My Lucky Groom

recalled getting smacked in the stomach with a soccer ball and having the wind knocked out of her. This felt a thousand times worse. She forced herself to be calm and ignore the raging feelings inside her, the way she did when popular girl Melissa Perry taunted her on the bus. All she had to do was pretend that none of this was happening, and sooner or later, it would go away. “Okay.”
    “Okay?” Her dad leaned forward with a quizzical look. “Are you really all right with this? I mean , do you have any questions?”
    Only about a billion, but she wasn’t sure they would matter anyway. “Nope.”
    “Well, okay, then.” He heaved a sigh, his tense face relaxing. “At least that’s over with.” He lifted the small plastic tray between them, offering up a shrink-wrapped crescent. “Fortune cookie?”
    Ventura shrugged and took one off the tray, unwrapping it slowly and prying it open.
    “Well?” he asked, forcing a smile in an effort to lighten the moment. “Come on, what does it say?”
    Even at her tender age, the irony was not lost. She folded the narrow strip of paper neatly in half and tucked it in her pocket. “It doesn’t really matter.” But the truth was, it did. It mattered a lot.

Chapter One

    Fourteen years later, Ventura adjusted her bulky frame in the cramped quarters of the booth, scanning job postings on the Internet. Her laptop was six years old and painfully slow with downloads and connections. She’d been awarded it along with her scholarship package to a small liberal arts school, then had gotten a full ride to a Master’s program in writing from there. Unfortunately, the graduate school grant hadn’t included a new computer.
    A middle-aged woman in pearls and an eccentric summer hat strolled by, nearly tumbling over Ventura’s suitcase. She reached down and slid it under the table, taking in the café’s varied clientele. There had to be at least ten countries represented by the patrons, who ranged from a man in a turban to Asian college students with handhelds, and guys in pinstriped suits and dark glasses, who seemed just a little bit scary. Ventura caught the hint of a foreign tongue and noticed two slender African women dressed in headscarves, chatting merrily over coffee in the corner. Ah yes, this was Washington, DC. Land of opportunity. For her, she hoped.
    Waitresses scrambled to keep up with the crowd, busily refilling drinks and carrying fresh orders out on trays. A stylish beauty in her mid-twenties with short, raven hair tilted a coffeepot toward Ventura’s cup. Ventura looked up to thank her, noticing an incredibly hot guy taking a seat at a nearby table. He was built and blond, and looked like he’d just walked off the beach in California, although the suit and tie spelled Capitol Hill intern. He glanced her way, and Ventura smiled hopefully, her elbow knocking her cup just as the waitress poured. Hot Guy ignored her and grinned broadly at the server, who was now staring at him and about to miss Ventura’s cup.
    “Look out!”
    The waitress righted the pot, but hot coffee cascaded down her fingers. “Ow! That hurt!” she shouted, quickly setting the pot on the table to grip her fingers.
    Ventura jumped back as coffee splattered over the pot’s rim, rushing toward her. She dammed its flow with a heap of napkins, saving her aging laptop just in time.
    Hot Guy leapt to the rescue…of the cute waitress, of course. To him, Ventura was invisible. She watched in amazement while he grabbed more napkins from the holder and heaped them on the mess. He dipped a clean one in Ventura’s ice water, swabbing it over the girl’s fingers.
    “Are you okay?” he asked, still holding her hand.
    The waitress reclaimed her fingers and examined them. “I think so.” She passed the dripping napkin back to the guy and addressed Ventura. “I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”
    Ventura nodded numbly, thinking this was always the way. For most of her life, she’d been completely discounted by men. She hadn’t even had a boyfriend in high school. When guys took an interest, they considered her the girl with the good personality…and, she presumed—though none had specifically said—the great big butt.
    “Here, let me help with that,” Hot Guy said, his gaze locked on the server, who Ventura couldn’t help but notice had a teeny tiny derriere, the kind they put in ads for women’s sportswear. Good gosh, he’s practically drooling . Ventura looked down with a start