Rain Marcus’s idyllic life growing up in the tiny mountain village of Moonlight Cove didn’t last into adulthood. She returns from college with dreams of designing and making couture wedding gowns for the rest of her life, but fate has the habit of twisting dreams into thin versions of themselves, and now, fifteen years later, every day is a rerun of the day before.
When MacMillan Sinclair Montrose IV’s parents die, he swears nothing will ever be beyond his control again. He becomes parent to his baby sister, graduates from college and takes control of his father’s company. There is no way he’ll let his sister’s wedding fall apart. Rain and her friends step in and pull off the perfect wedding.
Along the way, Mac loses control of his heart to Rain, but how can he convince her to trust him to stay when everyone she’s ever loved left her?
As Rain reached the door, she couldn’t resist, “Good luck with the Krieger gown.”
Petra sucked at beading.
Rain kept the shaking under control until she was out the door, across the street and to the lot where her little baby booty of a car was parked, but her fingers clearly quivered as she fought to get the key in the lock. She’d never been deliberately mean before, and it took every ounce of strength she possessed to keep from rushing back and apologizing.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to get here. I’m doing this with or without your silly permit.”
Startled out of her shakes, she glanced up at the sound of Celia’s friend, now barking into a cell phone as he paced in front of Petra’s shop, Rain shoved her sewing kit and lamp into the backseat. Where was he when she came out of the shop? Forget that! Thank God she hadn’t run into him when she was rushing out. She grabbed a shawl from the backseat and cocooned herself in it, purse and all, crossing her arms, and stalled. The rapidly moving river that cut a ragged swath through the middle of town seemed to be screaming over the shoals, pushing her back across the street.
As Rain entered the crosswalk, a fire truck pulled up and Cody Merritt climbed out and waved at her as he sauntered around the front of the truck, fire extinguisher in hand. He passed a slip of paper to the angry man. “Here, sign this."
“It’s about time! What? Did you have to personally engrave the thing?”
“Just do it, Mac." Cody chuckled, and leaned, cross-ankled against the fender of his truck. "I’m a growing boy and I’m missing lunch because you want to throw a temper tantrum.”
“Oh, Uncle Cody, my wedding is ruined.” Celia leaned against him and he slipped an arm around her shoulders. While the man -- Mac, Cody had called him -- returned the now signed paper to Cody, he took Celia’s chin in his hand and sent her a stern look.
“No. It’s not.” He whirled around and pulled open the shop door. “Petra, get your boney ass out here!”
A little trickle of an emotion Rain couldn’t quite identify crept up her spine, and a slight, but admiring, grin spread across her lips. If she were Petra, she’d be making her way out the back entrance. But, no, she glided out the front door with her alligator smile in place, her long neck straight, shoulders squared. She appeared perfectly calm, but Rain knew her. She was clearly braced for a fight. She gripped her open cell phone in her right hand and leaned against her door as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
“Sir, do I have to call the police? I’ve already told you there’s nothing more I can do for you. I’m sorry, now good day.”
As she started to retreat back inside her shop, he threw the wedding gown in a heap onto the sidewalk. Petra’s eyes widened and her expression morphed from mild irritation to anger then shock as he pulled out half a dozen matchbooks, struck a match to them and dropped the flaming lot onto the middle of the fabric. Petra shrieked and backed into the shop as the cloth flashed then began to melt in on itself.
“And that, Ms. Petra, is what we think of your redesign policy. Consider the gown redesigned.”
Rain frowned at the shriveling pile, the significance of what she was seeing fought her attempts to compute. The gown was supposed to have been completely of silk -- silk lace, silk satin, silk thread. That's what Petra had written on the bag. All at once, she recognized what she was looking at. A gasp escaped her before she could stop it and she raised her eyes slowly to meet Petra’s gaze. Her former boss, her longtime mentor and friend, stared at her with a hard expression -- anger, fear, and yes, guilt. She raised her chin, glared at her once more, then turned the “Closed” sign around and dropped the door curtain in place.
Oh Petra, what have you done?