Page 10 of Bridal Boot Camp

And even if you tried to find a place you felt might approximate one where happy little bluebirds might fly around all the time—like Little Bridge Island, for instance—and you saved all your money and moved there, you might be surprised to find out that it has its fair share of problems and heartache, too.

But that’s not even the worst part. No, the worst, most irritating thing of all, is that the song always reminds me of people like my grandmother, who, when I asked her where rainbows come from, informed me that each one is a promise from God that He’ll never again destroy the Earth by a devastating flood.

But even as a kid, I knew this was total bull, since floods regularly destroyed whole communities all over the world all the time. Even Little Bridge Island gets destroyed—well, not entirely, but sometimes devastatingly—by flooding almost every hurricane season.

But here were these sweet, childish voices—along with Ryan’s surprisingly in-tune mellow baritone—assuring me that somewhere, over the rainbow, I was going to find happiness—which I knew was a bold-faced lie.

Yet somehow their singing, along with the plinking notes of their really, really not very good ukulele playing, was making me feel—

Well, like I believed it. I did! For the first time since I was teenager, as I stood in that tacky dockside diner, watching that full-grown, handsome cop play that dumb, tiny instrument, surrounded by so many kids, with his beautiful dog sitting at his feet, gazing up at him worshipfully, I found myself not only actually liking “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” but actually believing that there might be something to those stupid, overhyped, clichéd words.

And getting choked up about it. As I looked around, I could see that no else in the café felt the same way. Everyone else was smiling and humming along—even Bree, whose eyes, for once, didn’t look sad at all.

So why was I the only one getting emotional (which I never do, except, as Jenna had mentioned, at weddings or the occasional really good made-for-TV romantic comedy)? My nose was suddenly stuffy, and my eyes were beginning to sting.

What was happening to me? Was I going tocry?

No. Oh, hell no. It wasn’t possible. Not here. Not now, in my sexiest bra, in front of Ryan.

I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there right now, before any of my clients—and especially Ryan—noticed.

So I threw a few bucks onto the counter for Bree, then hurtled my way out of the diner to safety.

Outside, dusk was falling, the sun sinking slowly into the Gulf, turning the puffy clouds that hung over the glassy sea pink and purple and smoky gray. As usual, there was a crowd gathered to appreciate the sunset, as there was every night, both on the dock and in boats gliding on the water’s surface before it.

I hurried as far as I could get from them—and the sound of that infernal song—until I found myself way out on the farthest point of the pier, beside a diesel gas pump where boats low on fuel came for refills. It wasn’t the most romantic place to be—the smell of diesel was almost as strong as the fragrance of the sea—but I was glad. I wasn’t there for romance. I was there to get my head together. I just needed to be alone for a few minutes to figure out what was wrong with me.

And I was alone, except for a few three-foot tarpons rolling around in the clear water beneath my feet, looking for their evening meal, their shiny silver gills flashing in the evening light.

What was wrong with me? I wondered as I sat down on the edge of the dock, the wood worn smooth from the sun and surf and seagull crap. How could a song—and a dumb dog—have turned me so inside out? How could a guy have done this, after all the careful armor I’d built around my heart?

Because a part of me, deep down inside, knew it hadn’t been “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” or Chrissie that had made me feel so emotional.

It had been Ryan Martinez.

Who knows how long I would have sat out there by myself if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was no cell phone service whatsoever, so I couldn’t even text Jenna to tell her what a weird night I was having, and how mad I was at her, and how I wanted my Wednesday yoga nights back.

I was getting up to go when I heard footsteps approaching. Looking up, I saw Ryan coming toward me, the wind catching at his unruly dark curls and the edges of his guayabera. Chrissie trotted obediently at his heels, her tail wagging.

Crap.

Chapter Four

“What are you doing all the way out here?” he asked.

“Uh.” Long experience had taught me that when in doubt, it was best to go on the defensive. “What areyoudoing all the way out here? Don’t you have a class to teach?”

“The guys said they saw you leave.” He didn’t stop walking until there was only a foot or so of space between us. Chrissie trotted all the way to the end of the pier and stood looking out to sea, sniffing the salty air, her brown-eyed gaze on the tarpons, her fur blowing gently in the breeze, her pink tongue lolling. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just got—I got a little—”

And then, to my utter mortification, and before I could stop them, the tears came, accompanied by big, ridiculous baby sobs. I was standing at the end of the pier, crying, like an idiot. Or a rom-com character.

I’d never been more mortified in my life.

Sheriff’s Deputy Ryan Martinez put both hands on my shoulders and pulled me toward him.

“Hey,” he said, shushing me. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s all good. What’s wrong? What’s the matter? Did someone hurt you?”