Meet Me at the Chapel by Joanna Sims

apartment was basically the size of the kitchen. It was tiny and she had already feng shui’d it, rehabbed it and decorated it several times over. Now she had an entire house with which to go crazy? Heaven.
    Hannah and Casey spent the next hour writing a priority list for the house while Brock watched TV. They both agreed that the living room was the first room to be tackled. Even though Hannah wanted to be there for every inch of the demolition fun, they decided that it would be better if Casey got started first thing in the morning before Brock had a chance to think about it and change his mind.
    So, first thing after breakfast, right after Brock and Hannah left for school, Casey did what she had wanted to do since the very first moment she had walked into the dreary living room—she began to pull down the awful brocade curtains that must have been hanging there since the house was first built. One by one, the curtains were yanked down, leaving plumes of dust hanging in the air and flying up Casey’s nose.
    â€œAchoo!” Casey started to sneeze. “Achoo!” She sneezed again and again until her eyes were watering and her nose was running.
    She left the pile of curtains in a heap in the center of the living room and ran to the bathroom.
    â€œOh, lord.” Casey looked at her reflection. Her eyes were swollen from the dust; the end of her nose was red from her itching it. She splashed water on her face, hoping to get the dust out of her eyes and her nose. It was in her hair, on her shirt, inside her shirt, on her pants—the fine dust that had accumulated for years had landed on her.
    She came out of the bathroom only to hear the faint noise of a micro-poodle sneezing.
    â€œOh, not you, too, Hercules!”
    The teacup poodle had been sleeping contentedly in his carrier—but he wasn’t sleeping now. She had thought that she had put him out of range and out of danger from the dust, but she had miscalculated the sheer quantity that had been collected on Brock’s curtains.
    Hercules sneezed once, twice and then again and again, until she lost count.
    â€œI’m so sorry, sweet boy!” Urgently, she got the poodle out of the house and up to the loft where she kept a bottle of liquid Benadryl to control Hercules’s allergies.
    She was just finishing tending to her micro-poodle and he had just stopped sneezing, thankfully, when she heard a truck pull up. Assuming it was Brock returning to the ranch because he had forgotten something, she hurriedly went downstairs to meet him. But when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the truck stopping in front of the house didn’t belong to Brock at all.
    â€œHowdy!” Wyatt, the flirtatious cowboy from Bent Tree, hopped out of his early model Ford truck.
    â€œHi.”
    Wyatt met her halfway. “I took a chance that you’d still be here.”
    Taken aback, Casey’s eyebrows lifted and then drew together. “You’re looking for me?”
    Wyatt adjusted his brown cowboy hat on his head. “I’m looking for you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    The stark confusion in her single-word question made the young cowboy laugh. Man, oh, man was Wyatt easy on the eyes. So handsome—golden skin, dark gold hair, good nose, straight teeth, deadly dimples... Wyatt must have been leaving broken hearts and broken dreams all over the state of Montana. He wasn’t of a settling age, but she had no doubt that female after pining female had given it their best shot to wrangle him.
    â€œI’ve been trying to catch you at Bent Tree, but I keep missing you. I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding me.” Wyatt smiled at her. “But then I thought—that’s not possible.”
    Now it was Casey’s turn to laugh. It was a foreign concept to Wyatt that a female wouldn’t be swooning at the thought of his baby blues—she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she had forgotten