Rockaway Bride Pippa Grant ~ Page 1

Read Online Books/Novels:Rockaway BrideAuthor/Writer of Book/Novel:Pippa GrantLanguage:EnglishISBN/ ASIN:B07DZNRZFZBook Information:

A Rock Star Kidnaps a Runaway Bride"Kidnapping the bride seemed like a good idea at the time.
Her fianc" stole my fortune, so I stole his woman.

Tit for tat. Or tat for tit. However you want to look at it.

The one thing I didn"t expect"

Willow Honeycutt, preschool teacher, boy band super fan, is completely crazy.

And somehow she"s turned the tables on me.

Now, she"s holding me hostage, and she won"t let me go until we hit every item on her sparkly new, completely insane bucket list.

And that last item"

That last item might cost me more than any fortune.

It very well might cost me my heart.

Rockaway Bride is a romping fun romance between a down-on-his-luck rock star and a boy band-loving preschool teacher, complete with a road trip, handcuffs, and fun with nuns. This romantic comedy stands alone with no cheating or cliffhangers and ends with a rockin’ awesome happily ever after.Books by Author:Pippa Grant Books

1

Willow Honeycutt (aka a bride on the verge of a breakdown)

When I was little and dreaming of my wedding day, I always pictured myself with a Mohawk, a tie-dyed fluffy wedding gown cut off at the knees, biker boots, and dashing out the back of a chapel in Vegas to peel off into the sunset on a Harley.

Mostly because I was secretly in love with Davis Remington, the youngest member of the boy band Bro Code, who had tattoos and sometimes shaved parts of his head and made headlines once when he crashed a Harley, and he was just hot, and I assumed that"s what his wedding would be like, and also that I would be his bride, because he was only a few years older than me.

Not that I ever told my mom that. As far as she knows, I always loved Tripp Wilson"you know, the big brother of the group, who was more years older than me and therefore only a silly girl crush"because that helped her sleep at night, and I knew how much she worried.

About everything.

Being a single mother in the city is hard. So I kept my dreams of marrying a boy band bad boy to myself, I got good grades, I got scholarships for an early childhood education degree and then a job teaching preschool. Meanwhile, Mom married the king of a small Nordic country"yes, seriously"and I stayed in New York and joined a band where we cover our favorite boy band songs and mostly play juice bars some nights and weekends, and tomorrow I"m having the fairytale princess wedding in a palace, exactly like every girl dreams of.

Except me.

And tonight, while I wander the stone hallways of Skyr Castle in my mom"s adopted home country of St"lland, where I"m supposed to be getting my beauty rest after the rehearsal dinner, at which my soon-to-be mother-in-law kissed up to the king so very blatantly that even the palace mice were embarrassed for her, I"m trying really, really hard to convince myself that my regrets and doubts are a result of this wedding"s lack of Mohawk, tattoos, biker boots, and getaway Harleys.

And that my regrets and doubts have nothing to do with Martin.

My fianc".

Whom I"m marrying.

In eighteen hours.

Eighteen.

Hours.

Eighteen hours until my life and my freedom and my future are forever sealed in the bonds of marriage.

To Martin.

I"m going to throw up.

I breathe through the nausea and turn a corner, passing one of those knight thingies that are in the corners of ancient stone castles everywhere, except this one is all suited up in Viking armor instead of metal armor, so it has a vicious-looking helmet with horns on top and some weird protrusion covering where a person"s nose should be, a shield portraying the Frey family coat of arms, which has a killer sheep carrying a spear and an ax and eating a whale on it"royalty is so weird"and a bearskin rug where a breastplate should be.

Bearskin coat"

Whatever.

The point is, I turn the corner on knees and legs which are rapidly melting to the consistency of slime, wishing I had a paper bag, and I find myself face-to-face with three real Viking princes.

My stepbrothers. Who, thankfully, are all in jeans and casual dress shirts instead of Viking armor, because that truly would be the end of me for the night.

"There"s the lovely blushing bride," Gunnar, the oldest, says.

"Blushing"" Manning, the youngest, scans me up and down, smiling as he always does. "I believe the more appropriate adjective would be hyperventilating."

"You two fuckers are bloody useless," grumbles Colden, the grumpy one.

All three have this quasi-British accent that would be intriguing if any of them were tatted up, owned motorcycles, and not my stepbrothers.

Colden shoves a wine bottle into my hand. "Drink."

St"lland"s national beverage is mead, and I learned the night before my mom"s wedding to the king several years back that I don"t tolerate it well.

I take the bottle and glug off the top without asking for a glass, because he"s right. I need a drink. And I"ve known my stepbrothers long enough to know that when one is handed a bottle, one drinks off the bottle.

Which is awesome tonight.

Tonight, I need all the drinks.

"Maybe this won"t be so bad," Gunnar says to Manning, who nods his agreement while they both watch me swig.

The two of them are nearly the same height, both with thick brown hair tinged with red in the sunlight, both with pale blue eyes, and both fathers now, though Gunnar"the crown prince"is always clean-shaven, whereas Manning, who"s so far down the line to inherit the crown that he"s been given permission to live in the States and play professional hockey basically until he"s too old to play anymore, almost perpetually sports a short beard around his never-ending smile.

He"s madly in love with the perfect woman for him, and they have the most adorable baby together. Of course he"s smiling.

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