The moment Anh Nhi Walsh stepped into her wedding dress and shimmied the eighty-year-old silk over her hips, she knew there had been a mistake.
A mistake so terrible, all the chocolate in the world couldn’t fix it.
Annie had pulled a thirty-six-hour shift, so her brain was a little slow on the uptake, but the longer she stood in her silver Jimmy Choos and yesterday’s makeup, the more certain she became that even the world’s best push-up bra couldn’t compensate for the obvious.
This was not her dress.
“Oh my God,” she whispered through her fingers.
Sure, the gown had arrived on her doorstep in the trademarked cream and blush-colored–striped box, special delivery from Bliss, Hartford’s premiere bridal design boutique. And, yes, that was the silk gown Grandma Hannah had hand-carried from Ireland, now billowing around Annie’s waist. But this was not Annie’s dress.
Annie’s dress was elegant and sophisticated, a heartfelt tribute to her grandmother, the one person Annie had wanted by her side when she finally walked down the aisle. Grandma Hannah wouldn’t let something as insignificant as death keep her from her only granddaughter’s wedding. But Annie had wanted to feel her in more than just spirit.
Which was why she’d commissioned a modern-day restoration of the 1941 Grecian gown with cap sleeves and embellished mermaid train, cut from the same cloth that the most important woman in Annie’s life had worn on her special day.
Annie pulled the bodice of the gown to her chest and wanted to cry. The too-big, too-long, and most definitely D-cup rendition was that extra-special kick in the gut she needed to find closure.
Six years as an ER physician’s assistant had instilled in her a rational calm that allowed for quick and efficient assessment of any situation. Taught her how to differentiate between the life-threatening and painfully uncomfortable. With that in mind, she pulled up the planner app on her phone.
“Add Murder fiancé to my to-do list,” she instructed.
“Murder fiancé added,” the digitized female voice said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes.” Because Annie understood murder wasn’t a rational response, and besides, Dr. Clark Atwood was no longer her fiancé. Or her problem.
According to the elegant handwriting on the linen thank-you card that Bliss had included with the gown, that responsibility now fell to Molly-Leigh—with a hyphen—May of the pinup curves and double-D’s.
Anh Nhi—always mispronounced—Walsh of the boyish build and perky but barely-a-handful B’s had moved on to bigger and better things. And that didn’t include cleaning up her ex’s messes.
Not anymore.
“Call Dr. Dickless,” she said.
“Calling Dr. Dickless,” the female voice chimed. Annie had deprogrammed her sexy 007 British narrator the day she’d heard of Clark’s upcoming nuptials. She was taking her new man-free existence seriously.
Clark picked up on the first ring. “Jesus, Annie. I’ve been calling you for weeks,” he said, as if she were the one inconveniencing his life.
“I’ve been busy with my new job, decorating my new place, apologizing to my relatives because it seems that ‘The groom’s marrying another woman’ isn’t an acceptable reason for airlines to grant a refund.”
Three months ago, Annie had awoken to an empty bed, an emptier closet, and an awaiting text on her cell:
It had taken an entire week for her to realize that the wedding, the romantic Roman honeymoon with walks along the River Tiber, the future they’d spent years building toward was gone.
It had taken only a single Instagram post of her—so recent I still have the ring—ex and a perky blonde with the caption “I finally found my one *true love*” for Annie to give her two weeks’ notice—which was more courtesy than Clark had spared her—and apply for a temporary ER position in Rome.
Once the offer came in, she packed her suitcase, sent in a change of address, left the ring and the rest of the gifts behind for Clark to return, and promised herself a future full of exciting opportunities and exotic destinations. She had become a traveling PA because she’d wanted to see the world, and her six-year layover in Hartford was over.
Now, it was her time.
“You do have a lot going on—how did you find the time to add ‘Murder fiancé’ to the top of your to-do list?” he asked, and Annie flipped her phone over to check for a listening device. She was about ready to rip out the battery when Clark added, “You still have me as a recipient on your calendar.”
“Just because I forgot to delete you doesn’t give you the right to read my personal