The moment the dining hall doors closed behind them, Ava spun around.
"You are not off the hook," she said, pointing a finger at Zach like a sword.
Zach raised both hands, leaning against the door frame with that infuriating smirk she was starting to recognize as his version of foreplay. "I didn't plan the confetti. Or the cake. Or the booties."
"You smiled when you saw the booties."
"They were hand-knitted. I appreciate craftsmanship."
Ava exhaled sharply and stalked into his study, the only room in the house that felt halfway normal—no pink flowers, no congratulatory banners, no scented candles that claimed to "inspire fertility." Just mahogany bookshelves, a worn leather chair, and the lingering smell of old paper and cedar.
She turned to face him, arms crossed. "Do you know what it feels like to be accused of conceiving a child with a man I barely know, in a house full of strangers, while impersonating my sister?"
