When Annie Walsh’s relationship implodes, she decides to run off to somewhere gorgeous and totally distracting. But instead of ending up in Rome, Italy, as she planned, Annie ends up in Rome, Rhode Island. Read on for an exclusive excerpt of this hilarious romantic comedy, out July 28, 2020, from Kensington.
The moment Annie Walsh stepped into her wedding dress and shimmied the 80-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 36-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 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-Ds.
Anh Nhi—always mispronounced—Walsh of the boyish build and perky but barely-a-handful Bs had moved on to bigger and better things. And that didn’t include cleaning up her ex’s messes.
Not anymore.
