Page 1 of For Better or Hearse

Ash Keller’s job is to ruin things.

Most especially this wedding.

Most especially Nathaniel Rhodes Whitford.

In her hands, Ash carries a file.Thefile. A document she uses to vet those she’s hired to break up. As a professional wedding objector, she requires proof. Concrete evidence, like the Roswell incident or the JFK assassination. Otherwise, she won’t touch the job with a ten-foot pole. Sure, she ruins lives, but she ruins lives with purpose.

As Ash steps up to the door of the church, she groans. Why does it have to be a church? A prim and proper two-hour Catholic affair is most definitely not up her alley. Why couldn’t he get married on top of a mountain or at least a place where she could parachute in? Each time she sets foot on sacred ground, she feels like she’ll spontaneously combust.

Inhaling a hard breath, she grips the handle. The door opens with a tired sigh. A crescendo of music echoes down the long corridor. She settles her stomach. Steels her spine.

And walks.

Or rather, stomps.

Clad in fishnets, she storms down the aisle. Her lovingly worn combat boots squeak loudly on the marble floor, echoing through the archaic space, as she storms for the altar. The aglets of her eternally untied laces snap and bounce. Her red lipstick is bright and as blaring as the music coming from the organ. The heart in her chest beats hard and fast. So hard and fast, in fact, that the guests can surely see it through the bodice of her dress.

Of course she dressed up. It’s a wedding. Although not for very much longer.

Halfway down the aisle, she hears it. The priest is at the “If anyone wants to oppose…” part of the vows.

It’s so very seventeenth century of him.

“Wait!” she shouts, lifting an arm like she’s volunteering as tribute. A thrill unfurls inside her. She’s timed it perfectly.

I object.The two most powerful words in the English language.

Because the person voicing them wields power. Vengeance. Not participating. It pisses everyone off.

As she nears the altar, confused murmurs erupt around her. Guests twist in the pews to glimpse her better. Groomsmen—LA’s top five blandest white guys—in dark jackets turn her way. Women in long beaded gowns sneer. The dresses and suits they’re wearing probably cost more than her monthly rent.

The long walk down the aisle feels like she’s walking the plank. Her great, furious boot stomps aren’t helping her either.

Through it all, Ash faces front and center. Zeroed in on the bride. By now, she’s a pro at this. Avoid eye contact with the family. Keep emotions out of it. Get in. Object. Get out.

Or run like hell. Depending.

She knows what she’s walking into. She’s been well debriefed by her client.

The Whitfords. A prominent wealthy LA family. Their accolades and accomplishments make her itch. Doctors. Owners of fancy businesses and expensive cars and straight Trident white teeth. They’re into snobby hobbies like skiing and golfing. No doubt they run a 5k on Thanksgiving and each of their children has a trust fund. It’s only a matter of time before one of them gets fingered for a white-collar crime.

Gripping the folder tight, Ash slows her stampede.

She surveys the bride. Camellia Barrister. So clean-girl aesthetic. Impossibly beautiful in a fresh and effortless way, unattainable to mere mortals. In addition to her placid expression, shewears a stunning mermaid tail organza with a sweetheart neckline that amplifies her busty cleavage. The diamond tiara nestled in her slicked-back bun reminds them all that she is and always will be a princess.

The groom, dressed impeccably in Ralph Lauren, angles in and murmurs to his bride. Then Nathaniel Whitford fixes his piercing gaze on Ash, one stern eyebrow raised. “Who the hell are you?” His voice is clipped, machine-gun style. The irritated intensity of his expression sends a burning sensation through her ever-tightening chest. It feels like he’s judging her, untied laces and all.

Her heart stutters to a stop along with her feet.

Why can’t he be ugly? Like Harlequin baby ugly?

He’s like Harlequin romance. GQ brooder with a jawline that could slice through glass. Golden-bronze skin. Wheat-colored hair like a swirl of butterscotch ice-cream. The cavalier no-big-deal flip in the front. An obscenely, unfairly tall asshole. One ofLA Times’most promising doctors of the year.

And a cheater.

“Hello?” Nathaniel’s no longer looking at her. Instead, he scans the crowd. “Can we get security here?”

“Seriously?” she hisses, shooting him a glare. “Security? What is this, the CIA?”