The Divorcee Said Yes!. Sandra Marton

      Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN EPILOGUE Copyright

      Dear Reader,

      

      I have a confession to make: I love weddings. Fancy ones, simple ones—it doesn’t matter. I end up happily sniffling into a tissue each time. What could be more fun, I thought, than writing about a wedding? Writhing about three weddings, that’s what! Welcome to the sexy, funny, tender and exciting tales of three brides and three grooms who all meet at—that’s right—a wedding! Three books, three couples...three terrific stories. Here’s the second in the series. You’ll enjoy it, even if you haven’t read the first, The Bride Said Never!—though I hope you have.

      

      Annie Bennett Cooper and her ex-husband, Chase, haven’t seen each other since their divorce five years ago. Now their daughter’s wedding brings them back together for an afternoon. I can manage it, each one thinks. But neither Annie nor Chase has figured on the things parents will do for the happiness of a child—or on the enduring passion that still sizzles between them in The Divorcee Said Yes!

      

      Sit down, relax and enjoy the book. And remember to look for The Groom Said Maybe! next month. If you want to drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you. Write to me at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut 06268. Please enclose a SASE for a bookmark and a reply.

      

      With my warmest regards,

      Sandra Marton

      The Divorcee Said Yes!

      Sandra Marton

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      CHAPTER ONE

      IT WAS HER DAUGHTER’S wedding day, and Annie Cooper couldn’t seem to stop crying.

      “I’m just going to check my makeup, darling,” she’d told Dawn a few minutes ago, when her eyes had begun to prickle again.

      And now here she was, locked inside a stall in the ladies’ room of a beautiful old Connecticut church, clutching a handful of soggy tissues and bawling her eyes out.

      “Promise me you won’t cry, Mom,” Dawn had said, only last night.

      The two of them had been sitting up over mugs of cinnamon-laced hot chocolate. Neither of them had felt sleepy. Dawn had been too excited; Annie had been unwilling to give up the last hours when her daughter would still be her little girl instead of Nick’s wife.

      “I promise,” Annie had said, swallowing hard, and then she’d burst into tears.

      “Oh, Moth-ther,” Dawn had said, “for goodness’ sake,” just as if she were still a teenager and Annie was giving her a hard time about coming in ten minutes after curfew on school nights.

      And that was just the trouble. She was still a teenager, Annie thought as she wiped her streaming eyes. Her baby was only eighteen years old, far too young to be getting married. Of course, when she’d tried telling that to Dawn the night she’d come home, smiling radiantly with Nick’s engagement ring on her finger, her daughter had countered with the ultimate rebuttal.

      “And how old were you when you got married?” she’d said, which had effectively ended the discussion because the whole answer—“Eighteen, the same as you, and look where it got me”—was not one you wanted to make to your own child.

      It certainly wasn’t Dawn’s fault her parents’ marriage had ended in divorce.

      “She’s too young,” Annie whispered into her handful of Kleenex, “she’s much, much too young.”

      “Annie?”

      Annie heard the door to the ladies’ room swing open. A murmur of voices and the soft strains of organ music floated toward her, then faded as the door thumped shut.

      “Annie? Are you in here?”

      It was Deborah Kent, her best friend.

      “No,” Annie said miserably, choking back a sob.

      “Annie,” Deb said gently, “come out of there.”

      “No.”

      “Annie.” Deb’s tone became the sort she probably used with her third-graders. “This is nonsense. You can’t hide in there forever.”

      “Give me one good reason why I can’t,” Annie said, sniffling.

      “Well, you’ve got seventy-five guests waiting.”

      “A hundred,” Annie sobbed. “Let ’em wait.”

      “The minister’s starting to look impatient.”

      “Patience is a virtue,” Annie said, and dumped the wet tissues into the toilet.

      “And I think your aunt Jeanne just propositioned one of the groomsmen.”

      There was a long silence, and then Annie groaned. “Tell me you’re joking.”

      “All I know is what I saw. She got this look on her face—you know the look.”

      Annie clamped her eyes shut. “And?”

      “And, she went sashaying over to that big blond kid.” Deborah’s voice turned dreamy. “Actually I couldn’t much blame her. Did you see the build on that boy?”

      “Deb! Honestly!” Annie flushed the tissues down the toilet, unlocked the stall door and marched to the sink. “Aunt Jeanne’s eighty years old. There’s some excuse for her. But you—”

      “Listen, just because I’m forty doesn’t mean I’m dead. You may want to pretend you’ve forgotten what men are good for, but I certainly haven’t.”

      “Forty-three,” Annie said, rummaging in her purse. “You can’t lie about your age to me, Deb, not when we share a birthday. As for what men are good for—believe me, I know what they’re good for. Not much. Not one damn thing, actually, except for making babies and that’s just the trouble, Dawn is still just a baby. She’s too young to be getting married.”

      “That’s the other thing I came in to tell you.” Deb cleared her throat. “He’s here.”

      “Who’s here?”

      “Your ex.”

      Annie went still. “No.”

      “Yes. He came in maybe five minutes ago.”

      “No, he couldn’t have. He’s in Georgia or Florida, someplace like that.” Annie looked at her friend in the mirror. “You’re sure