Publisher Description

As the dress-bearer for her mother's wedding, Laney Hudson has a lot more baggage than the bulky garment bag she's lugging from New York to Hawaii. Laney is determined to prove she's capable of doing something right, but running chores for her mom's fairytale nuptials is proving to be a painfully constant reminder of her own lost when she's mistaken for the bride and bumped up to first class, Laney figures some stress-free luxury is worth a harmless white lie. Until the flight crew thinks that the man sitting next to her is Laney's groom, and her little fib turns into a hot last thing Noah Ridgewood needs is some dress-obsessed diva landing in his first-class row. En route to his Vegas bachelor party, the straight-laced software designer knows his cold feet have nothing to do with the winter a severe storm leaves them grounded in Chicago and they find themselves booked into the last available honeymoon suite, Laney and her in-flight neighbor have little choice but to get better acquainted. Now, as her bridal mission hangs in the balance, perhaps the thing Laney gets right is a second chance at love.

Review

Praise for Louder than Love

"I was absolutely blown away."—The Book Pushers

"Topper is an author to watch!"—Laura Drake, author of Nothing Sweeter

"I loved this book…I just found myself enraptured."—Nocturne Romance Reads

Review Quote

Praise for Louder than Love "I was absolutely blown away."- The Book Pushers "Topper is an author to watch!"-Laura Drake, author of Nothing Sweeter "I loved this book…I just found myself enraptured."- Nocturne Romance Reads

Excerpt from Book

Terminal C Departures Really, LaGuardia? One of the busiest airports in the country, and you couldn''t come up with a better name? You could''ve skipped Caltogether, like some hotels do when they omit the unlucky thirteenth floor. You know, Terminals A, B, D, E . . . I''m sure there would still be some clueless tourists in life, scratching their heads, consulting their maps. Pointing and asking, Whatever happened to Terminal C? Where''s Terminal C? "It''s in my bones, Laney Jane." I could still hear Allen''s throaty whisper and feel his long, strong drummer''s fingers tangle through my hair. "It''s not going away this time." If I were an airport architect, I would''ve come up with something better. Because only 25 percent of people make it five years through Allen''s type of Terminal C. I pushed on, eager to check my luggage: the crappy soft-sided Samsonite I''d had since college, and the invisible, matched "his and hers" mental baggage I had solely inherited two years back. Perhaps Hawaii would be good for something. The lame heel on my favorite pair of boots finally gave out, sending me sprawling right foot over left. The heavy garment bag I carried twirled with me as I pirouetted like a demented ballerina across the concourse to the closest bench. Freakin'' A, talk about adding insult to injury. I rubbed my ankle in quick consolation before yanking the boot zipper down the length of my entire calf. They were cheap 8th Street boots, not even worth the fix if it could be made. But they had been my first Big-Girl Paycheck purchase when I moved to the city, and their soles had carried not only me, but also miles of memories. Va-va-voom boots, Allen had christened them upon first sight. There was no time to mourn them; into the trash they went. I plucked my flip-flops from my carry-on and slipped my freshly pedicured feet into them. Onward. "Hi, one bag to check, two carry-on items." The Windwest Airways desk attendant threw a skeptical glance at the bulky garment bag as she reached for my license and boarding pass. "Are you sure you don''t want to check that now?" I could hear my mother''s words echoing in my head louder than the PA speakers booming last call for Flight 105 to Miami. Whatever you do, do not let them check it, Laney. Do not hand it off. "No, thanks." Rebel on the outside, mouse on the inside, Allen always used to say. Do you always do what your mother tells you to do, Laney Jane?Only Allen Burnside had the cojones to call me out on that. "We can''t guarantee there will be room in the overhead. You may have to gate-check it anyway." The attendant slapped a tag onto my Samsonite and sent it hurling onto the rolling belt, where it was quickly swallowed by two rubber flaps in the wall. She fixed a stare on me that made me wonder whether she got paid a commission per checked bag. I contemplated the huge midnight blue bag with Bichonn

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