There is no way I’m marrying a man my father chooses for me. He wants me to marry someone fitting of our social standing? I think not. I do not want to marry some stuffy heir, so I’m going to do the direct opposite.

Cue three construction workers: Holt Kissinger, Steele Adams, and Ryder MacMurphy. They’re building a new block of apartments opposite mine. And maybe I scolded them for waking up the whole neighborhood with their incessant drilling and pounding, but Honeypot, my little fluffball matchmaker, senses some… umm, chemistry between us.

I think on my feet and ask one of them to marry me. They say they come in a package of three. I say I’ll take the lot.

Now I get to stick it to my father.