Page 1 of The Brit and the Bridesmaid (Sweet Treat Novellas #1)

T here was nothing quite as dangerous as a Brit-obsessed romantic planning a dream wedding.

For weeks, Abby Grover had followed her sister, the bride-to-be, from one possible venue to the next.

“It’s not English enough,” Caroline had declared of a ritzy hotel.

“A British lake would have different trees,” she’d said of an upscale country club.

The day they visited a historic-church-turned-reception-hall, Abby thought they’d found the perfect place. It was old and elegant and antique-y. Caroline had seemed almost convinced. She even spoke at length with the event planner. But on the drive home, she crossed the reception hall off her list.

“No one there has an English accent,” Caroline explained quite firmly.

“This is Oregon.”

Unfortunately, logic cannot compete with Anglo-mania. “There will be accents at my wedding. I must have accents.”

My sister is insane. Completely insane.

And so, for the fifth Saturday in a row, Abby and her sister drove to yet another location too swanky for ordinary people. Caroline, however, was aiming far beyond ordinary.

“Sainsbury House was built in 1880,” Caroline told her, scanning the venue’s website on her phone. “It has gardens. I need gardens.”

Abby could appreciate the need for a garden. She loved plants. Loved them. She drove down a narrow lane.

Caroline’s voice jumped an octave. “And there’s a conservatory.”

Apparently conservatories were reason for excitement. Caroline sounded ready to jump out of the car and run the rest of the way.

“You realize,” Abby warned her. “No one there will have a British accent.”

“This will be perfect. I can feel it.”

They pulled into the parking lot. Abby had developed a keen eye for venues.

Plenty of parking. Easy to find. These were points in Sainsbury House’s favor.

Or would have been if Abby were the one choosing.

Of course, there was absolutely no chance of Abby choosing a wedding venue.

She hadn’t been in a relationship in a year, and the guy she’d been with then had proven to be such a complete jerk that she had no plans of ever dating anyone again.

No, the realm of wedding plans was exclusively Caroline’s.

She looked at her sister, wondering what she thought of her first glimpse of the Sainsbury House grounds. Everything would probably depend on how historic and English and fancy the house itself looked, and on how well the staff could pretend to be British.

Abby got out of the car and stepped onto the cobblestone walkway. The sooner they had their tour and Caroline ran down her list of requirements with the event coordinator, the sooner they could be on their way again.

“Five acres of land.” Caroline was still inhaling every piece of information she could find online. “Five acres.”

“Remind me again why you need five acres for a small, family wedding.”

“Because.”

“That isn’t actually a reason.”

Caroline shook her head, sighing dramatically. In her “I’m quoting something very English” voice, she said, “Why must every day involve a fight with an American?”

“ You are an American.”

Caroline waved that off. “It’s a thing people say.”

Abby eyed her sister more closely. “And these people who say this, they don’t happen to be British people in period dramas on public television, do they?”

Caroline looked the tiniest bit guilty.

Abby had to smile. “I don’t know how Gregory puts up with you.”

Caroline’s entire face lit up at the mention of her fiancé. “He loves me.”

“Of course he does.” For all of Caroline’s flightiness and fantasies, she was quite possibly the most lovable person Abby had ever known.

It was little wonder their great aunt had named Caroline her only heir.

Great Aunt Gertrude hadn’t been a millionaire by any means, but Caroline’s inheritance was paying for her dream wedding.

“Oh, Abby! Look. It’s perfect.”

They’d only just emerged from the thick canopy of trees to a rather amazing view of the house.

Historic. Fancy. Two out of three so far. Abby didn’t know what qualified a place as “looking English.”

She didn’t see a Union Jack flying out front or Audrey Hepburn selling flowers or anything. Still, if Caroline thought the place looked perfect, Abby wasn’t about to argue.

“Fantastic,” Abby said. “Let’s go inside.”

They stepped inside the open front doors and walked, eying their surroundings, to the front of the entry hall.

Polished tables flanked the room, with fresh-cut flowers in porcelain vases.

Old-style paintings hung in gilded frames.

A turning staircase with an intricately carved banister led up and past a wide row of tall windows. Even the ceiling was fancy.

She’d been in upscale places like this. Her last boyfriend was rich, with high-class friends and connections. He felt most comfortable in places where Abby felt too poor to even breathe the air.

“Welcome to Sainsbury House,” a man’s voice said from just behind them—a man with an English accent.

Caroline squealed. Abby did her best not to roll her eyes and looked back.

Mr. English Accent was young—she’d guess not yet thirty, and handsome—the man had green eyes, for heaven’s sake, and a ridiculously amazing smile; his teeth stood as a one-mouth testament against the widely-held belief in universal English dental issues.

“Have you come for a tour, or do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“Both.” Caroline even bounced a bit as she answered.

They’d found a place that was old and elegant and where at least one person spoke with a British accent. Abby couldn’t be entirely certain Caroline wasn’t about to explode with excitement. Or faint—she’d been doing the whole back of the hand pressed daintily to the forehead thing a lot lately.

“You must be Caroline and Abby Grover.”

Abby leaned closer to her sister and spoke under her breath. “You gave them my name? This is your tour.”

“Don’t you love the way he said ‘Caroline’?” her sister whispered back. “So elegant.”

The Englishman watched them with admirable patience.

“We are the Grover sisters,” Abby told him. “That sounds like a lame band, doesn’t it?”

“The name is lovely, I assure you.”

“I assure you?” Who talks like that?

He looked between them. “Which of you is Caroline, the bride-to-be?”

Abby didn’t wait a single instant. She pointed across herself at her sister. Mr. Elegant’s green eyes lingered on Abby. He smiled the tiniest bit, before his gaze moved to Caroline.

“Congratulations, Ms. Grover,” he said. “If you will follow me this way, we shall take a moment in my office to discuss your needs and wishes for your wedding before going about the estate to see if Sainsbury House can meet those needs.”

Smooth, Brit Boy. Smooth.

Caroline followed almost glassy-eyed. If only the guy realized he’d likely sold her on the location simply by opening his mouth. Caroline would have her English-accented wedding, and Mr. Green-Eyed-Hunk-of-Britishness would get whatever commission came with booking the event.

“My name is Matthew Carlton, by the way,” he said to Caroline.

“Matthew?” She sounded ridiculously happy about that. Apparently Matthew was a good name for her fantasy wedding.

Matthew wasn’t the least bit weirded out by that. He just nodded and held open a door. Abby stepped through behind Caroline. The office wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t tiny, either. It was almost as nauseatingly elegant as the entry. They sat in two leather armchairs facing the desk, where Matthew sat.

“Tell me, Ms. Grover, what would make your wedding day perfect?” The man was feeding an addiction.

Abby watched as he nodded in agreement with Caroline’s crazy ideas.

He didn’t even seem surprised when she mentioned the hoped of convincing Grandma Grover to wear a bustle.

When Caroline spoke of polished silverware, spotless crystal, starched white aprons on appropriately silent maids, Matthew simply said, “Of course.”

Of course? No one Abby had ever known would think these kinds of demands were normal or expected or not insane.

Matthew took notes, listening closely and asking questions. He was handsome, too good looking, actually, for Abby to stop herself from looking at him again and again. He seemed nice enough, in a snobby sort of way.

For Caroline’s sake, and the sake of Abby’s future weekends, she sincerely hoped Sainsbury House worked out for the wedding. But for her part, Abby'd definitely had enough of all the haughtiness and fake fanciness.

The Grovers weren’t that kind of people. They were simple, down-to-earth, hovering somewhere near the bottom end of the middle of the middle class. People like Matthew Carlton would never understand that.