There were exactly three reasons why Ava Summers was standing at the altar in a white lace dress that didn't zip all the way up at the back:
1. Bad luck.
2. A legally binding contract she accidentally signed — courtesy of her evil twin sister who got her drunk on margaritas just to escape marrying the rich playboy heir both families handpicked.
3. The spawn of Satan currently fixing his tie beside her.
Zeke Ford. Corporate asshole. Walking 6'2" red flag in a designer suit. The human embodiment of the "Actually, it's pronounced as espresso" guy.
Her future husband.
Killmenow, she thought.
"You may now kiss the bride," the priest said, like he hadn't just personally sentenced her to death by irritation.
Ava forced a smile so tight it could legally qualify as a Botox injection.
Zeke turned to her, eyes glinting like he enjoyed her suffering — which, of course, he absolutely did. This man probably went to therapy just to brag about how mentally stable he was.
"Well, darling," he drawled, leaning in slow like he had all the time in the world. "Pucker up."
"I hope you choke on my bouquet."
"I hope you trip on your veil."
They smiled harder.
It should have been a quick kiss. Barely there. A whisper of lips — just enough to fool bored witnesses and one very bored officiant.
But then his mouth brushed hers —
and she felt it.
The spark.
Like the universe itself was going, ohhhhyoutwoaregonnabesodumbaboutthis.
Ava pulled back so fast she nearly headbutted him—but, something seem wrong. The more Ava look at Zeke, the more her gut tells her the bastard's face doesn't seem right.
"I mean, he's as handsome as the last time I saw him in the restaurant," Ava thought to herself. "But..."
"What are you looking at?" Zeke groaned silently when he noticed Ava leaning closer.
"Where's the mole on your neck?"
And with that one simple question, Zeke froze.