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      LUCIE WEBSTER WAS already itching to bolt the chapel—and they weren’t even up to “Do you take this man?”

      Lucky thing it wasn’t her wedding, or she would’ve.

      But no, it was her much younger half sister, Steffi, who was tying the knot. With nine years between them, she and Steffi had never been close, which put Lucie well down the line at number thirteen in a collection of fifteen bridesmaids. She knew she was picked out of desperation—it was hard to come up with fifteen willing attendants, for goodness sake—but she could hardly say no when her father started twisting arms on behalf of his beloved Steffi.

      So here she was, squashed together with the other losers at the end of the line, right where they ran out of space around the altar and had to sort of huddle against a stone wall. Well, she thought, trying to look on the bright side, at least this way she had something to lean on, which took some of the pressure off the nasty, high-heeled granny boots Steffi had chosen for the bridesmaids.

      Quietly shifting her weight, Lucie glanced around the chapel. Actually, this place was rather pretty, in a gloomy, Gothic way, with crumbling stone and flickering candles giving it a romantic glow.

      It did seem kind of strange as churches went. But what could you expect from a chapel attached to a golf course? If someone needed divine intervention to get out of a sand trap, this would be the place to turn. Still, Lucie felt sure it wasn’t intended for a crowded, over-perfumed spectacle like this one. Under the circumstances, St. Andrew’s Chapel felt more like Sardines R Us.

      Plus, Steffi’s super-Scottish theme had necessitated itchy kilts and even itchier wool jackets for the whole bridal party. Except for Steffi herself, of course. She was radiant in a white lace dress that stood out like a beacon in this sea of dark, rather menacing, red-and-black tartans.

      Maybe it was the overabundance of plaid making Lucie swoon. That or the heat of a sultry June evening, the close conditions, the thick odor of roses and melting wax, or the tight, uncomfortable clothing.

      As the voices up in front droned on, Lucie used her bouquet as a block so she could reach inside her kilt and give her waistline a good scratch.

      “Aaah,” she breathed. More dirty looks. Well, good grief, it wasn’t her fault if Steffi’d stuck them all in these silly outfits. So she was marrying a guy named Mackintosh. So his family owned golf courses and resorts with goofy Scottish names—all “Bonnie Brae” and “Glen Loch Laddie”—all over Chicagoland. Did that mean Steffi had to dredge up kilts and tams and bagpipers out the wazoo just to marry the guy?

      Apparently.

      Lucie’s nose began to tickle. Uh-oh. Sneeze coming on. She tried her best to stifle it into her bouquet, but that made her