A Groom of One's Own (Appies, #3)

by Emma St. Clair

I choke on a laugh. No—literally choke. And I guess, technically, I’m choking on my own saliva, not laughter. Caught in the embarrassing and unlikely situation wherein a handsome man makes a statement—or a joke?—about marriage, then you inhale your own spit and almost die. Maybe, I think as I hack uncontrollably, dying would be preferable to this current humiliation. Eli is beside me in an instant, crouching inches away, Doris cradled to his chest with one arm. He reaches out to me with the other, grasping my shoulder and giving me the smallest shake. His eyes—the pure, crisp blue of Norwegian fjords, which I know because I googled Norwegian fjords once after he came in—are wide and panicked. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. Bailey, I⁠—” I cut him off with a wave of my hand, trying to wheeze out something dismissive like, I’m fine, really, or Just leave me here to die. But my words are unintelligible, and his concern increases as he tugs me forward, then attempts to slap me on the back. All while keeping a small dog tucked protectively against his body. Doris must have seen some things in her little life because she seems totally nonplussed by my near-death experience. Then again, maybe she doesn’t care because Eli’s solid presence has lulled her into feeling secure. This situation is utterly ridiculous. Eli is ridiculous. Yet still so very, very attractive. This image would make a good inspiration for a monthly calendar. The theme being: Hot Men Saving Women from Certain Death W...