Page 1 of The Overtime Kiss

1

I HEAR WEDDING BELLS AND VOICEMAILS

Sabrina

This wasn’t the ceremony we’d rehearsed, but sometimes a bride has to improvise.

I gather the billowing tulle of my dress so it won’t slow my hustle toward the Grand Ballroom of The Luxe Hotel in Lucky Falls. I only stop at the end of the hall to swallow my bridal rage and fasten on a smile while I’m still out of sight.

A glance around the corner shows the poised and polished wedding planner outside the ballroom door with her headset and tablet, directing the preparations like air traffic control.

Tessa is such a consummate professional that I almost feel bad for enlisting her unwitting help in this dastardly measure I’m about to take.

Almost.

Because sometimes revenge is best cooked up in the heat of the moment.

“Psst, Tessa,” I whisper around the corner.

She snaps her blue gaze my way and blinks in surprise. Still, her blonde, news-anchor bob barely moves, and she adjusts quickly, abandoning her post to join me in the more private hallway.

“Sabrina, is everything okay?” she asks quietly. “You’re supposed to be waiting in the?—”

“The bridal suite. I know.” I give my bestI can’t wait to get hitchedface. “But I have a surprise for Chad. I didn’t think I’d be able to find it, but I tracked it down at the last minute.” I point to her iPad. “Can you cue up the MP3 I just sent you? It’s the first voicemail Chad ever left me when he asked me out six years ago. And I know it would make him so, so happy to hear it today,” I say, setting a hand on my heart and leaning in on the hearts and flowers.

“That’s sweet. But are you sure you want to change things up now?”

“Positive.” I don’t want the first arrivals for the wedding that my mother planned—from the cloying all-white flower motif to the interchangeable cast of attendees plucked from the country club brochure—to spot the bride in the tiara and ball gown. I don’t want any witnesses. “But don’t tell a soul. It’s a surprise.”

Please don’t ask any questions. Please don’t play the file first.

If she does, I have a backup plan. I’ll keep my phone tucked inside my white lace bra, ready, if necessary, to hit play on the, well, let’s call it the new bridal march.

Tessa scans her iPad, spots my email, and nods. “Here it is. There’s not much time for changes.” Her crisp tone worries me for a moment, but then she adds, “But this is so nostalgic, delightfully so. How can I resist?”

“That’s us.” Romantic nostalgia is the theme my mother chose for the wine country wedding with its throwback vibe and my old-fashioned dress. And since Mom’s nostalgia is paying Tessa’s bills…

“I’ll have it cued up and ready to go,” she says.

“Right after Madison reaches the front.” Somehow, I say the maid of honor’s name without the sharp edge of anger cutting through my carefully composed calm. “And as soon as I take the first step down the aisle.”

Timing is everything.

“Got it.” Tessa gamely rolls with the change, and…fine, I do feel bad that she’ll be collateral damage.

But then I mentally replay the misdirected voice message I received about an hour ago. The one that sent me through the five stages of romance grief in sixty minutes. I’ve reached a sixth stage now—getting even.

“You’re the best. I’ll leave you a five-star review.” I scurry away, holding onto my tiara to keep it in place. It’s the only thing I actually picked for this wedding, and I love it in all its sparkly outlandishness.

Ten minutes later, I stand at the French doors to the grand ballroom. My heart gallops, but my nerves are steel, conditioned by years of cutthroat ice-skating competitions.

My friends in attendance don’t know the plan either. It’s easier to keep it a surprise if I only trust myself with the scheme.

I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and smile without showing any teeth. I’m next to my father, ready to walk down the aisle and tell the world how I really feel about Chad Huntington.

The groom waits under a crystal chandelier in front of two hundred and fifty guests, with his perfectly coiffed blond hair, his perfectly fitting tux, his perfectly ordained life with this perfect wedding to the daughter of his father’s business partner—a merger of a marriage here in the same town where my dad’s business began.

The maid of dubious honor arrives in front of the rows of chairs, and the music on the ballroom’s sound system fadesout, ready for “Pachelbel’s Canon” to start. Instead, the crackle of a voicemail booms.

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