The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances)
THE BRIDE WORE
CHOCOLATE
A SWEET AND SAVORY NOVEL
BY SHIRLEY JUMP
Copyright Information
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author‘s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2012 by Shirley Jump
Original version published in 2004.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
eISBN: 978-1-937776-26-8
Also by Shirley Jump
Check out the entire Sweet and Savory Novel series:
The Groom Wanted Seconds (prequel)
The Bride Wore Chocolate
The Devil Served Desire
The Angel Tasted Temptation
Special Edition Christmas Novella (Dec 2012)
Other books by Shirley:
Really Something
The Bachelor Preferred Pastry
Around the Bend
The Other Wife
Return of the Last McKenna
Simply the Best
Visit Shirley online at www.ShirleyJump.com or follow her on Twitter @ShirleyJump.
www.SweetandSavoryRomances.com
Table of Contents
THE BRIDE WORE CHOCOLATE
Copyright Information
Also by Shirley Jump
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
Special Excerpt from The Devil Served Desire (Sweet and Savory, Book 2)
Special Excerpt from The Angel Tasted Temptation (Sweet and Savory, Book 3)
Author Bio
1 cup granulated sugar
2 cups butter
1 cup water
1 teaspoon instant coffee
1 pound high-quality, amazing-tasting semisweet chocolate
8 eggs, beaten slightly
Put the oven on 350 degrees. Grease up a 9-inch spring-form pan (and if it helps any, pretend the pan is a good-looking man). In a saucepan, heat sugar, butter, water, coffee and chocolate, stirring like your life depended on it (and actually it does—this is chocolate). Remove from heat when chocolate is melted and smooth. Take one taste to ensure you've used good-quality ingredients.
Okay, take another, just to be positive.
Stir in those eggs and ignore that nasty phase before they're properly mixed.
Now it's time to let it go. I know, I know. It looks good already but truly, you have to cook it. Salmonella and all that. Wouldn't want your groom to be indisposed on the big day. Pour the gorgeous chocolate batter into the pan. Bake 45-50 minutes. Try desperately not to think about the cake until after the timer goes off. Remove from oven and while it's cooling, put on “Chapel of Love.” When you're finally in that wedding mood, indulge. Liberally.
CHAPTER 1
Candace Woodrow stared at the gooey, sunken mess inverting onto itself like there was a Hoover under the table. “This was supposed to be a groom's cake, not a pancake.”
Rebecca poked at the chocolate failure. “Did you cook it long enough?”
“I thought I did,” Candace said. “I lost track of time because Trifecta needed to go out.”
“I've seen you with that dog.” Maria wagged a finger at her. “Taking a three-legged dog for a walk is a comedy of errors.” She gave an indulgent smile to Candace's shelter-rescued mutt, dozing in the front part of the shop, separated from the kitchen by a glass door. “We still love ya, Trifecta, even if you are a living tripod.”
Candace laughed. The best thing about working with her friends every day was the laughter. Without them, she swore she'd have gone crazy planning her wedding.
Two years ago, the three of them had started Gift Baskets to Die For in the basement of Candace's Dorchester duplex. Within a year, their food-themed baskets had hit it big with the corporations in Boston, allowing them to open a storefront in a quaint building not far from Faneuil Hall Marketplace. Business had been brisk enough to pay both the rent and decent salaries for all of them.
Candace's life was settled, secure. On an even, planned keel. She was twenty-seven, three weeks from being married, and her life was chugging along on the path she'd laid out.
Everything was perfect—except the cake.
“Maybe the eggs were spoiled,” Candace said. “I mean, look at this thing. It's an overgrown hockey puck.”
“It's a sign.” Maria nodded and her shoulder-length chestnut curls shook in emphasis. “Yep. Definitely a sign.”
Rebecca shushed her. “Will you stop with that? This is Candace's wedding we're talking about. Don't make her more nervous than she already is.” She took another look at the cake. “I think you just underbaked it. Besides, this was a trial run. We'll make another one before the wedding.”
“What if it is a sign?” Candace threw up her hands. “Look at all that's gone wrong with my wedding. The DJ I booked had a heart attack—”
“He said the wheelchair won't stop him from spinning CDs,” Rebecca pointed out.
“If he doesn't electrocute himself with the IV drip,” Maria added.
“And then last week Father Kenny ran off with the church secretary.”
“Who turned out to be a Daniel, not a Danielle like we all thought.” Maria grabbed a raspberry thumbprint cookie from the Tupperware container on the counter and took a bite. Maria Pagliano's method of dieting involved buying the latest issues of Cosmo, Glamour and Woman's World, picking and choosing the parts she liked from their diets of the month, then chucking the whole thing on weekends.
“Don't forget the fire at the dress shop. I still can't believe the store burned to the ground, and with your dress inside.” Rebecca twisted a scrunchie around her straight brown hair, creating a jaunty ponytail. On Rebecca Hamilton, almost any hairstyle looked good. She had one of those long, delicate faces made for Cover Girl. “It was kind of heroic, though, how that cute fireman kept you from going in after it. He saved your life.”
“I would have rather he saved my dress,” Candace muttered. “At least I have insurance. But I still need to find another dress. I can't get that particular one anymore and even if I could, there's not enough time to order it.”
“You haven't bought one yet?” Maria's jaw dropped. “But Candace, the wedding's only three weeks away.”
Since Candace had said “I will” to Barry, it had been one disaster after another. If she put stock in things like signs, she'd have called off the wedding months ago. But she didn't believe in any of that. The disasters encompassed a string of bad luck, no more. Marrying Barry was the right choice. When she’d weighed the options, Barry had come out high on the good idea sid
e. She’d looked at her upcoming wedding as she had every major move in her life, with careful research, planning and analysis.
Only once had she stepped out of that box. A long time ago. Ever since then, Candace had subscribed to the “more control is better” life mantra. That was what made Barry perfect for her. They matched like plaid and stripes.
On her marrying Barry list the pros had far outweighed any cons. Now if Murphy's Law would just see that too.
Candace sighed. “Between the business and all those last-minute glitches, I haven't had time to find another dress.”
Rebecca looped her arm through Candace’s. “Tonight we're going dress shopping, and then we’ll get good and drunk because tomorrow is Sunday, our day off, and we don't have a single delivery due on Monday.”
Of the three of them, Rebecca’s status as the oldest by four months had made her the unofficial decision maker. She was also the thinnest and the only one who came equipped with both an iron will and a Blackwell-worthy fashion sense. And, as the sole married one, the wisest when it came to matters of weddings and bridal gowns.
“Wow. An instant vacation.” Maria grabbed a second cookie and finished it off in two bites. “I hope the bar is well stocked.”
Rebecca gave her a wry look. “You mean you hope the bartender is well built.”
“Yeah, that, too.” Maria smiled. “But if he doesn't know how to make a killer margarita, what good are looks?”
Candace laughed. She picked up the cake disaster and threw it into the trash, then dropped the springform pan in the sink to soak. The bell over the shop door jangled and a second later, an enormous backpack wrangled through the door into the kitchen.
“Grandma?”
Candace's petite grandmother twirled around, spinning the king-size bag in the kitchen with an ease that belied her age—and nearly took out the Cuisinart on the side counter. “I'm making a pit stop,” Grandma Woodrow said, swiping at her brow. The bag dwarfed her, and made her seem even smaller and thinner. “Lord, it's hot out there for June.”
“What are you doing with that thing?”
“Hiking. What else would you need a backpack for? George is taking me hiking next month along the Appalachian Trail. I'm following the Paul Revere Trail today so I can break it in.” Grandma lowered the dark green bag to the floor, slipping her arms out of the metal frame. She tugged off her Red Sox ball cap and fluffed up her short gray hair, using the toaster for a mirror.
Grandma was seventy-six but told everyone she was fifty-eight. Even Candace fell for the age lie once in a while and forgot her grandmother had been collecting social security for more than a decade. She'd inherited Grandma's hazel eyes and the long blond hair she'd had in her youth, but not Grandma's wild, adventurous personality. “When are you going to get old like other self-respecting retirees?”
Her grandmother waved her hand in dismissal. “Never. Old equals dead. Besides, I'd have to buy a rocking chair and I don't even like to rock.” She grinned and gave Candace a wink. “Unless I'm rocking with George, of course.”
“Stop! Too much information.” Candace poured a tall glass of lemonade from the refrigerator and handed it to her grandmother, then pushed the container of cookies across the counter. Grandma scooped up three. Candace smiled. Grandma never could resist any of the shop's baked goodies. Every evening after work, Candace brought home a few cookies and dropped them off at her grandmother's apartment before going to her own half of the duplex they shared.
Six years ago, Candace had moved in at her grandmother's suggestion, to help save money. And, Grandma Woodrow had added, to look after her because she was getting up there in years. Candace suspected the real, unspoken reason hit a little closer to home. Grandma, who had more energy than Carrot Top on steroids, missed the echoes of other people in the house.
Candace's father, Grandma's only child, had headed for a permanent tan in Florida years earlier, making occasional seasonal visits on his way up to his summer lake cottage in New Hampshire. Candace's mother, who seemed to be trying to break Elizabeth Taylor's husband record, was always away on one honeymoon or another.
That left just Candace and Grandma Woodrow. Truth be told, Candace liked it that way, despite Grandma's habit of offering quirky advice on everything from buying watermelon—look for one that thumps when you smack it—to kissing men—look for one that doesn't smack you when you thump him.
“So, what are you girls cooking up today?” Grandma asked.
Rebecca gestured toward the trashcan. “A groom's cake. But it refused to stay up. Maybe we should have added some Viagra to the mix.”
Grandma shook half a cookie at Candace. “It's a sign.”
“I just undercooked it. It's not a sign of anything.” Candace recovered the cookies and put them away.
Grandma's face took on a stricken look. She pouted.
“Okay, two more. We need these for orders.” She peeled back the lid and held out the container. Grandma grabbed four before Candace snapped the top shut again.
“I'm an old woman,” she said. “You have to indulge me.”
Candace laughed. “You're only old when it's convenient.”
Grandma ignored her. “Are you sure Barry is your soul mate?”
Too often, they retreaded this familiar ground. Candace wanted the wedding to be over, so all of them would stop quizzing her. “Grandma, you know I don't believe in signs or soul mates or harbingers of evil. You meet a guy who doesn't have any outrageous fetishes or a criminal record, you marry him and you hope you can hang on for a few years before the lawyers start dividing the toys.”
“What about romance? True love? Undying devotion?”
“That only happens in Meg Ryan movies. Not in my life.”
Across the room, Maria and Rebecca kept mute. As the maid and matron of honor, they supported Candace marrying Barry, but both still held this deep-seated belief in love at first sight, a statistical improbability according to the article Candace had read in Newsweek last month.
Candace knew her friends didn't quite agree with her numerical analysis of her future. The other two lived life on the right side of their brains. Rebecca had settled down, now married and with a three-year-old. Maria had a new love of her life on a regular basis. Right now, it was David, a cute gynecologist who'd moved into Maria's condo last month and pledged his undying devotion with a pearl necklace and one-half the rent.
Candace considered herself too levelheaded to get caught up in that wine and roses stuff. At three years from turning thirty, she told herself she needed to give up on the Cinderella fantasy.
Besides, any woman who had mice for best friends was probably legally insane anyway.
1 banana, chopped
1/2 container chocolate syrup
3 ounces milk
3 ounces rum
2 Tylenol, crushed
Dim the lights and for God's sake, don't open the blinds. Muffle the blender motor with a towel, then blend all ingredients until as frothy as a virgin's prom gown. Don't bother with a glass; drink straight from the damned pitcher.
Repeat as necessary. Then get to a mall and a Krispy Kreme store for further remedial help.
CHAPTER 2
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.
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.