.” I think. I searched the luggage tag for the contact information.
I picked up my cell phone but then put it down. I couldn’t remember who got off at the same hotel as me, but maybe he was a guest here. It was worth a try, so I called the front desk.
“Bryan Edwards’ room please,” I rasped, my voice still thick with sleep.
“Please hold,” said the British host on the other end.
Moments later, a strange, shrill tone rang on the line and then cut out.
“Hello?” A smooth voice answered—an American voice. And he didn’t sound groggy like me.
I cleared my throat. “Hi—um—I have your bag,” I said.
“Are you holding it hostage?” he asked slowly.
I laughed at his unexpected response. “No, I’m not holding it hostage. I grabbed the wrong bag last night and am hoping you got mine by mistake.”
“Should I know who this is?”
My laugh tittered. “Sorry. My name is Phoebe Bryan. I was calling Bryan Edwards. I’m at the Grand Park Plaza Hotel. I assume you are too since the front desk connected me to your room.”
“Phoebe Bryan.” He seemed to mutter to himself. “Yes, I have your bag.”
“Oh, good,” I exhaled, relieved and excited. It was simple mix up that could be unmixed in minutes. “Can I meet you in the lobby for the exchange?”
He chuckled. “You make it sound like a hostage situation.” At least he had a sense of humor about it.
“I won’t charge you for the mix up,” I joked.
“Five minutes?” he suggested.
“Yes, great! I’ll be wearing a mint and white-striped shirt.” I hung up the phone and quickly sprang to action. I haphazardly brushed my hair, smoothed my rumpled clothes, and grabbed my key card. I hurried down to the lobby, dragging his suitcase behind me.
If you want to read more, find the book here.
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Laura D. Bastian
PS. Keep reading for a another Sneak Peek.
Keep reading for a Sneak Peek at Sink or Swim
Shelly pulled off her teacher badge and smiled. The school day was over, and it was time to head to the pool for her daily laps. If she hurried the minute her contract hours were over, she could make it before the afternoon rush started and have the pool to herself. One of the good things about starting the school day so early.
She hopped in her dad’s old convertible Mustang he’d given her as a college graduation gift and drove the four blocks to her gym. She relished the warm sun on her skin, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the weather turned cool. Thoughts of the warm climate of Africa reminded her of her broken plans. She would have been there with Charlie right now if she hadn’t caught him with another woman a few weeks before their wedding.
It had been four months since she’
d kicked him to the curb, and though she would have loved to have been in Africa on a humanitarian project, she knew she could still do a lot of good right in her own neighborhood.
The locker room at the gym was nearly empty, and she nodded politely at a woman passing her on the way to the showers. Within thirty minutes, the locker room would be crowded and noisy. Shelly changed into her plain black suit, cut high at the neck and low on the legs, then grabbed her towel and headed to her escape. She breathed in the humid air filled with the familiar scent of chlorine.
The corners of her mouth turned down when she saw that her favorite lane was occupied. Though there were three other lanes, she wanted hers. She sighed heavily and glanced at the clock. Could she wait him out? It was definitely a him. A nice looking him at that. She had no idea how long he’d been there, but the definition of his muscles and the power of his strokes testified of years spent doing laps.
She decided not to wait, tossed her towel on the bench, and began her pre-swim stretches. The man continued to swim without noticing her at all, so she adjusted her goggles, made sure her swim cap was tight and dove in. As soon as she hit the water, all the stresses washed away. Even the annoyance of a man in her pool. She pushed herself, zeroing in on the pressure of the water as it brushed against her skin with each stroke. After doing her customary ten laps of the front crawl, she shifted easily into the breast stroke for another ten laps. As she transitioned into the back stroke, she knew she was being watched.
From the corner of her eye she saw the man toweling off on the edge of the pool. His swim shorts were snug and hung low on his hips with the weight of the water. Thank goodness it wasn’t a Speedo. In her experience, guys who wore those were always extra annoying. His washboard abs caught her eye and her concentration broke. She forced herself to ignore him and continue her laps. As she passed him once more on her return lap, she was both relieved and disappointed to see he was moving away from the pool’s edge.
Never Trust the Rain (Destined for Love: Europe) Page 11