The ivory wedding invitations were mistakenly printed on indigo paper. That accident was the same color as the positive line on my secret pregnancy test.

The bride would flip out, and she was already a couple roses short of a bouquet.

I had to fix it—and fast. My fingers shook as I pulled the invitation from the box.

The tissue paper wrinkled, crinkled, then ripped.

Uh-oh. Now they were the wrong color and wrecked. This was a disaster, but at least we ordered a printed sample of the invitations before we sent them out to the three hundred invitees.

The flaking purplish ink stained my fingers and did not bode well for the bride’s wishes or my likelihood of surviving her impending tantrum. Lindsey had been specific in her designs. It was a…delicate word to use in lieu of unrepentant bridezilla escaped from the clutches of Satan.

The devil reserved a special circle of hell for traitors, thieves, and wedding planners. While my sister wasn’t usually the biblical plague type, little things like the wrong color invitations or photographers who overused sepia tones triggered a furious nuptial wrath. At least she refused the outdoor venue we toured—less chances for a wave of frogs or locusts.

I sighed and tucked the invitation in the box. The Prescott/Harris wedding was one bad shrimp ring away from a nuclear meltdown. If carnations in the centerpieces were any indication of Lindsey’s mood, purple invitations would set the bridal party to DEFCON two.

I sighed. I probably couldn’t bleach the invitations before her inspection, and there wasn’t enough White-Out in the world to hide the purple. I’d have to tell her what happened.

I checked the calendar. Eight weeks until the wedding.

I swiped my phone. Eight minutes until her daily call at noon to discuss the wedding preparations.

Eight minutes it was then. I should have spent them actually doing the work my Dad and his advertising company paid me to do, but I collapsed at my desk. Pregnancy fatigue won out.

What I wouldn’t do for eight hours of rest. So far, the itsy-bitsy break was the only peace I had since I ripped open the pregnancy test one week ago and discovered I was now a Maid-Of-Dishonor.

Of all the complications in my life, I thought the worst would be getting hit by a bus or beat to death with the bridal bouquet.

But a baby?

I was twenty-three. Single. And my family was in full crunch-mode for a wedding that would rival Will and Kate’s royal shindig. The preparations were not going well.

The twice-baked-mini-sweet-potato appetizer nearly tore my sister and her fiancé apart, and Mom had cried for two hours about improperly dyed high heels. I was still apologizing to the caterers for Dad’s choice words about the impractical ice sculpture, and I owed the church one hell of a tithe after the accidental insult about the placement of an “unsightly” crucifix.

My family would spontaneously combust if I revealed the pregnancy now. So I wasn’t risking anything. My lips were zipped until after the wedding.

If I could hide it.

And if I could keep the secret from the baby’s father, Nate.

The agency’s main line rang. Dad grumbled from his office.

“Mandy, can you grab that?” The telltale rustle of a fast-food bag outted him. “Gotta finish this email.”

“Did that email come with onion rings?”

Dad hesitated. Like he’d ever get away with lying to me. “French fries.”

My best friend, Dad’s cardiologist, wouldn’t be happy about that. Rick did not order Dad onto any low salt diet that included a cheeseburger and chili fries with a giant Coke to wash down the coronary waiting to happen. Hopefully he’d just have heartburn by three o’clock. Luckily for us, I stashed a bottle of Pepto-Bismol in my drawer. I bought it when I still thought my nausea was just a little bug.

Boy (or girl?), was I wrong.

Well, I could cure Dad’s indigestion, but I’d never fit him into a tux before Lindsey’s wedding. Pretty sure she had finally re-invited him last week. I’d have to check. The tailor was on standby anyway.

The office line rang again. I answered the call with a glance to the clock on the wall. 11:55. Maybe I’d salvage five minutes of peace?

No dice.

“Mandy!” Lindsey practically growled at me. I flinched, holding the phone away from my head in case my sister learned how to reach through the receiver. “Answer your freaking texts before I march down there and shove my veil down your throat!”

So…she wasn’t cheerful today. At least I knew how to deal with her. Lindsey had skipped the blushing bride phase and transformed directly to fire-breathing hell-beast, but she was family…

I had double-checked. After the engagement dinner debacle, I’d demanded to see our birth certificates.

“You wouldn’t hurt your only sister.” I scrolled through my phone. Twenty texts in the past hour from her… mostly composed of angry frowny faces. Not good.

“You mean I wouldn’t hurt my veil,” she said.

“That too.”

“It’s hand-stitched.”

We weren’t reliving the cross-stitched rose fiasco too. “What’s up, Linds?”

“Do you have the invitations?”

Eek. I covered the box with work files and took a breath. “Um…”

Lindsey shrieked. “I tracked the package! They said it was delivered and signed for. What if someone destroyed them?” Her voice shrilled. “What if someone stole them?”

“No one is stealing your invitations.”

“They might!”

“What use would they have for a piece of paper with your names, church address, and date on it?”

“You work with Photoshop. Who knows what people will do for a wedding!”

Well, that was true. I was living through that madness first hand. Invitations were easy compared to the bridesmaids’ war that was strappy sandals versus slip-ons.

“I have the box right here,” I said.

“I expected you to be on top of this, Mandy. You were supposed to call the instant they arrived.”

“I know. I’m sorry, but listen. There’s a slight problem.” I tried to keep my voice light and bouncy. “Nothing I can’t handle, okay? The invitations are the wrong color. They’re indigo. But we can order new ones—”

Lindsey wailed. Great, now my sister made an enemy out of another section of the rainbow. After the sage/forest/mint green bridal shower crisis, I was running out of acceptable color pallets to use for the event.

My sister dropped the phone. I called her name. Lindsey didn’t answer.

What was the only thing worse than confronting a raging bride on the phone?

Mom picked up instead.

“Mandy? What are you doing to your sister?” My mother’s fake falsetto posed the question like I deliberately meant to cause another rampage.

“She’s okay, Mom. I can handle it.”

“She’s stressed enough as it is, the poor thing. She doesn’t need you causing problems.”

It was easier to apologize than argue with Mom. “Sorry. Let me talk to Lindsey. I’ll take care of everything.”

“You need to stop being so insensitive!” Mom muttered to me as she helped Lindsey to her feet, offering to fetch her some lemonade. “Honestly, Mandy. This might be the only wedding this family has. Lord knows you have no one and no plans.”

I didn’t have the patience for Mom to list all my faults next to the wedding day to-do list, but off she went.

No boyfriend. Working as an assistant to Dad. Making the wedding more difficult on my sister.

My hair was too long, my dress size too big, and, my favorite, somehow I lost the TV remote when I helped with the centerpiece planning last night.

Then, we went full circle.

“At least you’re saving us fifty dollars on the reception dinner. I won’t plan for you to bring a plus one to the wedding.”

She wanted a plus one to rsvp?

I had a pretty special guest who was coming with me, whether he or she wanted it or not. Obviously, I had someone. I mean…that someone might have been a one night mistake. Still, I wasn’t about to blab the baby to Mom to prove I wasn’t forever alone.

Fortunately, Lindsey grabbed the phone from Mom before I revealed the scandal of all scandals to rock our family.

“We can’t wait for these idiot printers,” Lindsey said. “I want you to come home now.”

“I’m working.”

“Yeah, for Dad.”

I crumbled a saltine cracker in my hand. “This is my job. He’s paying me.”

Lindsey’s huff mirrored Mom’s. “He owes us a lot more than whatever he’s paying you. Come home. We have to fix this.”

“Linds—”

“Now!”

The call ended.

Dad snuck out of his office. He offered me a bite of his cheeseburger. Just the sight of the oily, greasy, limp meat patty turned my stomach. I shook my head and pretended like I was texting her back. He slid a napkin loaded with fries on my desk.

Not the best for morning sickness, but I faked eating one so he wouldn’t suspect anything.

Dad ran a hand over his shaved head—dark, shiny, and absolutely a style Mom never would have allowed if he still lived at home. The goatee was new too, grown after I accidentally mentioned Mom talking at church with Mr. Calvin…who happened to have a beard. Dad probably thought it’d give him a chance.

“So…” He crossed his arms. His copper eyes still sparkled, though maybe not as bright as they once did. Dad and I always did look the most alike—a more delicate dark with high cheek bones and almond eyes. Maybe that’s why Mom favored Lindsey? “You should probably go.”

“I can stay.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I know you have responsibilities to your sister.”

I tapped the computer monitor. “But we’re supposed to make a logo for Pebblemill Incorporated.”

“I can draw that up. I’ll scan it in for you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Lindsey needs you. The wedding is a big event for this family. We probably won’t have this kind of good news for a while.”

Especially since my news probably wasn’t what they wanted to hear.

I grabbed my purse and kissed Dad’s cheek. His tone wasn’t as casual as he thought—less easy-breezy and more a hurricane-force gale of insecurity.

“Mandy…your momma…”

I braced myself with a smile. “Yeah?”

“Is she…bringing anyone to the wedding?”

Without the divorce papers officially signed? No way. The only person Mom could officially take was Jesus, and he hadn’t rsvp’ed because she refused to drop off his cross long enough to hand him the invitation.

“No,” I said. “She’s coming alone.”

“Ah, okay.” His smile wasn’t that confident.

“So no wild dates for you then?”

He slumped. Oh, I shouldn’t have made the joke. Was it too early to blame pregnancy hormones?

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” He chuckled, nervously. His eyes suddenly widened. “Why? Does your momma think I’m dating?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. I was just—”

“She’s not dating?”

I shuddered to think. “No. She’s all alone.”

Dad’s expression crumbled. “Well…that’s not what I want either.”

Shoot. “That’s not what I meant—”

“I mean, if I could be at home—”

“Oh, I know. She knows. We all…know.”

“We have some things to work out. But it’s never been about you girls. You know that, right?”

I wasn’t a child, but it was nice to hear it, even if I knew it wasn’t the truth. “Okay, well—”

“You know…I let her have the house.”

Oh, the alimony pony was a poor substitute for the horse Lindsey and I so desperately wanted as kids. I couldn’t get in the middle of my parents’ fights anymore. It hurt too much.

“Dad, I gotta go. Lindsey’s gonna turn as blue as the invitations if I don’t get over there—”

“I know. That’s why I wanted your mom to have the house. So she and Lindsey could have a place to stage all this stuff for the wedding, and we could sort through our problems without that stress.” Dad squeezed my hand. “You’ll see, Mandy-Pandy. Once the wedding is over? Everything’s going back to normal.”

Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. I longed for normal. I had no idea how much I loved normal until my life became defined by a single frightening test. When I was younger, everyone said it was the SATs that would define our future. At least the analogy section didn’t require a urine sample.

Dad offered me his fries again before I bolted out the door. I took one to be polite, even nibbled it, but I knew how it would end. I pitched the fry and fought the sickness before hopping into my car.

The Honda’s air conditioning didn’t do much. Whatever glow I was supposed to have sure as hell felt a lot like the cold sweat of terror. I hoped that would go away.

I had nine months to get ready for the baby.

Well…eight now, I guessed.

That wasn’t helping.

I focused anything that wasn’t the circus renting out my uterus. My to-do list was folded in my pocket. The checklist wasn’t simple, but it kept me occupied in the months leading up to the wedding. Two months out, and we still had a lot to do.

I grabbed a pen—one of Lindsey’s bachelorette decorations with the frilly pink pom-poms on top. A rather expressive part of the male anatomy had once nestled within the pink as well. In an attempt to appear professional at my job, I’d snapped off the top before meeting with a client. Of course, Dad walked in on the impromptu bris and assumed I made a declaration against all men, specifically directed at him and the messy divorce.

That’s when he decided to explain his side of the separation.

The therapy I’d need to suppress the words libido, mid-life vaginal dryness, and swingers’ retreat would cost more than Lindsey’s wedding.

Maybe it was for the best they’d decided to get divorced. Like Mom said, some people didn’t belong together, no matter the babies they made. Of course, it took my parents thirty years to realize it. I just couldn’t imagine how either of them walked away from the love of their life like that…

I teared up. Not good. I wasn’t thinking about it now. Not a thought about parents or babies or relationships or…Nate.

My tummy flipped in a good way—how it always did when Nate looked at me, spoke to me.

Touched me.

“What can I check off…?”

I scratched off the tasks that were impossible or potentially illegal. Another couple had already reserved Lindsey’s preferred venue, but she begged me for the favor.

Because I loved my sister, I called to ask if they would trade dates or venues.

Because I wasn’t insane, I crossed off the line encouraging me to impersonate the county health department and scare away the couple with concerns of a norovirus outbreak.

Only Lindsey would compromise the Geneva Convention to plan her wedding.

I scribbled on my list.

At least they were all doable, or would be, if Lindsey was in an accommodating mood. Otherwise it was time to prepare for war.

I drove to Mom’s house. Lindsey chose our childhood home as the battleground for all things wedding, and Mom supplied the ammunition. I didn’t know what I worried about more—the pregnancy or the grief I’d get for ruining Lindsey’s special day. This would be worse than the nosebleed I got at Lindsey’s sweet sixteenth—when the family was told I hemorrhaged for attention.

It’d be different if I had more money. A better job than just working for Dad at the advertising agency.

If I were actually dating Nate.

He might have been my first one-night stand…but I wasn’t his. I knew exactly the type of man I’d invited into my bed too. I had wanted something quick, easy, fun. No strings attached.

Nate was good for that. He had been string-less since he was a teenager—the original wooden boy, except this Pinocchio did lie, and it wasn’t Nate’s nose that grew. That part stayed nice and woody.

Impressive. Memorable.

Gorgeous, like the rest of him.

Fertile too, apparently. What I wouldn’t have given for termites that night.

Worst of all? Nate wasn’t the type to hang around once he got what he was after. Usually. He’d chased me for years, high-school into college, and while that sort of dedication earned an amazing night where the earth moved, the skies opened, and angels sang, I had hoped it’d last only one night. I guessed the consequences lasted longer…more like nine months.

I’d have to tell him. My stomach turned. That wasn’t going to be an easy conversation, but it was early in the pregnancy now anyway. The last thing I wanted was to tell him and then have something…happen.

I teared up again.

The little guy was still so new to me, but it was good to see the momma bear instincts kicking in.

I shouldered my bags and grabbed as much paperwork as I could carry within the binders of wedding plans and bridal magazines. Lindsey’s obsession with Pinterest was only the beginning, and organization became a full-time job.

The door opened before I made it into the house. I thought it’d be my sister.

I was wrong.

Nate’s green eyes crackled with an electric amusement that teased as much as it shocked. His gaze wrapped around me like a pair of wandering hands, tickling everything he’d already touched, tasted, and catalogued for his own wedding memories.

Oh, this was bad. What was he doing at my house?

I nearly dropped the binder and ran.

Nate Kensington was pure sex—a man made of muscle and wicked ambition wrapped in a depraved, sensual fantasy. He was the best and worse idea a woman could have, and such thoughts belonged only in the darkest bedrooms, imagined under silken sheets.

That’s why I’d propositioned him. Nate embraced trouble as easily as he captured women in his charm. He didn’t even need a net. He wielded a glance that’d unhook a bra strap through the strength of his willpower, and it wasn’t a talent that should have belonged to a man more confident in a pair of beat-up jeans and boots than a wedding tux.

The blonde scruff on his hard jaw was as intimidating as his smirk, like a wolf licking his chops and preparing for the next course.

Which, of course, was me.

It had always been me.

Nate spent a majority of our time together eating me up, and it was pure bliss to be absolutely devoured by this man. I wished he took his taste and moved on, but Nate hadn’t let me escape from our one night unscathed.

He chased. I ran.

And it became a wild game that I’d never win.

Nate leaned against the doorway, watching me struggle against my own arousal, irritation, and cowardice—which I easily faked as juggling the wedding materials. He didn’t offer to help. He just watched me.

Amused.

Entertained.

Hungry.

His voice teased with a playful edge, one side a feather, the other as dangerous as a leather flogger. He took the wedding binder from my arms and arched an eyebrow.

“When we have our wedding…?” His grin paralyzed me halfway between indignation and foolish hope. “Promise me we’ll just elope.”