Kathryn Springer - The Prince Charming List

Picket Fence Promises

“Springer’s second book set in Pritchett, Wis., is as enchanting as the first. A sprinkling of comedy adds exactly the right touch.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Front Porch Princess

“Kathryn Springer’s refreshing writing style and sense of humor make this story sing!”

—Neta Jackson, bestselling author of The Yada Yada Prayer Group

“A delightful package of humor and gentle truths, Front Porch Princess is poignant and honest, a compelling, well-written story that will find the nooks and crannies of your heart and linger long after the book is done. Highly recommended!”

—Susan May Warren, bestselling author of Chill Out, Josey!

“Springer’s combination of humor, family values and longing will reach out from the pages and touch readers’ hearts.”

—Romantic Times BOOKReviews, Top Pick!

The Prince Charming List

Kathryn Springer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Each one should use whatever

gift he has received to serve others,

faithfully administering God’s grace

in its various forms.

—1 Peter 4:10

To Kayla,

Who proves that a girl can wear really

cute shoes while walking with God!

Your enthusiasm and encouragement during

the writing of this book were blessings—

and so are you!

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Epilogue

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

it feels like everyone is watchng me. Im so paranoid. (Text message from Heather Lowell to Bree Penny)

u r not paranoid. they r watchng u. welcome to prichett. (Text message from Bree Penny to Heather Lowell)

I caught the bridal bouquet.

This happened exactly thirty seconds after I told God that all I wanted to do was fade into the beautiful woodwork of Faith Community Church for the rest of the day.

I’m sure He was laughing when I walked out of the bathroom after a quick lipstick check and was swept into the center of a cluster of women whose eyes reflected deadly intent. Kind of like Mom’s koi when they saw the mysterious hand poised above them, ready to drop food pellets into the water.

I looked in the direction of whatever it was everyone was fixated on—just in time to see a floral missile hurtling our way. What happened next was something I’d only experienced in the mosh pit at a Christian rock concert the summer before. But this time everyone was wearing pastels.

Candy Lane, Prichett’s mayor, was short but agile, judging from the way she vaulted out of the pack toward the ceiling.

Someone stepped on my toe and I bounced to the left, putting myself between Bree, who could have unwound the ribbon from her hair and lassoed the thing, and Prichett’s very own resident artist, Marissa Maribeau, who looked as confused as I did that she’d been caught up in this weird ritual.

As luck would have it, the bouquet rocketed right to Marissa like it was on a programmed course, but she decided to change the rules. As soon as it touched her hands, she popped it back into the air like we were playing hot potato. If she’d been a Green Bay Packer quarterback, she wouldn’t have been signed on for the second season.

Gravity did its duty and when the bouquet returned to earth, it ricocheted off Bree and landed with a fragrant thump against my arm, then spiraled toward the floor. The competitive instinct—the one that drove me to set my sights on Boardwalk and Park Place when I played Monopoly—kicked in and I grabbed it. Now I was in the crosshairs. Panicked, I realized my only option was to imitate Marissa’s move, but just as I was about to launch it back into space, there was no one there to catch it. My former opponents suddenly muttered their congratulations and shape-shifted from future bride-zillas to supportive, can-you-feel-the-love sisters. And they headed toward the cake table together.

“I think this belongs to you.” I snagged Marissa’s elbow before she escaped.

“Not a chance.” Marissa backed away, staring in horror at the flowers I grandly offered.

Future psychology majors take note. This would be a fascinating study. Why intelligent women who’ve grown up in the modern world react in unpredictable ways when the bridal bouquet is headed in their direction like a ribbon-trailing asteroid. It’s not like anyone really believes that the girl who catches it is going to be the next one to walk down the aisle. I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve already figured out that in the age group twenty to thirty, there’s a ratio of one Christian guy to a bazillion Christian women. Okay, a slight exaggeration. Then again, maybe not.

I buried my nose deep in the lilacs and white roses and when I emerged a few seconds later, at least a dozen disposable cameras were aimed in my direction.

“Say cheese.” Bree grinned.

For all I knew, the good old dairy state of Wisconsin had been the birthplace of the expression.

I silently pounded my head against my inner wailing wall.

“I wanted to fade into the woodwork,” I muttered.

Bree’s blue eyes flashed in amused sympathy. “If you want to fade into the woodwork, go back to the Twin Cities. In Prichett you’ve got a starring role.”

A starring role.

Not quite what I had in mind, God.

Why was He so determined to shake up my life? There’s no doubt that what’s happened to me since last summer can only be the result of God’s intervention. Divine fingerprints. My life is full of them. Okay, confession. Maybe I had a hand in getting the whole thing started. Initially.

Dad insists that I can’t leave things alone. Supposedly this endearing characteristic can be traced to a package of Oreos and the VCR when I was four years old. Unfortunately, Mom has the pictures to prove it. Which leads me to ask a question—why are parents wired with a twisted sense of humor that drives them to take photos of their children’s most embarrassing moments when they are too young and helpless to prevent it? Those photos have an annoying habit of surfacing years down the road like the risqué, before-they-were-famous poses of models that the tabloids gleefully print. Case in point, the infamous Oreo-VCR photos have come back to haunt me at my sixteenth birthday party, high school graduation open house and my first (and only) date with Chad Benson. Although I don’t think there was a direct correlation. Really.

As if the Oreo photos and the accompanying script my mom loves to recite when she displays them aren’t enough, she’s put them in a special album, which I like to refer to as Heather Lowell’s Childhood Bloopers. Also included in my repertoire is the photo where I’m perched in Dad’s leather recliner, wearing nothing but a diaper and draped from head to toe in yards of shiny tape—which in a former life had been the movie E.T. Mom is convinced I thought he was trapped in there somewhere and it was up to me to save him.