My Lucky Groom (Summer Grooms Series) Read online

  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.

  Books by Ginny Baird

  Summer Grooms Series

  Must-Have Husband

  My Lucky Groom

  Holiday Brides Series

  The Christmas Catch

  The Holiday Bride

  Mistletoe in Maine

  Beach Blanket Santa

  Other Titles

  Real Romance

  The Sometime Bride

  Santa Fe Fortune

  How to Marry a Matador

  Real Romance and The Sometime Bride

  (Gemini Edition)

  Santa Fe Fortune and How to Marry a Matador

  (Gemini Edition)

  MY LUCKY GROOM

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  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.

  Chapter One

  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!

  “Hey!”

  The waitress shooed the guy away and nabbed the trash. “He’s a real Einstein, that one,” she said under her breath, rolling her eyes toward the guy, who reluctantly took his seat at the next table. In spite of herself, Ventura giggled. “Let me grab some fresh rags,” the server told her apologetically. “I’ll be right back.”

  She resurfaced quickly with some damp cloths and handed one to Ventura so she could wipe off her jeans.

  “I totally apologize for the mess. Can I get you anything else? Some fresh coffee, maybe?”

  Ventura glanced down at her clothing, grateful it would wash. She was pretty tight on money these days and had a limited wardrobe. “Thanks, I’ve already had mine.”

  The waitress shot her a wry smile. “Wise guy, huh?”

  “Just the check, please.”

  “Oh no, you don’t.” She scribbled something on her pad and pressed the tab to the table. “This one’s on the house. We don’t charge for dumping on customers.”

  “Hey, as long as you’ve got your pen out…” The girls turned to look at Hot Guy, who unbelievably still had the nerve to talk to them. “Do you think I could have your number?” Naturally, Ventura noted, he was addressing the server, not her.

  The server set her hand on her hip and stared at Hot Guy with incredulity. Ventura was impressed. She’d seen many a blow-off look, and this one ruled.

  “Not even your cell?” he asked lamely.

  The server shook her head and sighed heavily, turning back to Ventura. “I apologize for him too. None of that should have happened.”

  Ventura shrugged, resigned. “Happens all the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, just that guys like him,” she said as Hot Guy finally came to his senses and scurried out the door, “don’t generally take an interest in girls like me. If you know what I’m saying.”

  The server crossed her arms and thoughtfully studied Ventura. “Might help if you lose the glasses.”

  “What?” Ventura asked in disbelief. She adjusted her tortoiseshell frames, thinking they suited her fine. In fact, she believed they’d won her extra points in graduate school. Everyone took a girl seriously who wore such serious-looking eyewear. The fact was, she did have contact lenses but rarely used them. She didn’t really see the point.

  “I’m just saying…” She nodded her head, appraising. “You actually have very pretty eyes. But this? Hoo boy.” To Ventura’s horror, she leaned forward, invading her personal space, and twisted up a curly mass of hair. “This, girlfriend, needs work.”

  Ventura blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got to do something with it. Not straighten it, I don’t think. If I were you, I’d definitely go with the curl. Except for on special occasions. Then, I’d use a flat iron. Maybe add some highlights? Auburn to bring out the hint of red in your brown?”

  Ventura gaped at her. “And you’re such an expert because…?”

  The server smiled proudly. “I’m getting my degree in fashion studies. Online.” She scanned the bustling room, then leaned forward with a confidential whisper. “As soon as I’m done, I’m out of here. You know what I’m saying? O. U. T. Out. And onto a better life for myself.”

  “Um, that’s great.” Ventura gathered her things, preparing to stand.

  The server stopped her, laying a hand on her arm. “What do you do?”

  Ventura eyed her uncertainly. “I write.”

  “Cool! What kind of stuff? Would I know it?”

  “Just obituaries, up until now.”

  “How depressing. Black isn’t even in anymore.”

  “I’m looking for something better.”

  “More power to you. I’d imagine dead people aren’t much fun.” She extended her hand toward Ventura. “I’m Mary.”

  Ventura tentatively took her hand and shook it. “Ventura.”

  “Where are you headed with that suitcase of yours?”

  “I’m new here, so I got a sublet temporarily. Maybe you can tell me which subway to take?” She shared a small piece of paper bearing a handwritten address.

  Mary took the slip of paper and crumpled it in her hand. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m not sending you there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Are you kidding? What would you want with that locati
on?”

  “All the other places cost an arm and a leg.”

  “Yeah, well, this is where you go if you want to give your booty too.” She fanned her face with her hand. “That’s hot territory. Red-light district, baby.”

  Ventura’s face fell. Here she was, a new girl in a new town, and she’d booked herself into a brothel.

  Mary studied her a beat, taking pity. “Hey, don’t look so down. You know what they say, When God closes a door, he opens a disco.”

  “Window.”

  “What?”

  “The expression is… Never mind.”

  “I really did mean to allude to a party.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

  “My landlady’s looking for a new tenant.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As serious as a makeover.” She studied Ventura with determination. “It’s the perfect opportunity, for you and me both.”

  “What’s in this for you?”

  “If we don’t find another girl by Monday, my rent doubles.”

  Ventura eyed her skeptically. “Where exactly is this place of yours?”

  “On Capitol Hill. You’ll love it. It’s just Nanette, who’s a little weird.”

  “Nanette?”

  Mary shot her a big, bright grin. “You’ll see.”

  The front door opened, and a flamboyant woman in her sixties greeted Mary warmly, then glanced at Ventura. Her red hair was spun up high in something akin to a beehive, and her brightly colored, polka-dot dress fit tightly over a curvaceous figure. She blinked behind long false lashes.

  “Hello! What’s this? A new makeover project?”

  Mary protectively wrapped an arm around Ventura’s shoulder and tugged her inside. Ventura nearly stumbled, dragging her suitcase behind her. “This is Ventura, our new boarder.”

  Nanette studied Ventura from head to toe, then back up again. “So you’re a lucky girl, ha?”