MACKENZIE
I f you handed me a list of the top stressors, I’d check off every one.
Death of a loved one? Check.
Moving? Check.
Job loss? Check.
Arriving in a strange town in a wedding gown to marry a man I’d never met? Check, check, check.
Okay, that last one had to be one of the biggest stressors of all.
I’d seen a picture of my future husband, and I assumed he’d seen one of me. But we never actually spoke, not even on the phone. We hadn’t even really chatted much in the app that matched single guys with their future wives. Or maybe it was the other way around. It matched me with my future husband.
At one time, they would’ve called that a mail-order bride situation. But it had all been done over the internet, so did it really qualify? Was there such a thing as an email-order bride?
“This is it,” I told the driver as he pulled into the parking lot of the Wildwood Valley Inn. My fiancé instructed me to check in here and said he’d handle paying for the room until we got married, which was happening in only two days. I had no idea when I’d finally get to meet him in person.
“Tips appreciated,” the rideshare driver said as I reached for the handle.
I froze, staring at my phone. I’d ordered this through the app. I never carried cash, and I was short on money altogether. I hated the idea of using even more of my shrinking bank account, but I couldn’t, in good conscience, not tip him. I tapped on the screen and tipped him a couple of bucks.
“I have luggage in the back,” I said.
“Oh, right.”
I expected him to reach for the door handle. Instead, he popped the trunk and pressed play to resume the obnoxious financial podcast he’d been listening to the entire ride. Apparently, the guy was trying very hard to get rich quick. Join the club.
I stepped out of the car and started to shut the door, but I realized it wouldn’t surprise me if he just drove off, luggage and all. So I left the door open until I had my suitcase out of the trunk. Then I shut it without saying goodbye and extended the retractable handle on my suitcase.
I’d barely taken two steps toward the inn entrance when the driver sped off, hopping onto the interstate. No doubt rushing the thirty-plus miles back to the airport to get his next sucker—er, fare .
The building in front of me wasn’t at all what I expected. It was charming, with an English Tudor facade that matched the sign on the pancake restaurant next door. The fonts on the signs were identical. They must be owned by the same company.
Only one car sat in the parking lot, and the lot next door was completely empty. Not surprising, considering it was early afternoon. Plus, no cars didn’t equal no people. Maybe everyone, like me, had taken a rideshare to get here. Probably the same guy who’d just deposited me in front of the inn.
With a sigh, I grabbed the handle of the rolling suitcase I’d had since high school and started toward the front door.
The bright, sunny day made it impossible to see through the glass.
But as soon as I pulled it open, I was face-to-face with an older woman, her thick hair styled into a bob and her bright green eyeglasses clashing perfectly with her hot pink shirt.
I couldn’t help but smile as I took her in. Did she always wear green, or did she have a pair of glasses for every outfit?
“Good morning,” the woman said, then laughed. “Or I guess it’s afternoon now. You must be Bridget.”
I froze just inside the door. I was trying to maneuver my suitcase through it as she spoke, but her words stopped me, and the door slammed into both my butt and my suitcase, sending it rolling forward.
I rushed to stand beside it, grateful the place was empty.
I’d be mortified if more than one person had seen that.
“I’m not Bridget,” I said.
Was I in the wrong place? No, this was definitely the Wildwood Valley Inn. Were there two Wildwood Valley Inns? It was all absurd, but that was exactly how my mind worked when something didn’t go as expected.
The woman’s smile fell—not completely, but enough to make my stomach clench. “Oh dear. I swore you were her. Do you have a reservation?”
I rolled my suitcase to the counter and summoned what little confidence I had left. “I’m Mackenzie Hawkins. I was told I’d have a place to stay. I’m here to marry Reilly Clark.”
Now her smile really fell. Her mouth formed an O. She glanced at the computer screen, then finally moved toward it and began typing.
Tap, tap, tap.
I was nearing the end of my patience, but whatever was happening here, I was pretty sure it wasn’t her fault. I just needed to get in touch with my groom and make sure he was going to pay for a place for me to stay, like he’d promised.
“It’ll be fine,” she said, staring at the screen.
Was she talking to me or herself? My stomach churned.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re seriously making me nervous.”
“Okay, so…there’s been a little bit of a mix-up.”
She stepped away from the keyboard and looked directly at me. The smile hadn’t returned, but at least she wasn’t frowning anymore. She was breathing deeply, slowly. Trying to calm herself, maybe?
“It seems two women are matched to the same guy.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. She had to be mistaken. There was no way?—
“I’ve been talking to Reilly,” I said quickly. “He’s paying for my stay here, and we’re getting married Sunday. It’s all good.”
Her head started shaking slowly, subtle at first, then more aggressive. “No.”
“No to what?” I asked. “Staying here? Marrying him?”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “None of the grooms know they’re getting married. I fixed each one up with the perfect bride. And every weekend, one will arrive in town. Only this weekend, two brides are arriving, and I have no idea what to do with the extra one.”
This made no sense. “You’re saying Reilly has been talking to two women?”
“Reilly hasn’t been talking to anyone,” she said. “All the messages you exchanged came from me.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. The sweet texts that came every morning. The photos. The compliments. They hadn’t come from him. They’d come from this woman.
“I left everything,” I whispered. “My job, my home, my friends, my family…”
I trailed off. I hadn’t given up all that much, actually. I’d lost my job right before signing up for the service. It wasn’t that I was looking for a sugar daddy. But I could no longer afford my tiny apartment or the ramen noodles I’d been surviving on long before the job loss.
Coming to a small town like this meant opportunity. I could find work. Maybe wait tables at the pancake place or clean rooms here at the inn. I could even help this woman—whatever it was she was doing.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “But it’s going to be okay. You got here first, so you get dibs.”
Dibs. On a man. Like he was the chocolate eclair in a box of a dozen donuts.
“Let me just…” the woman said.
She looked back at her monitor. Her nametag caught my eye. Bobbi.
“Yes, that’ll work,” she said. “I’ll just wiggle some things around and make everyone happy. Room 233. Your fiancé will be here at seven.”
My fiancé. Those two words echoed in my head as I wandered in circles, trying to find the elevator. There really should’ve been a sign with an arrow. I finally found it way down a hallway of rooms to the right.
My plan was to rest until my date, but five hours was a lot of time to kill, and I knew one thing that would calm me down. Even though it was just after two o’clock, a glass of wine was exactly what I needed right now.
There was just one problem with that idea. The likelihood of finding wine in the walkable area near the inn? Yeah, not likely at all. Even if the pancake restaurant was still open, the chances of finding wine there were slim to nothing.
Bobbi was nowhere in sight when I returned to the lobby. So I hiked my crossbody bag into place and pushed open the front door of the inn. And there it was, like it had been planted by the gods just for me.
The Soda Jerk, a sign read. It was posted on a building that had not an ounce of the charm of the one I’d just exited, which was odd, considering the pancake place next door was an identical match.
I’d have guessed that old, rundown building had been there first, but the inn hardly looked brand new either.
I crossed the parking lot, stopped, looked both ways—nothing coming—and rushed across the street. There was a steep hill to my left, and I couldn’t see beyond it. If a vehicle came barreling over it, I wouldn’t see it until it was too late.
I stopped at the edge of the parking lot and stared at the scene in front of me.
Only one vehicle in the parking lot, and that one was off to the side of the building.
It was a gigantic pickup truck. I’d assume the restaurant was closed, but it was hard to miss the neon open sign in the front window.
All I knew was this place would have something. Maybe not a full selection, but anything that could calm my racing heart would do.
As I stepped inside, blinking against the change in lighting, nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw.
On the outside, it looked like a dive bar but inside was a bright, cheery fifties-style diner.
We had one of those back home when I was growing up.
Burgers, fries, milkshakes…the whole nine yards. But not a drop of alcohol.
This was a dry county. Of course, it was. It was a small town, so I should’ve expected that. They probably didn’t even have liquor stores. Or beer in their grocery stores.
There was likely some workaround a short drive away where locals got their fix. But I didn’t have a car. I barely had enough money for a drink. But at this point, it was starting to feel less like a luxury and more like medicine.
The biggest surprise, though? The whole place was empty.
“Hello?” I called out.
It was after one, but that was still technically lunchtime, right? Was this a sign they’d failed their health food inspection or something? That was what we’d assume back in Chattanooga, where I lived. But this wasn’t Chattanooga. It was Wildwood Valley, population negative twenty.
Suddenly, the door behind the counter flipped open with a slam, and out walked a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a lumberjack calendar. Tall, with broad shoulders and bulky, muscular arms that stretched the sleeves of his white T-shirt.
“Kitchen’s closed until five,” he said, letting his gaze scan the length of me. “But you can have a seat at the bar if you want a drink.”
Bar? A drink?
I glanced at the bright blue countertop resting atop the silver, corrugated metal base. The barstools matched the metal until you got to the padded tops—hot pink vinyl. The whole place was straight out of a retro movie set.
“I was looking for a glass of wine,” I said, returning my gaze to him.
He was still staring at me, and the intensity in his eyes made my knees feel a little weak. “Nope. Won’t find that here.”
Great. On to Plan B.
“Well, if I can’t have alcohol, sugar will have to do,” I said.
“Didn’t say you couldn’t have alcohol. Just not the hard stuff. Beer and flavored seltzers. That’s all we’ve got.”
I perked up a little.
“I was looking into some of that alcoholic sweet tea,” he said. “I’ve had requests for it.” Then he nodded toward the bar. “Go ahead and have a seat. I’ll hook you up.”
At the end of all that, I realized I’d been standing there, gaping at him like a lovestruck teenager. I’d just never seen anybody so gorgeous. And he worked in a restaurant? Actually, it sounded like he owned the place.
That didn’t fit. Lumberjack-looking guys didn’t own cutesy fifties diners. There had to be a story there, and I couldn’t wait to find out what it was.
Problem was, I was supposed to be meeting my fiancé in four hours. And unless the woman at the inn had sent me the wrong pictures, this guy wasn’t him. But it couldn’t hurt to kill a couple of hours with a restaurant owner who wasn’t the slightest bit interested in me.
Okay, maybe it could hurt. But I couldn’t stop myself. I grabbed one of the barstools and took a seat at the counter. Then I ordered a berry-flavored seltzer and waited while he disappeared behind the swinging door.
Yes, this could definitely be a bad idea. But it wouldn’t be the first time I followed through on a bad idea. And this time, it might actually be fun.