“Mina!” My father nearly hissed my name, which was my cue that I was being rude by keeping my back to the guests who had arrived. I narrowed my eyes at my father as I spun slowly, facing him first. He had not bothered to tell me that my intended would be stopping by today. I hadn’t even fully committed myself to this idea, and therefor hadn’t planned on meeting the man yet. Much like the wedded bliss – and I use that term loosely – that I was about to have lobbed on me in order to save my family’s company, I wasn’t given a whole lot of choice.

Once I made the full revolution and faced forward, I refused to look at the younger of the two Tucker men in my presence. Instead, I chose to focus on the older gentleman. I held my hand out as I glanced up at him. “Hello, I’m Mina Robeson, youngest daughter of Sean and Margaret, and soon to be University graduate.” I offered up my ridiculous pedigree and semi-resume just to be funny, but I gave the information in such a way that it appeared mannerly.

“Very lovely, my dear,” the eldest Tucker responded as he quickly took my hand in his and pumped it once, very gently, as if my own would break off with any further effort on his part. Then he gave my father an approving head nod. How gracious of him to give his stamp of approval as if I were chattel being bargained for.

“Mina, this is Reginald Tucker and his son, Samuel.”

I turned slightly while refusing to meet the eyes of the man I was supposed to marry. Instead, I stared at his chin, which was sort of intriguing all on its own. The damnable thing had a little dimple right in the middle, that under any other circumstances, I’d probably want to run my tongue over. Did I mention the slight stubble that covered his jaw made it appear as though his attempt at shaving had been for naught since his beard was determined to make its presence known? No? Well, it was, and I just so happened to have a thing for men with well-groomed facial hair displayed on their dimpled chins. Double damn it!

My once over of his chin, down his tailored suit, well-proportioned, if overly tall body, was met with nothing short of an awkward silence. It was probably obvious to everyone in the room that I refused to look the man in the eye, but I didn’t need that kind of lust in my life. This man was going to be my husband, and while I might have made fun of his name earlier, I had also Googled him in advance. Hence the refusal to make eye contact with the sexier-than-Satan, playboy who stood in front of me.

He was just my type. Sadly. And when I say, ‘just my type’, I meant that in the ‘I would totally have a one-night stand with this guy and forget about him after the hangover wore off’, kind of way. It did not mean that I would be okay marrying the man, who would no doubt, be cheating on me as our nuptials took place, because that is how much of a player Google insisted that he was. Everyone knows Google doesn’t lie about the important stuff, especially when there was a plethora of pictures to support the theory.