Read My Lucky Groom (Summer Grooms Series) Online
Authors: Ginny Baird
My Lucky Groom (Summer Grooms Series)
MY LUCKY GROOM
By
Ginny Baird
Published by
Winter Wedding Press
Copyright 2013
Ginny Baird
Kindle Edition
ISBN
978-0-9886953-6-8
All Rights Reserved
This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient, unless this book
is a participant in a qualified lending program. Thank you for respecting the
hard work of this author. To obtain permission to export portions of the text,
please contact the author at [email protected].
Characters in this
book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
Edited by Linda
Ingmanson
Cover by Dar Albert
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Romance writer Ginny Baird has published novels in print and
online and received screenplay options from Hollywood for her family and
romantic comedy scripts. Her fiction has been published in the US, Australia,
Brazil, Denmark, and Norway, and translated into many languages. She is an
award-winning writer and the bestselling author of several romantic comedies,
including novellas in her HOLIDAY BRIDES SERIES. Prior to selling her first
romance novel to Kensington Books in the year 2000, Ginny wrote suspense
fiction, which she has recently reissued under the pen name Gabby Grant. You
can learn more about her by visiting her website at:
http://www.ginnybairdromance.com
.
Summer Grooms Series
My Lucky Groom
Holiday Brides Series
Other Titles
Real Romance
and The Sometime Bride
Santa Fe
Fortune and How to Marry a Matador
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Eleven-year-old Ventura Hart sat with her back to the ornate
mirror. There was something unnatural about watching herself eat. Or maybe when
she wasn’t looking, she didn’t have to worry she was eating too much. Her mom
and skinny teenage sister were always on her case. Tuck down your collar,
straighten that skirt, and for goodness sakes, Ventura, pin up your hair… But
for now, here in this moment, Ventura didn’t have to worry about any of that.
She was with the one person who made her feel like a princess. Her father.
His handsome face creased with worry as he set down his
chopsticks.
“You’re not eating.”
“I was just deciding,” she admitted honestly, “if I should
have some more.”
He smiled pleasantly, heaping another serving of sesame chicken
on her plate. “Of course you should have some more. A young girl…” He paused a
moment, his temples reddening slightly. “Young woman like yourself, I mean,
needs to keep her strength up.”
Ventura grinned, thinking her face must look as bright as
the pretty Chinese lanterns strung from the ceiling. This had to be the best
night of her life. Her dad had never taken her on a date before. It was special
having all of his attention for once, without having to share it with her
competitive older sister. Not that Hope had to do much to compete. Just by
being there, she somehow made herself seem better. She was smart and pretty,
with long, straight, beautiful hair that made her look like she’d walked right
off a television commercial. Their mom had stopped coming out to dinner with
them a while ago. Ventura wasn’t sure why but thought it had something to do
with her new business. Ventura’s mom was always starting a new
enterprise
, as she liked to call it.
Ventura had actually won the fifth-grade spelling bee based on that word alone.
She had her mom to thank for that, at least.
Her dad made easy conversation, asking about her friends in
school and laughing warm-heartedly at her lame eleven-year-old jokes. Ventura
tried to be as witty as he was but wasn’t always sure her words came out right.
She was determined to work on it, though. Someday she’d be just as glib as her
well-spoken father. He wrote for a magazine, and she hoped that someday she
would do that as well. It sure seemed a whole lot saner than starting a new
enterprise every year or two.
Before Ventura was ready for their dinner to be over, a
waiter appeared to clear their plates and deliver fortune cookies. “This was so
much fun!” she told her dad eagerly. “Really great, just the two of us.” She
drew a breath,
then
pressed ahead with a hopeful gaze.
“Maybe we can do it again?”
“Yes, well. Ventura…” He studied her kindly,
then
set his wallet on the table. He’d been about to pay
their bill, but something had stopped him. Ventura’s heart skipped a beat when
she realized that whatever it was, it was likely bad news. He laid his hand on
top of hers above the linen tablecloth. Ventura’s palm pressed the pilled
fibers, her entire universe plummeting. “I’m afraid, darling, that we won’t be
able to do this again for a long time.”
“Why not?”
His dark eyes brimmed with sadness. “I’ve taken an
assignment in Kenya.”
“Kenya?” Ventura asked in shock. She didn’t know exactly
where that was but was fairly certain it was in Africa.
On
another continent entirely.
Her lips trembled slightly. “You mean
,
we’re going there with you?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I’m going alone.”
Ventura withdrew her hand and clasped it in the other one in
her lap atop her nubby wool skirt, the one that was short enough to wear with
tights but long enough to hide her chubby knees. “But what about Hope and Mom,
and—”
“That’s the other thing I need to tell you. I’m very sorry
if this is hard, Ventura, but your mother and I haven’t been getting along for
quite some time now. And we’ve decided to—”
He couldn’t leave her.
He
wouldn’t.
She shut her eyes, the word coming out as a puff of breath: “No.”
“We’re getting divorced.”
Ventura pursed her lips and counted to twenty-five.
Twenty-five was a good number, because that was the age she would be when she
was all grown up. She’d be her own person then, with no one to push her around,
hurt her feelings—or break her heart. She opened her eyes and stared at
her dad, her eyes bleary. “When do you go?”
“Tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
Ventura recalled getting smacked in the stomach with a
soccer ball and having the wind knocked out of her. This felt a thousand times
worse. She forced herself to be calm and ignore the raging feelings inside her,
the way she did when popular girl Melissa Perry taunted her on the bus. All she
had to do was pretend that none of this was happening, and sooner or later, it
would go away. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her dad leaned forward with a quizzical look. “Are
you really all right with this? I mean
,
do you have
any questions?”
Only about a billion, but she wasn’t sure they would matter anyway.
“Nope.”
“Well, okay, then.” He heaved a sigh, his tense face
relaxing. “At least that’s over with.” He lifted the small plastic tray between
them, offering up a shrink-wrapped crescent. “Fortune cookie?”
Ventura shrugged and took one off the tray, unwrapping it
slowly and prying it open.
“Well?” he asked, forcing a smile in an effort to lighten
the moment. “Come on, what does it say?”
Even at her tender age, the irony was not lost. She folded
the narrow strip of paper neatly in half and tucked it in her pocket. “It
doesn’t really matter.” But the truth was, it did. It mattered a lot.
Fourteen years later, Ventura adjusted her bulky frame in
the cramped quarters of the booth, scanning job postings on the Internet. Her
laptop was six years old and painfully slow with downloads and connections.
She’d been awarded it along with her scholarship package to a small liberal
arts school, then had gotten a full ride to a Master’s program in writing from
there. Unfortunately, the graduate school grant hadn’t included a new computer.
A middle-aged woman in pearls and an eccentric summer hat
strolled by, nearly tumbling over Ventura’s suitcase. She reached down and slid
it under the table, taking in the café’s varied clientele. There had to be at
least ten countries represented by the patrons, who ranged from a man in a
turban to Asian college students with handhelds, and guys in pinstriped suits
and dark glasses, who seemed just a little bit scary. Ventura caught the hint
of a foreign tongue and noticed two slender African women dressed in
headscarves, chatting merrily over coffee in the corner. Ah yes, this was
Washington, DC.
Land of opportunity.
For her, she
hoped.
Waitresses scrambled to keep up with the crowd, busily
refilling drinks and carrying fresh orders out on trays. A stylish beauty in
her mid-twenties with short, raven hair tilted a coffeepot toward Ventura’s
cup. Ventura looked up to thank her, noticing an incredibly hot guy taking a seat
at a nearby table. He was built and blond, and looked like he’d just walked off
the beach in California, although the suit and tie spelled Capitol Hill intern.
He glanced her way, and Ventura smiled hopefully, her elbow knocking her cup just
as the waitress poured. Hot Guy ignored her and grinned broadly at the server,
who was now staring at him and about to miss Ventura’s cup.
“Look out!”
The waitress righted the pot, but hot coffee cascaded down
her fingers. “Ow! That hurt!” she shouted, quickly setting the pot on the table
to grip her fingers.
Ventura jumped back as coffee splattered over the pot’s rim,
rushing toward her. She dammed its flow with a heap of napkins, saving her
aging laptop just in time.
Hot Guy leapt to the rescue…of the cute waitress, of course.
To him, Ventura was invisible. She watched in amazement while he grabbed more
napkins from the holder and heaped them on the mess. He dipped a clean one in
Ventura’s ice water, swabbing it over the girl’s fingers.
“Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her hand.
The waitress reclaimed her fingers and examined them. “I
think so.” She passed the dripping napkin back to the guy and addressed Ventura.
“I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
Ventura nodded numbly, thinking this was always the way. For
most of her life, she’d been completely discounted by men. She hadn’t even had
a boyfriend in high school. When guys took an interest, they considered her the
girl with the good personality…and, she presumed—though none had specifically
said—the great big butt.
“Here, let me help with that,” Hot Guy said, his gaze locked
on the server, who Ventura couldn’t help but notice had a teeny tiny derriere,
the kind they put in ads for women’s sportswear.
Good gosh,
he’s practically
drooling
. Ventura looked down with a start to find him absentmindedly
sweeping soaked napkins off the table—right into her lap!