Spotlight & Giveaway: OUR EX’S WEDDING by Taleen Voskuni

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Taleen Voskuni’s new release: OUR EX’S WEDDING

Two people who can’t stand each other must come together to plan their mutual ex’s wedding in this new romantic comedy by Taleen Voskuni, author of Lavash at First Sight.

Ani Avakian was supposed to be the Bay Area’s premier Armenian wedding planner by now. But after a huge blow to her business, she’s determined to redeem herself by taking on the biggest job of her career: a wedding for an indie movie star. The wedding is set at a stunning Armenian-owned winery, and Ani is eager to connect with the owner, who she’ll be working closely with. But then she actually meets him. Sure, Raffi is ridiculously hot and charming, but he’s also insufferably smug. Though the real gut punch comes when Ani meets the happy couple—because the actress’s fiancée is none other than the woman who shattered her heart two years ago: her ex-girlfriend, Kami.

All Raffi Garabedian has ever wanted is to make his father proud. Taking over the family winery should be his dream come true—but its first major event is off to a rocky start, thanks to one irritating(-ly beautiful) wedding planner who challenges him at every turn. He’s shocked to find that they have one thing in common, however: their mutual ex, Kami. Despite the record level of awkwardness, they’ll have to work together to make sure this wedding goes perfectly. But first, they’ll have to deal with the tension sizzling between them—before it turns their ex’s nuptials into a full-blown disaster…or something much more scandalous.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from OUR EX’S WEDDING 

YOU’ RE NOT DESPERATE. You’re a professional. Well . . . you’re a little bit of both, but you can absolutely nail this. Ani told herself these words as she stepped out of her car and took in the Tuscan-inspired winery before her. So this was Ô.

Two weeks ago, when the email had hit her inbox, when Ani saw the bride wishing for a winery wedding, when she saw the massive six-figure budget, she knew her wedding planning business might be saved. And now she was here. Ready to make it happen, if she could calm her nerves.

Ani had seen photos of Ô online, but the Napa winery was far more breathtaking—and intimidating—in person. The stone villa towered over the plot, while well-manicured cy- presses flanked the property like sentries, followed by miles of vineyards stretching out on either side.

The time was 11:20 a.m., ten minutes before her meeting with her prospective clients. Bab always said if you’re on time, you’re late! She wouldn’t mind pacing the grounds, taking

them in and using the meditative moments to relax her racing heart before meeting the new brides. The weather was perfect— mid- to high sixties—lucky for February, although not un- heard of. She had painted her nails burgundy with a matching lip and wore her one silk shirt, pencil skirt, and heels. She hoped the look would bolster her confidence, bring out her inner 2001 J.Lo in the greatest movie of all time—The Wedding Planner, just like her—and, most importantly, wipe clean the memory of the last three months.

Then her phone rang.

Mom. Ani thought about not answering but then thought better of it and picked up.

“Parev, Ani jan,” her mother’s sweet voice sang. “Hi, Mom.”

“I am here, too!” her father chirped.

Naturally he was. Her parents were always together, con- stantly together. It was like they were allergic to being apart.

“Is today the day you are going to Ô?” her mother asked.

Ani had told them about the new winery wedding she was hoping to land, just as she told them about everything, usually. But she did not, would not, could not, tell them about the debt.

“Just arrived, but I’m early, so I have a couple minutes,” confirmed Ani, gravel crunching under her feet as she walked toward the open vineyards.

“I still cannot believe that Raffi Garabedian is the owner now,” her mother mused. “I must ring Nora and get the details on how this happened.”

“Raffi Garabedian,” her father wondered aloud. “Was he not the doctor? Moushegh’s son?”

“Yes, hokis,” her mother answered, with that term of en- dearment she used most often for her husband: “my soul.” “That is why I am wondering how he came to own a winery.”

“Well,” her father trailed, “his father is a member of the Ar- menian mafia, so if his son wants to abandon his Hippocratic oath and open a winery, he can.”

“Mob business!” her mother cried, and Ani heard the smile on her mom’s face. She could imagine her mother playfully slapping her father’s arm.

But there were rumors.

Ani had wondered about the new owner, although he wasn’t her main focus today. She’d heard about Raffi Garabedian all right. Her friend Nareh had warned her way back—it was about five years ago, before Ani became a wedding planner full time—that he was a total playboy skeeze despite his sta- tus as Northern California’s most eligible Armenian bachelor. A fabulously wealthy and handsome doctor—what more could you want, the aunties would say. Her friend had said differ- ently. He’s gorgeous, yes, Nareh had told Ani, but vapid and misogynistic. Ani’s sister, Talar, had warned her similarly, but now Ani couldn’t remember what she’d said. She hadn’t had time to catch up with Talar before the meeting today.

But one thing was clear: Raffi Garabedian was to be avoided at all costs.

Ani had seen him on the periphery at this or that banquet, and he’d even shown up at a family friend’s wedding. Although she was mesmerized by his dark-set eyes, elegant height, and broad shoulders, she had kept her distance. The word of her crew was far greater than the pull of his hotness.

Today, however, she might have to interact with him. She

had no idea how huge the operation at Ô winery was—the grounds were vast, she realized, wandering through the bare branches of the winter grapevines. Maybe Raffi had staff to meet wedding planners and potential couples, so it was pos- sible she wouldn’t see him at all. She’d emailed the winery and someone had emailed back, setting up the time today, but it had been a generic welcome@owinery.com address. No name was signed. Despite Raffi’s apparent unsavoriness, Ani was excited to go to the winery and support an Armenian busi- ness, even if the owner was a playboy and his father a possible mob boss. There were so few Armenian-owned venues, it was a bit of a treat to get to visit one.

Her mother’s voice changed suddenly. “You must keep your heart open, eh, Ani?”

Ani’s heart instead plummeted to the depths of her stom- ach. Not this talk, not now. The vineyard seemed to crawl on and on forever. Ani hadn’t walked far, but she felt suddenly lost in a labyrinth.

“Mom—”

“Listen, tsakougus,” her mother replied, using the endear- ing word for “my child.” “It’s been two years since Kami—”

A sharp pain pierced Ani’s heart. “Mom—”

The name alone, Kami, made Ani shrivel up inside. She wished she had her drink, wished she could feel the ice-cold matcha latte flow down her throat and douse the embers Kami had left on her heart.

Her mother barged on. “We are worried about you. You have not dated one single person since then.”

“I have,” Ani insisted, trying not to get angry and failing.

“I’ve been on the apps and gone on dates, and they’ve all been terrible. Or nothing, bland. I don’t feel anything for anyone.” “Anymore,” she wanted to add. Not since Kami.

“This is why I am saying,” her mother continued, “meeting online does not work for everyone. You have a chance to meet this handsome man in person—”

“Maybe. I might not.”

“—and charm him the way you do everyone.”

Before Ani could say that she didn’t want to charm him, she had to respond to the compliment, which was simply un- true. “I do not.”

“You do. You are special.”

Ani let out a sardonic laugh. Right. Her, special. The B stu- dent, the one who got stood up more often than not, the one who couldn’t get her business off the ground and was instead running it into the ground. The one who got dumped by the one.

A crow cawed overhead. Ani snapped out of her spiral and checked the time.

“I gotta go. I don’t want to be late.”

“Okay, Ani jan, promise me. Open your heart.”

Easy for you to say, Ani thought. Her mom and dad had been madly in love since they were sixteen. Giggling like teen- agers and sneaking off on dates for forty years.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Listen to your mother. Bye, shakaruhs,” her father added helpfully.

Ani stared at the horizon a moment in silence, then paced back to her car. When she arrived, her phone dinged twice and she saw two notifications.

One from her kick-ass assistant, Sanan, which read, Good luck today, boss!

The second, an overdraft fee notification from her bank. Goddamn it. She knew she shouldn’t have indulged in that extra-large matcha latte, but Ani couldn’t help it. The iced green tea always put her in the best mood, and lately she needed all the help she could get. She’d deal with the bank later.

Ani swiped away the tough-luck notification and responded to Sanan.

Sanan responded: Btw I googled Grace’s IMDB page and noticed her latest credit.

Grace was the bride-to-be who had emailed Ani, filling out Ani’s contact form and plopping in that jaw-dropping budget. From the sound of Grace’s message, she was the one in charge of planning and wanted to surprise her fiancée, Mimi, with this venue. Ani and Sanan promptly Instagram-stalked their potential client and discovered that Grace was an indie movie actress originally from the Bay Area.

Sanan continued, Her new movie is in post-production and it stars . . . Robert De Niro! Granddaughter taking over the mob fam- ily business. Title? Mafia Princess.

A whole new flurry of both excitement and worry hit Ani.

She was about to meet someone who had breathed the same air as Robert De Niro? Grace’s expectations were probably go-

ing to be high. Ani needed to believe she could do a wedding of this caliber.

Mafia Princess! Ani texted back. Damn, I’d watch that. Gotta go now, I’ll update you!

Two mob references in one day. Ani wondered what type of astrological retrograde caused that to happen. She also won- dered if Mimi was an actress, perhaps someone Grace met on set. Grace’s Instagram didn’t include any photos of her fian- cée, but she did have a picture of their hands holding, with eye-popping engagement rings on each of their respective ring fingers.

From inside her car, Ani grabbed her tote bag and her $47 (thanks, overdraft fee) drink.

She also gathered her courage.

Ani’s discount pumps clicked on the pavement as she strode up to the winery.

Then, as she came closer to the villa, the thick doors at the entrance opened and out stepped the owner himself, the one she’d been warned about.

Raffi Garabedian.

Ani had seen him only in dim lighting before, with purples and blues flashing about at evening Armenian dances, and he was already unmistakably handsome there. But here? In the cool, filtered light from the Napa clouds, Raffi standing there in a white Oxford button-down, slacks, and polished black shoes, Ani had the thought, the actual thought, I’ve never seen anyone this gorgeous in my entire life.

He was tall, yes, but it was the way he held himself like an aristocrat that caught Ani’s eye. Broad shoulders and long, long

legs. The sharpness of his jawline stole her breath, as did his heavily lidded dark eyes. His hair, so thick and gelled to one side in a sexy coif. She wanted to run her hands through it.

Get a goddamn hold over yourself, akhchig, she inwardly muttered, and remember what Nareh said.

The way Raffi regarded her, though, didn’t seem like he was eating her up with his eyes, slicing into a thick, juicy steak. And why would he, when she was just . . . fine-looking? Not a woman anyone would immediately read as hot.

And yet Raffi stared at her with what Ani considered to be interest, with curiosity, and she felt the tiniest surge of hope that maybe Nareh was wrong and he didn’t suck, and her mother was right and she should open her heart—

That thought was interrupted by her heels crunching into gravelly rock at the threshold of the winery. Ani wobbled, try- ing to right herself. In one motion, Raffi bounded over to help, but Ani felt herself bobbing out of control as she kept attempt- ing to find solid ground but was thwarted by the small rocks that had declared war on her patent pumps and seemed intent on knocking her down. Raffi reached to catch her right as she was about to face-plant but instead caught her arm, just as the contents of her extra-expensive, extra-large matcha latte smashed against his white shirt.

He did not immediately let go of her arm, even as he stared down at the damage.

Ani put her now-empty hand over her mouth because his Oxford was entirely soaked in green. It was so bad, but her brain still registered the curve of his pecs and the way the pressure on her arm where he was gripping her felt weirdly safe and good. No, no it doesn’t, she tried to tell herself, re-

membering Nareh’s warning words. He probably reached out not to help but because it was an opportunity to touch a woman. Gross. Still, the look on his face read “concern,” not “sleazy delight.”

Ani hopped out of her shoes in order to stand properly, and when it was clear she was able to balance, Raffi let go of her arm. She wondered if his gripping fingers had left a mark on her skin.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “These rocks, they—I mean, for anyone in heels, this is a total liability. Who put these here?”

By the look on Raffi’s face, it was clear to Ani that it was him. He had put them there.

“This was YSL, you know,” was his response, gesturing to the shirt, his voice as irritatingly deep and handsome as the rest of him. He appeared less in shock, more in disappointment.

Ani went from being apologetic to apoplectic at his snobby response.

“Such liberal use of the past tense. I could get that stain out in two minutes.”

She was about to add that she was sure he could buy an- other one when her eyes were drawn to the clack of footsteps from above. A large older gentleman with thick eyebrows stood on the balcony of the winery, frowning down directly at Raffi. She barely made out the man’s words in his low, growl- ing voice. “Tun mart ches tarnar.”

“You’ll never become a man.”

Ouch. That had to be Raffi’s father, the mythologized mob- ster. Ani quickly averted her eyes. And speaking of ouch, she made her way barefoot across the craggy rocks, back onto the smooth concrete, mere steps from the massive winery doors.

She slipped her shoes back on, trying not to be aware of how intimate a gesture this was to do in front of someone she’d just met.

She stared at those blasted pebbles. “So were you going for, what, a moat around the property?”

Raffi drew in a breath sharply. “I thought it’d give the place a little something extra.”

Ani gestured around her. “Believe me, this is already plenty extra. You should remove that unless you want a lawsuit on your hands.” Then she caught his eyes, which appeared wor- ried. “Not from me. From, you know, guests. Prime drunk pa- tron stumbling block, right here.”

“I thought wedding planners anticipated everything. Couldn’t you tell your heels wouldn’t make it?”

Ani was stunned. First, Raffi knew she was the wedding planner, not the bride. Had he . . . looked her up? Second, he was being combative, and this was not behavior she expected from supposed sexy, devil-may-care Raffi. Rude. And third (the one that made her blush), no, she hadn’t anticipated it be- cause she was too busy being distracted by his hotness. As annoying as he was, she couldn’t deny his Adonis-like ap- pearance.

Ani decided she’d give him the benefit of the doubt. She had ruined his very expensive shirt after all.

She stuck out her hand. “It’s Ani, by the way, though I guess you already knew that.”

She gave him a look like “Yes, I know you googled me.” Okay, she couldn’t help the snark.

Raffi chewed on his cheek for a quick second before relent- ing. He extended his large hand as he said “Raffi.”

Then they shook, which was the second time they had touched in the span of two minutes.

“I have to change,” he said gruffly. “Of course,” she replied.

Raffi disappeared inside. Ani took in a deep breath of the cool Napa air. Holy shit. What had just happened?

She could not stop poking at this guy, even though she was the one who had drowned his shirt in green liquid. His YSL shirt. What a prick. But he was the owner of the winery and still someone she had to at least be professional around. Come on, Ani. He might be a total snob douche, but she had to at least be civil to him.

And she was definitely not thinking about him changing out of that soaking wet shirt that clung to his chest. Yes, yes, yes, he’s hot, she thought. But danger comes in pretty packages. As if on cue, he waltzed back outside, donning a near iden- tical fresh Oxford shirt. See? She knew that type of shirt must be a dime a dozen to someone like him.

Raffi turned to face her and cleared his throat.

“Listen, this winery means a lot to me. It’s still in its in- fancy, and I’m”—he gestured toward the litigation rocks— “well, still getting the hang of things.”

Oh. This was as unexpected as everything that came be- fore. Was this an apology?

Ani frowned.

She attempted to decipher the meaning in his words. If he was saying sorry, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it, al- though she couldn’t help but be touched by how sincere he sounded about the winery. What was it, she wondered, that meant so much? He had been a doctor and then switched to

running a winery—why? Raffi was too much of an enigma, which worried her because Ani absolutely loved solving puzzles.

“On that note,” he continued. “Yes, I did look you up. I want to know everything about everyone who is going to be part of Ô.”

Ani’s breath hitched. She felt flattered and also maybe im- pressed by the extent of his research. Oh no, she was feeling intrigued by Raffi again.

“But I have to say, based on the work on your website—I have to be honest here—the types of weddings you’ve created in the past don’t exactly line up with the vibe that Ô has. Your style seems more . . . quaint. And that worries me, because we are trying to achieve a type of brand here, and we don’t want to tarnish it.”

Red-hot heat rose up in Ani’s face. Twin flames of anger and shame.

Anger, because how dare he.

Shame, because he was somewhat, almost right.

Ani had been a good wedding planner for the past four years, after she quit her paralegal job and made her childhood dream come true. But she hadn’t landed any big opulent wed- dings. She was mostly unknown and had been doing cousin and friend-of-friend (and friend-of-sister) weddings, plus an extra one here and there when someone found her contact info and liked the low prices on her website. Because her couples didn’t have the budget, she could only do so much, the photographs on her website could only be so impressive. Raffi had her there.

While she loved DIY-ing and working with any couple, re-

ardless of budget, she also had to pay the bills. And luxury weddings paid the bills.

In theory.

Last year, she thought her big break had come when an Ar- menian couple—the now Avedissians—hired her to plan their bash at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. Her parents didn’t know them, and no one she knew was familiar with them ei- ther, which was unusual, but she took it as a sign that her rep- utation was skyrocketing. It was such a big wedding, she even made her first hire, Sanan. The couple kept asking her to pay the vendors and said they would write her a check at the end. Ani complied, wanting to put this wedding, with its orchids and ostrich feathers, in her portfolio, even though it meant opening a third credit card and signing a few IOUs with her trusted vendors. And finally, on the wedding day, after beg- ging the couple for the check for weeks, Ani politely demanded the money, and the bride angrily scribbled her one for the sum that was owed: $49,700.

That check bounced, and the couple had disappeared from the face of the earth.

Ani had taken out a personal loan with a very high interest rate to ensure she could pay Sanan—who didn’t know of her money woes—plus the priority vendors. The monthly pay- ment had been breathing down her neck for months. Not to mention the credit card debt that was racking up. And now her account overdraft.

There was one person in her life who she could ask for a loan, but she never, ever would. She would not be the older sister who begged her younger and much more successful sis- ter for money.

Ani hadn’t put the Avedissians’ wedding photos on her site. She had successfully planned one extravagant wedding, with all the bells and whistles—in this case, smoke machines and custom lighting. She’d steered the Avedissians’ taste from the gaudy to the tasteful (leaving only mere touches of garishness to satisfy the bride). But she refused to showcase the con artist couple’s wedding on her site, much less submit it to any mag- azines or blogs. She deleted the two photos she’d posted on Instagram as soon as the check bounced and Ani realized she’d been played.

So now, with Raffi doubting her abilities, it felt like some- one had squeezed a full bottle of antiseptic on her very open wound. And not just anyone, but a man who was born wealthy, who likely never knew what it felt like to have a single caffein- ated drink drop his checking account into negative numbers. Ani felt a raging beast emerge from her chest at the injus- tice of him, in particular, making these comments about her work. After all she’d done this morning to build up her confi- dence. This man of ill repute thought he could try to take it all down. No. She wouldn’t give in.

All thoughts of professionalism were suddenly crushed under her patent burgundy heels. Ani stared daggers at the spoiled playboy in front of her.

“Oh, that’s new. A man who had everything handed to him on a silver platter doubting my abilities. Very original. Usually it’s my parents, but you’ll do as a stand-in.”

Raffi balked, as if he hadn’t insulted her work, as if he’d expected her to keel over at his criticism. She probably shouldn’t have mentioned her parents, but it slipped out.

She wasn’t done yet.

Ani took a step toward him, unafraid. “I built my business from the ground up with no help. It’s hard to turn nothing into something, much less something big. Especially without any”—she looked around purposefully—“financial assis- tance.” Ani crossed her arms. “Different from your story, I’m guessing?”

“I, I—” Raffi began, flabbergasted. His face steamed pink. Ani was pleased and definitely did not think about how cute his blushing was. It was not the reason she decided to con- tinue her tirade.

“While we’re taking shots,” she said, shaking her head. “Where in the world are your manners? I’ve heard about you, you know. Slick, smooth. And I get I’m not the type of girl you’d normally go after, but wow. Didn’t realize this was how you treated the rest of us.”

Raffi shook himself. “I’m sorry, you heard about me?” “You know exactly what I mean,” she said, holding her eye contact strong. Now he knew that she knew precisely who he was.

Just then, a Range Rover drove up, gravel sputtering in its wake breaking Ani and Raffi’s locked gazes on each other. Ani stepped back from him, remembering herself. The brides. She took a deep breath.

Raffi didn’t matter; it’s not like she had to work with him all that much. It was the brides whom she had to impress. They were the ones who would be paying her bills—if she was lucky—not him.

Don’t think about Raffi, don’t think about Raffi, she thought while thinking about Raffi.

The car’s windows were deeply tinted, and almost as soon

as it parked, the driver’s door popped open and Grace bounded out. The other bride remained inside, her back turned to them, seemingly on the phone.

Grace trotted over the danger-rocks in her kitten heels without a problem. Raffi gave Ani a “See, they aren’t that tough to traverse” kind of look. Ani rolled her eyes in response while Grace couldn’t see.

Grace gave her a quick hug, and Ani felt the bad vibes from her Raffi interaction melt away. “Ani, hi. So nice to meet you in person at last.”

She was lovely, and true to her name. Taller than Ani would have imagined, willowy. She was, from what Ani had gleaned from her Instagram posts, half Chinese Malaysian and half white, with thick dark hair and striking features. She could see how Grace would star in a movie alongside De Niro.

“And you must be Raffi,” she said, shaking his hand with both of hers.

Grace stared all around her. “I’m already in love with this property. I have to see more.” Grace turned toward the car be- cause her fiancée had not yet emerged, still chuckling during what must have been an amusing phone call. “Babe,” Grace called to her.

Ani heard the fiancée’s voice, muffled from inside the car, saying, “Okay, okay, yallah, bye.” The voice sounded familiar, but it was hard to tell.

Ani started to relax and feel like she could do this. Wed- ding planning was her bread and butter, one of her greatest joys in life, and she’d give Grace an absolutely fabulous wedding.

Until.

A car door slammed, and from around the hood appeared the second bride-to-be, all curls and sleepy smiles, a face and a body as familiar as Ani’s own.

It was her ex. It was Kami.

And because Ani could look at nothing but the only person she had ever fallen in love with, she did not notice the shock on Raffi’s face, too.

Excerpt. ©Taleen Voskuni. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

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Meet the Author:

Taleen Voskuni is an award-winning writer who grew up in the Bay Area Armenian diaspora. She graduated from UC Berkeley with a BA in English and currently lives in San Francisco, working in tech. Other than a newfound obsession with writing rom-coms, she spends her free time cultivating her kids, her garden, and her dark chocolate addiction. Her first novel, Sorry, Bro, received starred reviews from Kirkus and Booklist, was named an Amazon editor’s pick, and was favorably reviewed in The New York Times. Sorry, Bro is also winner of the 2023 Golden Poppy award for best romance. Lavash at First Sight is her second published novel.

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