Page 1 of Mechanic's Charming Bride

Chapter One

Sam

The church bells ringing outside of the window send a shiver down my spine. And not in the ‘I’m so excited, I can’t believe we’re finally doing this’ sort of way.

No.

It’s in the, ‘Am I really sure I’m going to be doing this?’ way.

The weather outside is perfect—a nice breezy 65 degrees, sunny with not a cloud in the sky. Absolutely killer for wedding photos, as my photographer keeps saying all morning. All I can think, though, as I look out the window and listen to the sounds of the bells tolling, is that I’m not supposed to be here.

“Oh, Sammy. You look beautiful.” My make-up artist, Lydia, leans back from me with a smile. “Frank’s going to die when he sees you.”

I fake a smile and look at myself in the mirror. She’s put in a lot of hard work to cover up the massive bags under my eyes and brought new life to my dull skin, with the highlighters and blush actually giving me somewhat of a skin tone.

Coming in this morning, she’d joked that my big day had gotten me too excited to sleep the night before, and that she’d have her work cut out for her.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I haven’t been sleeping for a week straight—my body running on nothing but pure adrenaline at this point.

This should be the best morning of my life, but instead I can’t even pretend to be excited.

“Sam!” Nicole, one of my bridesmaids, pops her head into the room. “You finally get your makeup done?”

“She’s all set.” Lydia tells her.

“Wow!” Nicole slips through the door, a mimosa in her hand that’s already halfway gone. “Damn, girl! Look at you.”

I force another smile at her. “You guys all set too?”

“Yup. Just got Lisa zipped into her dress. You excited?”

What a loaded question. “Yeah, of course. But before we get ready for pictures, I’m just going to step outside for a sec. I need some air.”

Nicole’s brows pull together while she takes a big swig of her mimosa. She along with the rest of my bridal party have been preoccupied with getting themselves ready all morning, and chatting away in between rounds in the makeup and hair chairs, leaving me to my own devices.

And while normally, I’d be a little jealous of them having fun without me, I’m kind of glad. Putting on an entire mask in order to pretend I’m ready to walk down that aisle would probably make me pass out from the stress.

“You want me to come with you?” Nicole asks.

“No, no. Go take photos. I’ll literally be just a minute.”

She nods and then gives me a stern look. “No running off to sneak a peek at your groom. That’s bad luck, you know.”

Ironic she says that. “I won’t.”

With a satisfied nod, Nicole steps back to give me space to gather the long train of my dress and stand up from where I’d squashed myself in my chair. My heels clack softly against the stone floors when I slip out the door to my private suite and head down the long hallway. The church we’re getting married in is right across the way. It’s a giant cathedral that my fiancé’s mother, Martha, insisted on us getting married in since she’d wanted her only son to carry on the family tradition of getting married there.

I didn’t have a lot of feelings about the venue for our wedding, but a church hadn’t exactly been on top of my list. I’d always imagined some kind of beach wedding, keeping it low-key with a small and intimate ceremony, not getting hitched in some church that I had no connection to and with 150 guests in attendance.

Actually, there were a lot of things that I hadn’t really been keen on, but it made my fiancé and his family happy, so I gave in. What difference did it make when at the end of the day, I’d be marrying the man I’ve been with since I was twenty?

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself over the past few months as this sickening feeling inside me has gotten worse. Going back now isn’t an option, though. Things are paid for, guests have arrived, and our families have made the effort to meet and get along.

Rounding the corner, I spot the doors leading out to the small courtyard behind the guest house and push them open. The warm breeze hits my face, relieving me instantly. I take in a few lungfuls while I step out into the sun, finally feeling a little bit of my anxiety melt away.

Never in my life did I ever think I’d be getting cold feet at my own wedding. But here I am, trying to talk myself into not doing the whole runaway bride thing.

I don’t even remember when it started, maybe months ago when I found out about my soon-to-be husband losing his job and lying to me about it for a solid two weeks. Or maybe when my mother-in-law made me feel bad about them paying for more than half our wedding, even though I never asked for that in the first place.

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