Change of heart, p.1
Change of Heart, page 1
Change of Heart
The Good Girl’s Guide to Crashing Weddings
Kate Canterbary
Contents
About Change of Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also By Kate Canterbary
About Kate
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Kate Canterbary
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the author.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner's trademark(s).
No part of this book was created, edited, or designed using AI.
Editing provided by Julia Ganis of Julia Edits.
Editing provided by Erica Russikoff of Erica Edits.
Proofreading provided by Marla Esposito of Proofing Style.
Proofreading provided by Isabella Bauer of Como la Flor.
Cover art and design created by Qamber Designs.
Created with Vellum
For the oldest sisters who are never, ever wrong about anything. Ever.
About Change of Heart
Grey’s Anatomy meets a gender-swapped Wedding Crashers in this spicy rom-com about a one-night stand with The One, walking the tightrope of love and workplace ethics, and knowing which rules are worth breaking.
Every summer, superstar surgeon Whitney Aldritch crashes weddings with her best friend. The first one was an accident though after a decade of dropping in uninvited, they’re masters of their craft. They keep the rules simple and they never go to bed alone.
Then there’s Henry Hazlette, best man and the best one-night stand of Whit’s summer. She never imagined she’d see him again but now he’s one of her new surgical residents—and completely off-limits.
Whitney has staked her reputation on leading the hospital’s new ethics initiative. While Henry is under her supervision, they have to keep it professional. But it doesn’t help that she can’t turn around without running face-first into his offensively broad chest or rubbing up against him in crammed elevators. Also not helping: the way he smiles at her like he can hear her every not-safe-for-work thought.
All they have to do is survive this residency—and the accidental tarot card readings that hit too close to home, a few uninvited houseguests, and the hospital’s hyperactive rumor mill—but only if they’re prepared to bend some rules as the feelings go from just for tonight to get it out of our systems to mine.
Content Notes: Parental estrangement and abandonment; parental divorce; chronic illness (secondary character); brief mention of suicide (in the past, not detailed, not a central character); mention of infidelity (secondary characters); frequent medical, hospital, and surgical discussion (no blood, no gore); discussion of donor organ retrieval and organ transplant surgeries (no blood, no gore); brief discussion of mountain rescue situations (not detailed); discussion of workplace bullying (off-page).
One
Whitney
The Good Girl’s Guide to Crashing Weddings,
Rule Number Six:
The bridal party is always off-limits.
June
I paused, the eyeliner poised over my lid, and blinked at my reflection in the mirror. “I don’t think I know who I am anymore.”
I took in the loose waves, subtle makeup, and flowy dress. It was all mine yet I didn’t recognize any of it.
“You’re ‘Olivia Whitney.’” The shout came from the adjoining room before Meri Mercer appeared in the doorway, her attention fixed on clasping her bracelet. “I’m ‘Emma Meriweather.’ Remember? We nailed down the backstory this morning.”
I gave myself an up-and-down glance in the mirror. This morning was a faint, foggy memory thanks to last night’s tequila shots and dancing until two a.m. My body still hadn’t fully recovered from any part of that.
Hello, thirty-five. You’re not a lot of fun.
“We talked about this. We’re teachers.” Meri dropped her hands to her hips. “Because no one ever asks a teacher to diagnose the rash on their ass in the middle of cocktail hour.”
I glanced down at the eyeliner pen. “That is true.”
“The only time I want to see someone drop their pants in front of me tonight is right before they rail me with their giant dong. Speaking of which, I went downstairs and did some reconnaissance while you were daydreaming in the shower, and I’m confident saying that tonight we will be having our beefcake and eating it too. I think we missed the turn for the wedding and ended up at a sausage convention, but I’m not mad about it.”
I turned back to the mirror to finish my lids. “Okay, great.”
She cocked her head. “Are you good?”
I caught her eye in the mirror. “What? Me? Yeah. Of course. Great. Very pleased to hear about both the beefcake and sausage.”
I’d never admit it to Meri though I was exhausted. We were seventeen days, nine different hotels, and seven crashed weddings into our three-week summer getaway, a tradition we’d started back in med school. Our annual girls’ trip had survived residencies and fellowships on opposite sides of the country, insane schedules where we could barely pull together a long weekend, and the golden shackles of intern poverty.
For the past decade, these vacations had been the best parts of my year and I knew it was the same for Meri.
It was the one time when there were no rules and we didn’t have to be all the things we’d built ourselves into. We didn’t have to be professional or mature or anything like the women we were the rest of the year. We could let go of our entire worlds and be anyone from anywhere.
And we could spend the night with whoever we wanted.
Which we did. A lot.
As was often the case with the best things, crashing the first wedding had been an accident. We’d agonized over it after the fact. Then we sent a gift from the registry and did it again. The ethics were absolutely questionable though we went to great pains to ensure we did no harm. If anything, the weddings we crashed were better because we’d been there. Whether it was waking up a sleepy table or defusing a bridesmaid fight in the bathroom, Heimliching and EpiPenning whenever the moment called for it or talking someone’s misguided boyfriend out of proposing in the middle of the toasts, we were a force of good. Chaotic good, but that had to count for something. And we gave the best—albeit anonymous—gifts. The professional food processors and the stand mixers, the high-end vacuums and the trendy luggage.
But make no mistake about it, peak summer season wedding crashing was not for the faint of heart. I had several blisters in various states of awful from dancing my ass off in ridiculous shoes, my throat was sore, and I’d burned the back of my ear on the curling iron. On top of that, I’d been mildly—or more than mildly—hungover for so long that wearing sunglasses indoors was part of my personality now.
And I couldn’t keep track of my backstory.
“Are you sure you’re okay for this? The Belwood-Ballicanta wedding is the Super Bowl of our summer. It’s the big one. I need you solid. Solid for all this sausage.” Meri was a one-woman hype squad on a normal day, but she turned into a Texas high school football coach one score away from clinching a spot at the state finals when it came to crashing weddings. She traveled with enough medical supplies to pop out my appendix in the morning and march me onto the dance floor the same evening. “By my estimation, we’ll be literally drowning in dick so you’re going to need your wits about you.”
I frowned at her in the mirror. “Do I really want to drown in dick?”
“I do.” Meri smoothed a hand down the length of her dress and shrugged. “I just want to lie there while the beefcake buffet comes to me. Or have them wheeled over on a cart like dim sum.”
“You’re going to need to ice your vagine again if you do, and it’s your turn to drive tomorrow.”
“I can do that and drive at the same time!” She fluttered her hands like I was testing her patience. “If anyone needs dim sum dick, it’s you. All you did was dance last night.”
I tossed the eyeliner back into my makeup bag. “You say that like there’s a moral failure in not bringing a guy back to my room. I had fun last night.”
“Yes, I heard you snoring through the walls.”
“A re you sure that wasn’t the echo of your headboard?”
She belted out a laugh and shook her head. “You know how it goes. The shorter ones always have something to prove”—she pounded a fist against her palm—“and they don’t stop until they prove it three or four times.”
I swallowed a laugh. “How are you able to walk today?”
“NSAIDs and benzocaine spray. Why? Do you need some?”
“I’m good.” I motioned to her floor-length navy blue gown. “I thought you said you weren’t bringing the strikeout dress this year.”
“We are not calling it the strikeout dress.” She shifted to face herself in the mirror and futzed with her ribbon-tied shoulder straps. “I’ve only worn it three times. That’s hardly an adequate sample size to draw conclusions.”
“Last summer, you said that dress was a clam-jamming chastity belt and you swore you were selling it to someone who deserved that kind of curse.”
“Well, I have a new bra and I think it’s safe to say it’s working miracles.” She cupped her breasts and gave them a jiggle. “These are no longer basic boobs. These are cautionary-tale tits.”
Not for the first time in our friendship, I gave her cleavage a meaningful glance. Meri was beautiful. Short, curvy, redheaded, and she had a personality that could always find its light. She could suck the oxygen from a room with one smile. “Here’s a cautionary tale for you. If you start bouncing around on the dance floor, one of those things is going to bust out and break your nose.”
She circled me, eyeing my dress. “And what about you, Miss Olivia Sexyskirts? Where did this thing come from and why did it make you forget the number one rule of wedding crashing—never outshine the bride or her maids?”
“I am not outshining the bride.” I glanced down at my peachy-pink dress. It had been a splurge, and a misguided one at that seeing as it had required tailoring and weapons-grade shapewear to fit my size fourteen ass. I’d justified it all by telling myself I had tons of places to wear a flowy gown with a hand-ruched sweetheart neckline and the most gorgeous chiffon flowers climbing over my shoulders and trailing down my back like a vine of pale morning glories. What workaholic surgeon living in the ever so temperate climate of Boston, Massachusetts didn’t need that exact thing in her closet?
“Let’s hope not.” Meri headed toward the balcony doors, saying, “We’re friends of the bride’s family on her father’s side. He’s one of those guys who knows the entire world and hasn’t been stingy with the invites. I overheard someone in the elevator saying he invited everyone who works for him and loads of business associates. He’s the reason this shindig is rounding out at nearly six hundred guests. Apparently they reserved rooms on three whole floors of this place.”
I joined her on the balcony, watching while the hotel crew put the finishing touches on the outdoor ceremony space. Hundreds of white chairs fanned out around a raised platform with the shimmering summer blue of Lake Tahoe and majestic ponderosa pines as the backdrop. When it was time for the bride to walk down the aisle at five thirty this evening, the sun was going to hit her like a halo.
Brilliant planning, I had to admit.
“We live in the Bay Area. I teach middle school science and the kids are a nightmare, but I love them,” she continued. “If we get stuck for any reason, talk about University of Nevada, Reno football. It seems like both families have a lot of alums and the father of the bride is a big fan of the Wolf Pack. He has high hopes that they slaughter Boise State this year.”
“Love that for him.”
Meri looped her arm around my shoulders. “Are you sure you’re good? We can swaddle up in robes, eat room service, and then diagnose injuries in action movies if you want. That’s always an option, Whit.”
My best friend was the best friend in the world. There was no one better, of that I was certain. “We look too good to miss this. Seriously, it would be a disservice to this wedding for us to sit it out. We’re going to dance until we kill the nerves in our feet and we’re going to drink like we’re twenty-five, and we’re going to have the best time of anyone at this wedding. Plus, I’m dying to see the bride’s dress and I’m sure the food is going to be insane.” I motioned between us. “Most importantly, we need to break the curse on this dress.”
With a nod, she said, “We saved the best for last this year. This is going to be a good one. I can feel it.”
“Yeah,” I said, blowing out a breath. “Me too.”
As a rule, we only crashed big weddings. It was easier to blend in when there were at least three hundred guests in attendance. We’d added that to our rule book several years ago after an awkward situation in South Carolina that nearly ended in us being escorted off the property.
This wedding wasn’t big. It was massive. Hell, it wasn’t even a wedding, it was a festival with the bride and groom headlining the main stage. Sixteen attendants on each side, seven flower girls, five ring bearers, a four-minute solo from the harp player, and—so far—three dramatic recitations of love poems, songs, and movie monologues from various friends and family.
We were forty-five minutes in and we hadn’t even gotten to the vows yet.
“What’s happening next?” Meri flipped through her program. “I honestly don’t think there are any other sonnets to read at this point.”
“‘A special blessing from Luisa Ballicanta,’” I read. “The groom’s aunt.”
Meri wiggled in her seat. “I cannot wait to hear this,” she whispered as an older woman wearing a long silver dress that was more than a little witchy stepped up to the microphone. It was the sort of frock sold only in museum shop catalogs. “I love when they let the wacky aunts talk. This will either be straight-up sex advice, astrology, or a soup recipe that starts out as a metaphor but—surprise—is legit soup.”
I squeezed her forearm. “Or all three.”
Aunt Luisa opened a thick journal—a spell book, probably—and adjusted her glasses. “When Mason and Florrie announced their betrothal, I knew I had to conduct a study of their star charts—”
Meri pressed her fingers to her mouth, whispering, “Oh my god, I want her to adopt me.”
“Serious question,” I said as Aunt Luisa jumped into the couple’s rising signs, “do you think she’d study my star chart?”
“Keep the gin flowing and she’ll be your fairy godmother.”
“Too mainstream. I’m guessing sambuca or—” My gaze settled on the best man as he turned his back, a fist pressed to his lips as his shoulders heaved. “Please tell me he’s not going to vomit.”
“As if we needed more proof that grooms shouldn’t give flasks of whiskey as gifts to their guys,” Meri said under her breath. “Let’s pray he excuses himself instead of interrupting this precious woman’s astrological analysis. I need to hear this. Or climb into her pocket and stay there forever, either one.”
He steadied himself on the shoulder of the groomsman beside him and returned his attention to Aunt Luisa. He pulled a sober expression and clasped his hands in front of him like nothing had happened.
“As a slow and sensual Taurus, Mason always knows what he wants,” Aunt Luisa continued. “Where we see Florrie’s sun sextiling his Venus, it’s clear she shares his desires. They have a deep, luscious well of sexual compatibility that will hydrate them for years to come.”
“Did you hear that?” Meri asked, leaning into my shoulder. “The well is deep and luscious.”
“It doesn’t matter how deep it is if it isn’t luscious,” I murmured. “And hydrating.”
“Florrie’s Pisces energy brings dreamy magic and passionate emotion to this union,” Aunt Luisa went on. “There will be fireworks, especially where her Venus trines his Chiron, but the key is to express your love without inhibition. Be unafraid to stand before each other, stripped of material goods and mindset blocks, and speak the honest words of love.”
The best man snorted. I was certain it was a snort because I was guilty of making the exact sound in the most inappropriate moments and I knew it couldn’t be explained away as a cough or a hiccup or anything less offensive than a laugh birthed from my nose.
“What’s going on with that one?” Meri asked.
