Rom-Com Collection (Part1)

Rom-Com Collection (Part1)

The Best Man

Somebody to Love

Catch of the Day

The Next Best Thing

Kristan

Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The Best Man

Kristan

Higgins

Sometimes the best man is who you least expect….

Faith Holland left her hometown after being jilted at the altar. Now a little older and wiser, she’s ready to return to the Blue Heron Winery, her family’s vineyard, to confront the ghosts of her past, and maybe enjoy a glass of red. After all, there’s some great scenery there….

Like Levi Cooper, the local police chief—and best friend of her former fiancé. There’s a lot about Levi that Faith never noticed, and it’s not just those deep green eyes. The only catch is she’s having a hard time forgetting that he helped ruin her wedding all those years ago. If she can find a minute amidst all her family drama to stop and smell the rosé, she just might find a reason to stay at Blue Heron, and finish that walk down the aisle.

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Kristan Higgins

SOMEBODY TO LOVE

“Kristan Higgins specializes in the kind of prose that makes you laugh out loud…hilarious on the surface, but with a bittersweet subtext.”

—National Public Radio

UNTIL THERE WAS YOU

“Higgins…employs her usual breezy, intimate style, which is sure to engage her fans.”

—Publishers Weekly

MY ONE AND ONLY

“A funny, poignant romance.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review

ALL I EVER WANTED

“Higgins has a special talent for creating characters readers love.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars

THE NEXT BEST THING

“A heartwarming, multi-generational tale of lost love, broken hearts and second chances.”

—BookPage

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE

Winner—2010 Romance Writers of America RITA® Award

“Cheeky, cute and satisfying, Higgins’s romance is perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in.”

—Booklist

JUST ONE OF THE GUYS

“Higgins provides an amiable romp that ends with a satisfying lump in the throat.”

—Publishers Weekly

CATCH OF THE DAY

Winner—2008 Romance Writers of America RITA® Award

“A novel with depth and a great deal of heart.”

—RT Book Reviews, top pick, 4½ stars

Hello!

Thank you for picking up The Best Man!

One of the things I wanted to do with this book was to describe a place that would feel like home and also like a vacation, a place you could see as clearly as if you were there.

The Finger Lakes region of New York is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. The lakes are long and narrow, and very deep, giving them an ethereal, dark blue color. The hills are golden with grapevines, and the autumn foliage is beyond compare. The hills are populated with vineyards and Mennonite farms; it’s not at all uncommon to be waiting at a stoplight next to a horse and buggy. Manningsport is based on Hammondsport, and a prettier town I’ve never seen. Glens and waterfalls are plentiful; the sound of rushing water is never far away, and the sense of community and pride the Finger Lakes residents have for their home is palpable.

I also wanted to write a story where the hero and heroine had a lot of reasons to stay apart…but you know how it is. Love has a way of sneaking up on people. Faith and Levi are a case of opposites attract, but they may have more in common than they might think. Both characters love their families and communities, and both have to get out of their own way to get that happily ever after.

Hope you like the book! Drop me a line—I always love hearing from you.

Kristan

www.kristanhiggins.com

Thanks so much to my wonderful and wise agent, Maria Carvainis, and to Martha Guzman, Chelsea Gilmore and Elizabeth Copps for all their support and help. Thanks also to the incredible team at Harlequin, especially my editors, Keyren Gerlach and Tara Parsons, as well as the many others at Harlequin for their faith and enthusiasm for every dang book I’ve written. Thanks to Kim Castillo of Author’s Best Friend for being truly that, and to the lovely and insightful Sarah Burningham of Little Bird Publicity.

I could not have written this book without the generosity of the warm, down-to-earth people of the Finger Lakes wine industry. I owe a great deal to Sayre Fulkerson, owner of Fulkerson Winery, who gave up half a day to show me around his beautiful fields and woods. John Izard, vice president of operations at Fulkerson, answered many, many questions, and I am very grateful to him, as well. Thanks to Kitty Oliver and Dave Herman at Heron Hill Vineyards and to Glenora Vineyards for such wonderful hospitality. Morgen McLaughlin at Finger Lakes Wine Country arranged my introduction to the area, and I’m happy to say it was love at first sight. Kimberly Price at Corning Finger Lakes was wonderfully helpful, too.

Thanks to Paul Buckthal, M.D., who answered my questions about epilepsy, and to Brad Wilkinson, M.D., whose name I left out of the last book (sorry, Brad!). Thanks also to Sergeant Ryan Sincerbox of the Hammondsport Police Department, who was so helpful, to Staff Sergeant Ryan Parmelee, United States Army, and the very nice information officer at the Army recruiting office in Horseheads, New York. When I asked if he’d like an acknowledgment in the book, he only laughed and said, “Thank the U.S. Army instead.” And so I do, not just as an author, but as a grateful citizen, as well.

For their friendship, input and the many, many laughs we’ve shared, thanks to Huntley Fitzpatrick, Shaunee Cole, Karen Pinco, Kelly Morse and Jennifer Iszkiewicz. My brother Mike, owner of Litchfield Hills Wine Market, advised on all things grape (any mistakes are all mine). As ever, thanks to my sister Hilary, my dear mom, and my sister-in-law and greatest friend, Jackie Decker.

To my beautiful children and heroic husband—there really are no words to express my love for you, but I expect you know that you three are my whole world.

And you, dear and wonderful readers…thank you. Thank you for spending a few hours of your lives with my books. I can’t tell you what an honor that is.

This book is dedicated to Rose Morris-Boucher,

my very first friend in the world of writing, and

my friend still. Thank you for everything, Rosebud!

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

On a beautiful day in June, in front of literally half the town, wearing a wedding dress that made her look like Cinderella and holding a bouquet of perfect pink roses, Faith Elizabeth Holland was left at the altar.

We sure didn’t see that one coming.

There we all were, sitting in Trinity Lutheran, smiling, dressed up, not a seat to be had, people standing three deep in the back of the church. The bridesmaids were dressed in pink, and Faith’s niece, just thirteen years old, looked as pretty as could be. The best man wore his dress blues, and Faith’s brother was an usher. It was beautiful!

The wedding day of these two kids—Faith and Jeremy, together since high school—was set to be one of the happiest days our town had seen in years. After all, the Hollands were a founding family here, salt of the earth types. They had more land than anyone in the Finger Lakes wine country, acres and acres of vineyard and forest, all the way down to Keuka—the Crooked Lake, as we call it. The Lyons, well, they were from California, but we liked them, anyway. They were more the money type. Nice folks. Their land abutted the Hollands’, so the kids were next-door neighbors. How sweet was that? And Jeremy, oh, he was a doll! He could’ve gone pro in the NFL. No, really, he was that good. But instead, he moved back as soon as he became a doctor. He wanted to practice right here in town, settle down with that sweet Faith and raise a family.

The kids met so romantically, in a medical sort of way—Faith, then a senior in high school, had an epileptic seizure. Jeremy, who’d just transferred in, elbowed his way to her side, picked her up in his brawny football-hero arms, which, come to think of it, you’re not supposed to do, but his intentions were noble, and what a picture it made, the tall and dark Jeremy carrying Faith through the halls. He brought her to the nurse’s office, where he remained by her side until her dad came to get her. It was, the story went, love at first sight.

They went to the prom together, Faith with her dark red hair curled around her shoulders, her skin creamy against the midnight blue of her dress. Jeremy was so handsome, six-foot-three inches of sculpted football-god physique, his black hair and dark eyes making him look like a Romanian count.

He went to Boston College and played football there; Faith went to school at Virginia Tech to study landscape design, and the distance alone, as well as their age...well, no one expected them to stay together. We could all see Jeremy with a model or even a young Hollywood starlet, given his family’s money and his athletic ability and those good looks. Faith was cute in that girl-next-door way, but you know how those things go. The girl gets left behind, the boy moves on. We’d have understood.

But no, we were wrong. His parents would complain about the enormous cell phone bills, the vast number of texts Jeremy had sent Faith, almost like Ted and Elaine were bragging—See how devoted our son is? How constant? How in love with his girlfriend?

When home on break, Faith and Jeremy would walk through town hand in hand, always smiling. He might pick a flower from the lush window boxes in front of the bakery and tuck it behind her ear. They were often seen on the town beach, his head in her lap, or out on the lake in his parents’ Chris-Craft boat, Jeremy standing behind Faith as she steered, his muscular arms around her, and didn’t they look like a tourism ad! It seemed as if Faith had hit pay dirt, and good for her for nabbing someone like Jeremy—we all had a soft spot for her, the poor little girl Mel Stoakes pulled out of that awful wreck. Laura Boothby liked to brag about how much Jeremy spent on Faith’s flowers for the anniversary of their first date, for her birthday, for Valentine’s Day and sometimes “just because.” There were those of us who thought it was a little much, out here in the country of Mennonite farms and Yankee reserve, but the Lyon family was from Napa Valley, so there you go.

Sometimes you’d see Faith and a few girlfriends at O’Rourke’s, and one or two of them might vent about their neglectful, immature boyfriends who cheated or lied, who broke up via text or a status change on Facebook. And if Faith said something sympathetic, those girls might say, “You have no idea what we’re talking about, Faith! You have Jeremy,” almost as if it was an accusation. The mere mention of his name would bring a dreamy smile to her face, a softness to her eyes. Faith would occasionally tell people she’d always wanted a man as good as her father, and it sure as heck seemed as if she’d found one. Even though he was young, Jeremy was a wonderful doctor, and every woman in town seemed to come down with something or another the first few months after he set up his practice. He took time to listen, always had a smile, remembered what you said last time.

Three months after he finished his residency, on a beautiful September day when the hills burned red and gold and the lake shimmered with silver, Jeremy got down on one knee and presented Faith with a three-carat diamond engagement ring. We heard all about it, oh, sure, and the planning began. Faith’s two sisters would be bridesmaids, that pretty Colleen O’Rourke the maid of honor. Jeremy’s best man would be the Cooper boy if he could come home from Afghanistan, and wouldn’t that be nice, to see a decorated war hero standing up there next to his old football buddy? It would be so romantic, so lovely...truly, it made us all smile, just thinking about it.

So imagine our surprise, then, when the two kids were standing right there on the altar of Trinity Lutheran, and Jeremy Lyon came out of the closet.

CHAPTER ONE

Three and a half years later

FAITH HOLLAND PUT DOWN her binoculars, picked up her clipboard and checked off a box on her list. Lives alone. Clint had said he did, and the background check showed only his name on the rental agreement, but a person couldn’t be too careful. She took a pull of Red Bull and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel of her roommate’s car.

Once upon a time, a scenario like this would’ve seemed ridiculous. But given her romantic history, a little footwork was simply smart. Footwork saved time, embarrassment, anger and heartbreak. Say, for example, the man was gay, which had happened not just with Jeremy, but with Rafael Santos and Fred Beeker, as well. To his credit, Rafe hadn’t known Faith thought they were dating; he’d thought they were just hanging out. Later that month, determined to keep trying, Faith had rather awkwardly hit on Fred, who lived down the street from her and Liza, only to have him recoil in horror and gently explain that he liked boys, too. (Incidentally, she’d fixed him up with Rafael, and the two had been together ever since, so at least there was a happily ever after for someone.)

Gay wasn’t the only problem. Brandon, whom she’d met at a party, had seemed so promising, right until their second date, when his phone rang. “Gotta take this, it’s my dealer,” he’d said blithely. When Faith had asked for clarification—he couldn’t mean drug dealer, could he?—he’d replied sure, what did she think he meant? He’d seemed confused when Faith left in a huff.

The binocs were old school, yes. But had she used binoculars with Rafe, she would’ve seen his gorgeous silk window treatments and six-foot framed poster of Barbra Streisand. Had she staked out Brandon, she might’ve seen him meeting unsavory people in cars after they’d flashed their headlights.

She’d attempted to date two other guys since moving to San Francisco. One didn’t believe in bathing—again, something she might’ve learned by stalking. The other guy stood her up.

Hence the stakeout.

Faith sighed and rubbed her eyes. If this didn’t work out, Clint would be her last foray for a while, because she really was getting worn out here. Late nights, the eye strain associated with binocular use, a stomachache from too much caffeine... It was tiring.

But Clint might be worth it. Straight, employed, no history of arrest, no DUIs, that rarest of species in S.F. Maybe this would make a cute story at their wedding. She could almost imagine Clint saying, “Little did I know that at that very minute, Faith was parked in front of my house, chugging Red Bull and bending the law....”

She’d met Clint on the job—she’d been hired to design a small public park in the Presidio; Clint owned a landscaping company. They’d worked together just fine; he was on time, and his people were fast and meticulous. Also, Clint had taken a shine to Blue, Faith’s Golden retriever, and what’s more appealing than a guy who gets down on his knees and lets your dog lick his face? Blue seemed to like him (but then again, Blue tended to like any living creature, the type of dog who’d leg-hump a serial killer). The park had been dedicated two weeks ago, and right after the ceremony, Clint had asked her out. She’d said yes, then gone home and begun her work. Good old Google showed no mention of a wife (or husband). There was a record of a marriage between a Clinton Bundt of Owens, Nebraska, but that was ten years ago, and her Clint Bundt a) seemed too young to have been married for ten years; and b) was from Seattle. His Facebook page was for work only. While he did mention some social things (“Went to Oma’s on 19th Street; great latkes!”), there was no mention of a spouse in any of the posts of the past six months.

On Date Number One, Faith had made arrangements for Fred and Rafael to check him out, since gaydar was clearly not one of her skills. She and Clint met for drinks on a Tuesday evening, and the guys had shown up at the bar, done the shark-bump test on Clint, then gone to a table. Straight, Rafael texted, and Fred backed him up with Hetero.

On Date Number Two (lunch/Friday afternoon), Clint had proven to be charming and interested as she told him about her family, being the youngest of four, Goggy and Pops, her grandparents, how much she missed her dad. Clint, in turn, had told her about an ex-fiancée; she’d kept her own story to herself.

On Date Number Three (dinner/Wednesday, in the “make him wait to measure his interest level” philosophy), Clint had met her at a cute little bar near the pier and once again passed every criteria: held her chair, complimented her without too much detail (That’s a pretty dress, she’d found, set off no warning bells, unlike Is that Badgley Mischka, OMG, I love those two!). He’d stroked the back of her hand and kept sneaking peeks at her boobage, so it was all good. When Clint had asked if he could drive her home, which of course was code for sex, she’d put him off.

Clint’s eyes had narrowed, as if accepting her challenge. “I’ll call you. Are you free this weekend?”

Another test passed. Available on weekends. Faith had felt a flutter; she hadn’t been on a fourth date since she was eighteen years old. “I think I’m free on Friday,” she’d murmured.

They stood on the sidewalk, waiting for a cab as tourists streamed into souvenir shops to buy sweatshirts, having been tricked into thinking that late August in San Francisco meant summer. Clint leaned in and kissed her, and Faith let him. It had been a good kiss. Very competent. There was potential in that kiss, she thought. Then a taxi emerged from the gloom of the famed fog, and Clint waved it over.

And so, in preparation of the fourth date—which would possibly be the date, when she finally slept with someone other than Jeremy—here she was, parked in front of his apartment, binoculars trained on his windows. Looked as if he was watching the ball game.

Time to call her sister.

“He passes,” Faith said by way of greeting.

“You have a problem, hon,” said Pru. “Open your heart and all that crap. Jeremy was eons ago.”

“This has nothing to do with Jeremy,” Faith said, ignoring the answering snort. “I’m a little worried about his name, though. Clint Bundt. It’s abrupt. Clint Eastwood, sure, that works. But on anyone else, I don’t know. Clint and Faith. Faith and Clint. Faith Bundt.” It was much less pleasing than, oh, let’s say, Faith and Jeremy or Jeremy and Faith. Not that she was hung up on the past or anything.

“Sounds okay to me,” Pru said.

“Yeah, well, you’re Prudence Vanderbeek.”

“And?” Pru said amiably, chewing in Faith’s ear.

“Clint and Faith Bundt. It’s just...off.”

“Okay, then break up with him. Or take him to court and force him to change his name. Listen, I gotta go. It’s bedtime for us farm folk.”

“Okay. Give the kids a hug for me,” Faith said. “Tell Abby I’ll send her that link to the shoes she asked about. And tell Ned he’s still my little bunny, even if he is technically an adult.”

“Ned!” her sister bellowed. “Faith says you’re still her little bunny.”

“Yay,” came her nephew’s voice.

“Gotta go, kid,” said Pru. “Hey, you coming home for harvest?”

“I think so. I don’t have another installation for a while.” While Faith made a decent living as a landscape designer, most of her work was done on the computer. Her presence was only required for the last part of a job. Plus, grape harvest at Blue Heron was well worth a visit home.

“Great!” Pru said. “Listen, ease up on the guy, have fun, talk soon, love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Faith took another pull of Red Bull. Pru had a point. Her oldest sibling had been happily married for twenty-three years, after all. And who else was going to give her romantic advice? To Honor, her other sister, if you weren’t calling from the hospital, you were wasting her time. Jack was their brother and thus useless on these matters. And Dad...well, Dad was still in mourning for Mom, who’d been gone for nineteen years.

The wash of guilt was all too familiar.

“We can do this,” Faith told herself, changing the mental subject. “We can fall in love again.”

Certainly a better option than having Jeremy Lyon be her first and only love.

She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, that hint of bewilderment and sorrow she always felt when she thought of Jeremy.

“Damn you, Levi,” she whispered. “You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you?”

* * *

TWO NIGHTS LATER, Faith was starting to think that Clint Bundt was indeed worth the ten minutes she’d taken to shave her legs and the six it’d taken to wrestle herself into the microfiber Slim-Nation undergarment she’d bought on QVC last month. (Hope. It sprung eternal.) Clint had picked an upscale Thai place with a koi pond in the entryway, red silk wall hangings making the room glow with flattering light. They sat in a U-shaped booth, very cozily, Faith thought. It was so romantic. Also, the food was really good, not to mention the lovely Russian River chardonnay.

Clint’s eyes kept dropping to her cleavage. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you look good enough to eat.” He grinned like a naughty boy, and Faith’s girl parts gave a mighty tingle. “I have to tell you,” he went on, “the very first second I saw you, I felt like I was hit on the side of the head with a two-by-four.”

“Really? That’s so sweet,” Faith said, taking a sip of her wine. So far as she could recall, she’d been dressed in filthy jeans, work boots and soaked to the skin. She’d been moving some plants around in the rain, trying to ease the mind of the city councilman who was concerned over the park’s water runoff (which, please, had been nonexistent; she was a certified landscape architect, thank you very much).

“I wasn’t sure I was capable of speech,” Clint now said. “I probably made a fool out of myself.” He gave her a sheepish look as if acknowledging he’d been quite the love-struck suitor.