"There once was a dork and a firefighter who went to a wedding..."
Reviewed by Monique Daoust
Posted May 2, 2015
Romance Contemporary
Jan Marone is attending her cousin's wedding in Key West
but the ceiling of the room she rented collapsed, and
being spring break, everything is booked solid. That's
when she sees Mick McKenna, her best friend since
kindergarten. Mick tells her to take his tiny room, she
refuses, but eventually they agree to share his minuscule
accommodations. She feels uncomfortable being so close to
Mick: she never told Mick that she has always been in
love with him; he is popular, outgoing, and he never
wants for female company, and Jan has always felt she was
out of his league. Mick has always had the hots for Jan,
but since she's never showed she was interested in
anything but friendship, he never pressed the issue; he
figures she's not just interested in him that way. But
being stuck together with her gorgeous friend in such
close quarters, Jan soon realises it might not have been
the best time to launch her New Jan Plan.
Woulda, coulda, shoulda has never been more fun than in
THE WEDDING GIFT. Jan had decided that being away from
home was ideal to reinvent herself and ditch the dowdy,
bring her sexy in the open, and live it up. And I was
laughing myself silly when, at the beginning of THE
WEDDING GIFT, Mick sees his pal Jan and her new sexy
clothes, and he simply loses it. These pages are totally
hilarious because Mick says aloud what's expected of him
while we read what he's really thinking, and it's side-
splitting!
I loved Jan and Mick, both individually and together.
It's obvious that they are good friends, they're both
lovely, caring people; there are no ridiculous charades.
THE WEDDING GIFT is part of Ms. Connelly's Save the
Date series, and while characters from the previous
books appear, it can definitely be read as a standalone;
every book enriches the story arc and displays the
extraordinary talents of Cara Connelly. While THE WEDDING
GIFT is short, the story is tightly woven, fast-paced,
light yet scorchingly sexy, the writing is flawless and
witty, and there is extraordinary depth to the
characters: I felt I knew Jan and Mick inside out.
THE WEDDING GIFT is yet another proof of the genius of
Cara Connelly: the author never repeats herself yet every
book is stunning; THE WEDDING GIFT is not to be missed.
SUMMARY
What's the New-Jan-Plan? Discover the answer in Cara
Connelly's newest Save The Date Novella, and see how
mousey
Jan Marone gives herself the gift of living, laughing,
and
finally loving … all under the hot Key West sun. She'd come to Key West for a wedding, only to discover
the
hotel had messed up her reservation. So although Jan
Marone
has to share a tiny room with sexy Mick McKenna, it
shouldn't really be a problem. Mick's her best friend,
and
he doesn't think of her "that way" … or does he? Mick McKenna loves hard and plays hard. His thick black
hair, chiseled jaw, and hard, muscled body make him
irresistible. But when once-innocent Jan walks into his
hotel room, Mick can't believe his eyes. Now she's
wearing
a sexy bikini and telling him it's time for her to "get
lucky," making him protective and tantalized at the same
time. Worried she might be in over her head, he decides never
to
leave her side … and suddenly their hotel room seems
smaller—and hotter—than ever. Mick's always been hands-
off
with Jan—but has the right woman been under his nose the
whole time?
ExcerptCHAPTER ONE“I’m sorry, ma’am, there’s nothing I can do.” Jan Marone wrung her hands. “But I have a reservation.” “I know, I’m looking at it right here.” The pretty blond
at the desk tapped her screen sympathetically. “I’ll
refund your deposit immediately.” “I don’t want my deposit. I want a room. My cousin’s
getting married tomorrow, and I’m in the wedding.” The girl spread her hands. “The problem is, when one of
the upstairs tubs overflowed this morning, the ceiling
collapsed on your room. It’s out of service for the
weekend, and we’re booked solid.” “I understand,” Jan said, struggling to remain polite.
Hearing the same excuse three times didn’t make it easier
to swallow. “How about a sister hotel?”
“We’re independently owned. Paradise Inn is the oldest
hotel on the island—” Jan held up a hand. She knew the spiel. The large,
rambling guesthouse was unique, and very Old Key West.
Which was exactly why she’d booked it. “Can you at least help me find a room somewhere else?” “It’s spring break. I’ll make some calls, but …” A
discouraging shrug and a gesture toward the coffeepot. The girl didn’t seem very concerned, but Jan smiled at
her anyway. “Thanks, I appreciate you trying.” Parking her suitcase beside the coffee table, she
surveyed the lobby wistfully. The windows and doors stood
open, the wicker furniture and abundant potted plants
blurring the line between indoors and out. The warm,
humid breeze drifted through the airy space. Her parched
Boston skin soaked it up like a sponge. To a woman who’d never left New England before, it
spelled tropical vacation. And it was slipping through
her fingers like sand. Growing ever gloomier, she wandered out through a side
door and into a lush tropical garden—palm trees,
hibiscus, a babbling waterfall. Paradise. And at its heart, a glittering pool, where six gorgeous
feet of lean muscle and tanned skin drifted lazily on a
float. Ignoring everything else, Jan studied the man. Thick
black hair, chiseled jaw, half smile curving full lips.
And arms, perfect arms, draped over the sides, fingers
trailing in the water. He seemed utterly relaxed, the image of sensual
decadence. Put him in an ad for Paradise Inn, and women
would flock. Gay men would swarm. As if sensing her attention, the hunk lifted his head and
broke into a smile. “Hey Jan, getcha ass in the water!” Mick McKenna. Her best and oldest friend. He rolled off the float and jacked himself out of the
pool. Water streamed from gray board shorts as he crossed
the flagstones. Stopping in front of her, he shook his hair like a
Labrador. “Geez! Don’t you ever get tired of that?” She brushed
droplets off her white cotton blouse. He laughed his big happy laugh. “Never have, never will.
Get your suit on. The water’s a perfect eighty-six
degrees.” “I can’t. They don’t have a room for me.” The grin fell off his face. “What the hell?” “Water damage.” She shrugged like it wasn’t tragic. Like
she hadn’t been anticipating this weekend for months. “They must have another room.” Mick started to go around
her, no doubt to raise hell at the desk, McKenna-style. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I tried
everything. They’re digging up a room for me somewhere
else on the island.” He tunneled long fingers through his hair. “Take my
room,” he said. “You found this place, and it’s great.
You should stay here.” “Forget it. I’m not taking your room.” She wasn’t that
pathetic. Mick would give her the shirt off his back,
which he’d literally done more than once since they were
kids, but she wasn’t taking his room out from under him. He knew better than to argue with her. Disappointment
slumped his shoulders, but he buttoned his lips, looking
down at her from troubled eyes bluer than the pool
gleaming behind him. She mustered a smile. “Can I use your bathroom?” “Sure.” She followed him inside, down a short hallway, and into a
room that was eighty percent bed. “Yikes. The reviews said the rooms were tiny, but
sheesh.” Mick shrugged. “Who comes to Key West to sit in their
room?” That was Mick. Mr. Brightside. A quick glance around revealed the limited amenities:
modest flatscreen on the wall; dorm-sized fridge; and a
tiny bureau that doubled as a nightstand, holding a
digital clock and small lamp. At the foot of the queen
bed, Mick's suitcase flopped open on a narrow bench. Jan sidled along the bedside and closed herself in the
world’s smallest bathroom: a budget-sized toilet wedged
between a teacup sink and a phone-booth shower stall.
Everything was clean as a whistle, but one wrong move and
she’d have black and blue funny bones in the wedding
photos. Washing her hands in the teacup, she made the mistake of
looking into the mirror above it. “Hello, palest person in Key West. And your hair.” Six
hours on three airplanes, and her bun straggled like
spaghetti. Unwrapping the scrunchie that bound it, she ran her
fingers through the light brown waves. Humidity or not,
she was wearing it down this weekend. In fact, she was wearing it down from now on. “I’m done
with the bun,” she rapped to the mirror, and tossed the
scrunchie into the trash. Day One of the New-Jan Plan. Out in the bedroom, she found Mick stretched out on the
mattress, hands locked behind his head, watching a
Simpson’s rerun. “You’re getting the bed wet,” she said automatically. “It’ll dry.” That was Mick, never worrying about anything, while she
worried about everything. And where had it gotten her?
Out on the street, that’s where, while he was tucked up
in Paradise. Which was exactly why she was changing her old, boring
ways. They weren’t working for her. At. All. “Wow.” From Mick. “Your hair got long.” “Eh.” She plopped down next to him. “Hair grows.” “It’s just that you never wear it down.” He reached out
and rubbed the ends between his fingers. “Soft.” She eyed him. Sometimes she wondered about Mick. They’d
been friends since kindergarten, through the years when
boys and girls were supposed to hate each other, even
through high school when he was the quarterback and she
was a dork. Twelve years out, he was still captain of the team, so to
speak. Fire Captain at his Engine Company, a bona fide
hero with a shiny new Medal of Valor, and a mother’s
lifelong gratitude for rescuing her eight-year-old. Meanwhile Jan was still fighting dorkyness. Still too
skinny, too nerdy, too plain to be anything more than his
buddy, his pal. But sometimes … sometimes when he looked at her the way
he was looking at her now … Nah. She locked it down. She wasn’t Mick's type. And
truthfully, he wasn’t hers either. If she ever found a
guy, he’d be white collar all the way. A lawyer or an
accountant. Not someone who risked his life every day. Her mother had that much of it right. Yes, she was
controlling, neurotic, and paranoid. But about marrying a
man with a dangerous job, Jan's mother could speak with
authority. Knuckles rapped the door, and Mick hopped up and opened
it to the blond from the desk. “Hey, Barbie.” Barbie? Seriously? Barbie’s gaze tracked slowly from Mick’s bare chest up to
his lips. “Hi, Mick.” Breathless. Jan rolled her eyes and did a finger wave. “Looking for
me? Did you find me a room?” Barbie dragged her gaze away from Mick. “Um, no. No
rooms.” “Nowhere on the island?” Mick dragged a hand through his
hair. “This is bullshit,” he declared to the world at
large. “I’m so sorry.” Barbie sounded genuinely sympathetic—on
Mick's account, not Jan’s. “The whole island’s been
booked for months. Even if someone cancels, everyplace
has a waiting list. There’s nothing I can do.” “Thanks for trying.” Mick melted Barbie with a smile.
“I’m turning my room over to Jan. I’ll figure something
out for myself.” Jan popped up. “Wait just a minute—” Barbie steamrolled her. “I’ve got a spare room at my
place,” she said to Mick. “You can crash with me.” “No.” Jan wagged her head definitively. “No no no no no.” Mick had a way of pissing women off. Not completely his
fault, since he never made any promises. The problem was,
Mick loved women. He couldn’t help making them feel
special, and their imaginations ran away with it. Then, when he didn’t fall in with their plans, things
went downhill with a bullet. All Julie’s wedding needed was Barbie storming the
reception and dumping the cake over Mick’s head. Julie
would lay the disaster at Jan's door, because Mick was
her wedding guest. But Barbie was clueless, batting lashes as long as her
namesake’s. “Really, Mick, I don’t mind.” “I mind,” Jan said, sounding more possessive than she
meant to. Mick must have picked up on it, because he flicked his
gaze her way, a quick bolt of blue that could steal an
unsuspecting woman’s breath. Her clothes were sure to follow. But Jan wasn’t an unsuspecting woman. She’d been there
from the beginning, keeping herself out of harm’s way as
Mick learned to handle his sexual mojo, wielding it like
a blunt instrument in high school, and like a light saber
ever since. Sometimes, like now, he carelessly swung it in her
direction. Ignoring the sting, she took one for the bride and groom.
.“Thanks anyway,” she said to Barbie, “but Mick’s staying
right here with me.” She did not just say that. Mick froze like a statue. Holy shit. Three days—and two
nights!—in this shoebox with Jan? Impossible. He opened his mouth to say so, then snapped his jaw shut.
He’d cut off his left nut before he hurt Jan’s feelings. She obviously had no qualms about a platonic roommate
arrangement. So if his frustrated fantasies of getting
her naked kept him climbing the walls all weekend, that
was his problem, not hers. Barbie raked her with sullen eyes. “Your suitcase is in
the lobby. The hotel can’t be responsible if someone
walks out with it.” “I’ll get it.” Mick used the excuse to duck out from
between them. In the lobby, he hit up the water cooler, gulping an icy
cupful down his parched throat. Christ, rooming with Jan was the last thing he needed.
He’d loved her for twenty years, while she’d never seen
him as more than a friend. Sharing a bed with her would
be torture. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the timing couldn’t be
worse. He already had one foot in crazytown and the other
on a banana peel. And all because of the rescue, the one
that earned him the medal for valor. Valor. Ha. People wouldn’t think he was so brave if they
knew about the nightmares. Or rather, one nightmare,
always the same every night, replaying the collapsing
ceiling that missed him by inches. Except in his dreams, it didn’t miss. In his dreams, the
sheet of flames caved in on him, ripping from his arms
the little girl who’d counted on him to save her. Pinning
him to the floor, broiling him alive. He came out of the nightmare screaming, lungs on fire,
skin melting off his bones. Not exactly pajama-party material. He shivered in the heat. Barbie said his name, and he turned, his smile automatic,
a conditioned response to estrogen proximity that she
apparently took as encouragement, because she tapped his
chest with one finger. “You didn’t look thrilled back there,” she said. Was it that obvious? “I get it,” she went on. “You don’t want to hurt her
feelings. But honestly, is it worth your weekend?”
Lavender eyes blinked slowly, invitingly. “I can show you
parts of Key West tourists don’t get to see.” Her tone said the parts she wanted to show him were up
under her flouncy skirt. The truth was, another time he would’ve taken her up on
it. But not this weekend. For better or worse, he’d be spending every minute with
Jan. And here she came to the rescue, hands on her hips
jealous-girlfriend style. “Damn you, Mick McKenna, I
can’t let you out of my sight for a minute.” She
blistered Barbie with a step-off glare. It was an old ruse, dating back to high school, and very
effective at fending off the girls who thought nothing of
elbowing Jan out of their way to get to Mick. Playing his part, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders
and tugged her to his side. “Thanks for the offer,” he
said to Barbie. “But we’re here for a wedding. No time
for sightseeing.” Barbie crinkled her pert nose. “If you change your mind,
you know where to find me.” She disappeared through a
door behind the desk. Jan made a move to duck out from under his arm, but he
tipped his head toward the eye in the sky. “We want her
to think we’re a couple, right?” She let out a hiss. “I can’t take you anywhere.” “I’m a certified pain in the ass.” He wheeled her
suitcase along as they walked lockstep to their room. When the door closed behind them, he questioned his
sanity again. The room was claustrophobically tiny. And
her light scent—the same strawberry shampoo she’d used
since tenth grade—permeated the air, unsettling him to
his marrow. While Jan took it all in stride. “We should hang our wedding clothes on the bathroom
hook,” she said, all business. “That’ll cut down on
wrinkles.” She patted the bed, and he hefted her suitcase onto it,
standing numbly by as she opened it. Then she took a
flowered dress off the top, and he got a glimpse of what
was under it. Black lace panties. Black satin bra. His eyes fell out of his head and rolled onto the bed. NO! Jan was supposed to wear granny panties and old-maid
bras. White cotton; no lace. He was absolutely,
unequivocally certain of that. She glanced around. “Where’s your suit?” He opened his mouth but no words came out. “Mick? Hey, are you having an attack? Can you breath?”
She dropped the dress and pressed her ear to his chest,
listening to his lungs. Her cheek seared the skin over his heart. Curling his hands into fists, he turned his eyes up to
the ceiling. “I’m fine,” he got out. “I haven’t had
asthma in twenty years.” “Mmm, well, your lungs do sound clear,” she murmured.
“But your heart’s beating like a drum.” He took a half step back, away from the yard of soft hair
tickling his bare chest like fingertips. His shoulders
hit the wall with a thud. She gazed up at him like he was a doofus. He could see
the flecks of green in her root beer eyes. “Don’t knock
the wall down,” she said, “or we’ll both be out on the
street.” And she turned away, oblivious to the emotions storming
through his system. “Where’s your suit?” she asked again. “Don’t tell me you
haven’t unpacked it.” She bent over his suitcase, her ass
six inches from his crotch, and he snapped back to life. Bad enough he’d seen her underwear; she didn’t need to
see his. Batting her hands away, he closed the lid. “I dropped it
at the cleaners. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.” He nudged her
aside with his hip. “Why don’t you suit up? The water’s
perfect.” “Okay. I got a new bathing suit. What do you think?” With that, she dug through her suitcase and pulled out a—
God help him—bikini. A sound erupted from his throat. Distress, but Jan took
it as derision. Her face crumpled. “I thought …” She plunked down on the bed. “I just wanted
to try something different. A new Jan.” The hurt on her face made him pull it together fast. “First of all,” he said, “there’s nothing wrong with the
old Jan. And there’s nothing wrong with…” He waved a hand
at the pink-polka-dotted Band Aids that passed for a
swimsuit. “It just surprised me. You always wear a one-
piece.” “I know.” She met his gaze, her expression earnest.
“Maybe I should just—” “You should just put it on. It’s”—too skimpy—“cute.
You’ll look”— too sexy—“great.” He faked his best-pals
smile. “See you at the pool.” He did a one-eighty, and scrammed.
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