Page 1 of Sinfully Yours

1

AVA

There's a kind of magic in the air at weddings. It clings to the late summer breeze, weaves between twinkling fairy lights, settles in the clinking of champagne glasses and the low hum of a string quartet. It's in the way people lean closer, caught in the illusion that for one perfect night, love is effortless and inevitable.

That's possibly how I should be feeling as well. After all, my eldest brother just married the love of his life beneath an archway of white roses, with a vineyard stretching endlessly behind them like something out of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

It was beautiful, and I may have teared up once or twice—not that I'd ever admit it to Dean. But now, standing in the reception hall, suffocated by the sheer weight of my brothers' expectations, all I feel is trapped.

"Come on, Ava, he's a good guy."

Ryan, slightly younger than Dean, leans insufferably against the cocktail table, arms crossed over his broad chest, green eyes twinkling with barely restrained amusement.

His tie is long gone, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the kind of forearms that make women in romance novels weak in the knees—at least according to his last girlfriend, who gushed about them in what I assume was meant to be a private Instagram post.

I shoot him a withering glare. "So is my dentist, but you don't see me rushing to make out with him."

Dean, standing beside him, is considerably less relaxed. He's still in full Responsible Eldest Brother mode—tie perfectly knotted, suit crisp, brow furrowed in what I call his Dad Face. A face he's perfected ever since our actual dad passed away, leaving him to step into the role of unofficial patriarch and official pain in my ass.

And then there's Nate, the youngest Bennett brother after me. He's watching this whole exchange like it's the best entertainment of the evening, sipping his drink with a lazy smirk, his baseball cap swapped for perfectly mussed brown hair.

If Ryan is the charming, reckless one and Dean is the overbearing leader, Nate is the wildcard—the one who stays just enough on the sidelines to get away with everything.

I, meanwhile, am their collective problem. The baby of the family, the only girl, the one they still treat like I might crack under the weight of adult responsibilities despite the fact that I am a functioning, employed, tax-paying human being.

And tonight, my greatest crime is not being interested in Andrew Wallace, their latest offering to the sacrificial altar of my love life.

"Andrew is successful." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, shooting Ryan a please be serious look before turning back to me. "He owns multiple properties. He's mature?—"

"He's boring," I deadpan, plucking a flute of champagne from a passing tray. "And last time we spoke, he explained compound interest to me like I was a particularly slow child. Hard pass."

Dean sighs, the kind of sigh that says I can't believe I'm wasting my wedding night on this conversation. But he brought this upon himself. He and Ryan have been determined to shove me into the arms of some well-meaning, financially stable man ever since I turned twenty-four and officially entered what they consider spinster territory.

"Just talk to him," Dean pleads, as if Andrew's very survival depends upon my conversational skills.

Before I can tell them exactly where they can shove their matchmaking attempts, I spot my escape—a group of women calling Emily, my new sister-in-law, onto the dance floor.

"This has been fun," I lie, setting my untouched champagne on the table. "Really, it has. But I need to go celebrate our dear Emily before she realizes she's legally stuck with this family and bolts."

Ryan smirks. "You mean you're running away before Andrew finds you."

I don't dignify that with a response. Instead, I turn on my heel and make my way across the reception hall, my dress swishing around my legs. Killer dress, in fact.

That's what Emily called it when I stepped out of the bridal suite earlier, and I have to admit, she wasn't wrong. Deep indigo satin, a little daring, it’s perfectly tailored to my curves. It’s the kind of dress that makes me feel powerful, untouchable.

Or at least it should… until I spot him.

Liam Carter, Dean's best friend, is laughing with a group of Dean's college friends near the open bar, looking every bit as devastating as I remember. A tailored navy suit clings to his broad shoulders, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at tanned skin beneath it.

Dark brown hair, slightly tousled, the beginnings of silver dusting his temples in a way that only makes him more unfairly attractive. And then there's his smile—that damn lopsided grin, lazy and confident, like he's always in on some private joke.

I don't realize I've stopped walking until he glances my way, his gaze catching mine across the room.

For a second—just one unbearable, stomach-flipping second—his expression changes. The amusement fades, replaced by something heavier. His blue eyes trace over me, lingering in a way that sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in my stomach.

And then it's gone. He blinks, his mask slipping back into place, and turns away, laughing at something one of the guys said.

I exhale, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

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