The Art of Marrying Your Enemy

Forget the summer I turned pretty…that was the summer I got hips acne and utterly humiliated by Aaron Richmond. This summer? This is the summer I had to marry the bastard. When I walk down the aisle towards my enemy all to save the Coleman family fortune I shouldn’t give in to my wounded inner 14-year old-self. I should smile blink up at him prettily and declare to have and to hate… Err...hold. Too bad I’m Granny Madge’s namesake. As soon as I begrudgingly say I do I toss three tiers of wedding cake on my new husband kick him in the balls and down a whole bottle of champagne. He retaliates by dropping me face-first in his foyer after carrying me over the marital threshold. I respond in a mature manner by eating a bag of chips in his bed and letting my cat puke on his pillow. Yeah this is totally how I’d always fantasized about becoming Mrs. Richmond during my teenage infatuation. That obsession? Gone. Never to return. Not even