Blurb:  Life couldn’t be more perfect for Candace Woodrow. Her gourmet gift basket company is thriving, and she’s set to marry steady, dependable Barry. There’s just one wrench in the fairytale. Two weeks before her wedding she wakes up in the wrong man’s bed. Candace thinks she’ll be able to run out the door and forget all about Michael Vogler, but the Boston millionaire has other plans for the jittery bride.

As the wedding approaches, Candace’s life is further complicated by a thrill-seeking grandma and a meddlesome mother whose marriage track record rivals Elizabeth Taylor’s. She attempts to drown her sorrows in chocolate, but with a sexy bachelor appearing on her doorstep at every turn – she finds herself wondering if there’s enough of the sweet stuff in the world to stop her heart from racing every time he comes near.

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Excerpt: The gnomes inside Candace’s head hosted a fiesta worthy of Cinco de Mayo, complete with the flashing red jalapeno lights and a band of hammers pounding out the rhythm to “Celebration” in double-time. The sound waved and rolled with her stomach, increasing in volume every time she moved a fraction of an inch in the bed.

A snippet of advice from Grandma Woodrow floated through her mind. Candace latched onto it with every bit of consciousness she could muster. Put one foot on the floor and you’ll get off the hangover Tilt-a-Whirl.

Candace wasn’t sure she could feel her foot, never mind move it.

She pressed her palms against her throbbing temples. Willing the headache away didn’t work. Shutting her eyes tighter only made the pounding intensify. She moaned and rolled over, clutching the pillow beside her.

The sheet came loose when she moved and cool air tickled against her skin. Down her spine. Along her belly. Past her legs.

Not against pajamas of any kind.

Candace froze and did a mental inventory. Exquisitely soft bed linens. No gurgle of the fish tank she had in her bedroom. No Trifecta snoring at the end of the bed. No traffic sounds outside the window.

Without opening her eyes, she ran a tentative hand down her body. Her fingers skipped over the soft satin of her bra. Panties.

Nothing else.

She bolted from the bed, tripping over some shoes and landing in a heap on the floor. She scrambled to a sitting position, then peeked over the bed at the room. A room she didn’t recognize. Her heart thudded in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.

The gnomes kept up their steady hammering. Maybe they were building a condominium in there. Candace closed her eyes again, but that intensified her vertigo. She hoped, no prayed, that she was at a friend’s apartment. Yes, that was it. She was at Maria’s. Who had—Candace scrambled for an explanation—gone on a major redecorating spree in the last twelve hours.

Yeah. That works. Doesn’t it?

A pair of Levi 505s lay in a crumpled heap beside her. Jeans she’d never seen before. Jeans that definitely didn’t belong to her. Or a woman, for that matter.
Okay. Take a breath. Try to remember.

Maria. Rebecca. The can’t-find-a-dress pity party at the restaurant. A few drinks. Okay, a lot of drinks. And a man.

Oh God, a man. She was pretty damned sure his name wasn’t Barry, either.

Candace bit her lip to keep from screaming. Nothing else existed in her memory—no name, no conclusion to the night, and especially no memory of how she’d ended up in someone else’s bed wearing nothing more than her underwear.

She clung to the sheet, the one sane thing she had in Wonderland. She cradled her head with her other hand, praying for the throbbing to stop so the fog could clear. “Oh Lord, why can’t I remember?”

“Because you had too much to drink,” a deep voice called.

Unless Maria had gotten a sex-change operation last night, that was definitely not her best friend’s voice.

Candace ducked down beside the bed like a SEAL commando and peered over the edge for a glimpse of who had spoken.

The blinds were still drawn, but a tiny sliver of sunlight peeked through the slits. Most of the bedroom remained in shadow. Beside the massive four-poster sat a polished mahogany nightstand holding an empty bottle of German beer and a half-dozen books. Plenty of expensive furniture, but no body to match the voice. She’d imagined this. A total tequila hallucination.

Behind her, a door creaked open. Candace spun around. Light spilled into the room from a bathroom ten feet away.

A man stood in front of a pedestal sink, shaving.

That was so not Maria.

Candace patted the hardwood floor. No luck. No magic rabbit hole to swallow her up so she wouldn’t have to deal with this man and anything that might have happened between them last night.

Oh, God—anything that might have happened?

An ocean of nausea rolled through her, threatening to deposit whatever was left in her stomach onto the Oriental rug.

Who was he? And why was she in his bedroom, doing a private Victoria’s Secret runway event? The obvious answer was too horrifying for Candace to consider.

He was definitely not the man she had promised to marry in twenty-one days. No, if today was Sunday, twenty days.

Her mouth went dry as she considered the possibilities of who he might be. Serial rapist. Psychotic killer. Deranged kidnapper. Right-wing Republican.

Using the bed as a crutch, she pulled herself to a standing position, ignoring the sudden blast of pain in her head and fighting with the sheet that had tangled around her feet. With a solid yank, she tugged it out from under her and lost her balance. She tumbled to the floor again, losing her grip on the cloth.

She staggered to her feet and prayed the light-colored sheet covered her. It didn’t. A quick glance down confirmed the outline of black lace and a Wonderbra.
She didn’t even want to think about how—or with whose hands—she had gotten undressed.

Her navy sundress sat a few feet away, draped over the arm of a wingback chair. Candace bent to grab it. But she didn’t move fast enough.

“Nice view,” said a voice from behind her.

She spun around, at the same time wrapping the sheet tighter.

He held a foot’s height advantage over her. His hair, still wet from the shower, was slicked back in a dark wave. Deep blue eyes that appeared almost black in the half-light of the room studied her with clear amusement.

Her gaze traveled down, past his bare muscular chest, following the vee of dark hairs to the waistband of a pair of checkered silk boxer shorts. The satiny material stopped mid-thigh along his lean, tanned and—okay, she had to admit it—inordinately interesting legs. She jerked her attention back to his face.

He’s gorgeous.

He grinned.

And he knows it.