Elba Luz’s charming debut Build a Girlfriend definitely left a mark in the YA world. And now she’s taking it over to Mindy Kaling’s imprint, Mindy’s Book Studio, for her official adult debut that is absolutely perfect for the upcoming wedding season that will no doubt take over all our lives. And if you can make Mindy Kaling laugh, well, we must know what sort of magic it took to make that happen.
Cosmopolitan has an exclusive first look at Elba Luz’s How to Ruin a Wedding, set to be released on August 1, 2026. Lucy Delgado has our dream job: professional wedding crasher. However, she accidentally crashes the one wedding one night, leading to the ultimate fake relationship that will use her skills to break apart a new couple who happens to be connected to her new fake boyfriend. But as they work together to break this couple apart, will new feelings make her rethink everything she knows about love? Here’s some more info from Mindy’s Book Studio:
“How to Ruin a Wedding is the kind of book that makes you laugh so hard you snort in public, and then you have to pretend you were coughing. Lucy is my new favorite human, and I would absolutely hire her to ruin any wedding.” —Mindy Kaling
When a professional wedding crasher storms the wrong party, an irresistibly charming man enlists her services for a job that's about to give her outlook on love a run for its money.
Lucy Delgado knows all about things that don't work out. Between two failed marriages and losing her job, "meant to be" doesn't seem to mean much anymore. And watching her sister's marriage deteriorate isn't convincing Lucy otherwise.
Desperate for money and disillusioned by love, she turns her nothing-left-to-lose attitude into action as a professional wedding saboteur. Lucy knows how to play any part—old lover, nosy relative, wise stranger—to save brides and grooms from making the same mistakes she did.
Until she crashes the wrong ceremony.
For Anders Kennedy, Lucy's timing couldn't be better. She's exactly what he needs to derail his own sister's upcoming nuptials by posing as Anders's new girlfriend so she can slip into the family circle and sabotage from within. And Anders has the kind of money Lucy can't afford to turn down.
As they fake-date their way through family celebrations, high jinks, and secrets, Lucy and Anders are forced to confront their cynicism about marriage. Their schemes were meant for the greater good, but what if love really does conquer all?
You don’t ruin a wedding by simply saying that you object. Nope, you go for the next best thing: the cake. Thankfully, the book’s cover is giving us exactly what we’re looking for and it’s the kind of sugar rush that will make you want to pick up this read ASAP!
Luckily for us, our first wedding crashing job is here! You can check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order How to Ruin a Wedding and even pick up some of Elba’s previous reads as well!
1.
Face down, ass up, under a canopy of overgrown bushes in an unkempt corner of the Keos Resort is not how I envisioned spending my Saturday morning.
Sure, I’ve ended up in this position before—usually by choice and on a mattress rather than a patch of itchy, probably poison-ivy-infested grass. This is, pathetically, more action than I’ve had in months.
This secluded clearing is far from the manicured perfection of the main grounds. Hidden, quiet. The kind of place where people go when they don’t want to be seen—people like the couple currently sitting on a weather-worn bench beneath a stone archway, framed by climbing vines and wildflowers. I spy them through the dense shrubbery. The woman leans so close that her dark hair veils the man’s shoulder, and their legs tangle with each other.
I’m crouched below the benches, hidden, itchy, and crawling toward what may or may not be the most devastating evidence of infidelity I’ve ever captured.
I know who they are. And I know what this looks like.
James—the groom-to-be. Sammy—his best friend. And if Jennie’s gut is right, his not-so-secret lover.
Jennie, my newest client, has labeled them “the Birds.” Not because they’re sweet or whimsical, but because they call each other Sparrow and Finch—the same names as the doomed lovers in James’s favorite French war film. A film his fiancée, Eliza, never finished because she thought it was boring. But Sammy? Sammy knows every line by heart.
You can’t fake that kind of intimacy. And Jennie knows it.
She wrote to me just a week ago, her message panicked and personal: Eliza’s about to marry the wrong person. James is
in love with someone else—Sammy. I’ve seen it in the way they look at each other when they think no one’s watching. I tried to tell her, but she thinks I’m jealous. Please, I need proof. You’re my Hail Mary.
So here I am, hiding in the bushes like a creeper.
I inch forward, knees bruising against the ground, phone angled up for the best shot I can manage. The blue satin of my dress is definitely not camo—it practically glows against the underbrush—but I’ve shoved myself under enough tangled greenery to be mostly hidden.
A branch snaps near my shoulder, sharp against skin. I bite back a curse.
I can hear murmuring, but nothing solid enough to form words. And though I would kill my fiancé if he was wrapped around a woman the way James is right now, they could still claim to just be the best of friends.
Got to get closer.
Slowly, so I don’t make too much of a rustle, I inch forward under the line of bushes, army crawling my way closer to my quarry. A light tingling crawls around the back of my neck, but I refrain from the instinct to jolt away or make any sudden movements. I’m sure most of these bugs are harmless—and really, I’d do anything for a paycheck, even risk a skin rash in the most sensitive of areas.
Wedding wrecking isn’t exactly glamorous, but it’s a job. And five months after my landlord pounded on my door for rent, I’ve learned dignity doesn’t pay the bills. At this point, I’d look into selling my plasma—well, I have looked, just haven’t quite worked up the nerve to actually go through with it yet.
I pause once I reach the final bench, and gain a better vantage point of James and Sammy. My cheek presses against the ground as I angle my phone up and start recording.
“We’re just friends,” Sammy says, her nose nearly touching James’s. “We always have been.”
James shuts his eyes like he’s in physical pain. “Just friends,” he repeats, like a prayer. “We don’t work any other way?” The last part is framed like a question, a plea. I zoom in, holding my breath as a tickle develops in my throat.
“That was the last time.” Sammy pulls her face back, but her hands grip his thighs and travel up until they reach his crotch.
Jennie, your instincts are so on point.
“We tried before, and—”
“And we almost ruined a good thing.” Sammy pulls away.
James grabs the back of her head before she can establish a distance between them. My heart pounds in my chest. I steady my hands to ensure the camera doesn’t shake.
“Wait,” he says, his eyes on her mouth. “Just one more time.”
“Finch,” Sammy says, breathless.
“Tonight, while everyone is in bed. Come to my room. I’ll be alone,” James tells her. “I need this. I need you.”
This is good. A planned meetup. More opportunity to get evidence. I’d already knocked on James’s and Sammy’s hotel doors earlier—feigned confusion, pretended I’d taken a wrong turn—but no one answered. They weren’t at brunch either; the bachelor party was off getting hammered at one of the bars, blissfully oblivious. The bridal party was holed up at the spa. I even tried the obvious choreographed moves—asked the concierge with a smile, slipped the bartender a casual question while pretending to order another drink, and scanned the pool cabanas for anything suspicious—and still came up empty.
Sammy shuts her eyes, and their mouths gravitate toward each other.
Someone clears their throat. The Birds jerk away from each other, standing and placing themselves an arm’s length away.
Luckily a new voice masks the sound of my curse.
“Excuse us for interrupting,” a deep, amused voice says. “We thought this area would be unoccupied.” I only catch the tip of his nose from my angle.
“You’re not interrupting,” James says, so smoothly I would have believed him if I hadn’t witnessed what I did. There’s no heat rolling off him, and he stands with slightly slumped shoulders, no worries within him.
My throat tickles again, and I clap a hand over my mouth before a cough escapes.
“Are you thinking about changing locations for your wedding?” another man’s voice says from a body I can’t see at this angle. “We’re set for one of the ballrooms, but my future wife heard there was an Alice in Wonderland–esque plot of land and sent me to check it out.”
Another sneeze attempts to ricochet out of me, so I press my hand hard to my mouth to muffle as much sound as possible, but it’s still audible enough. James and Sammy glance my way, but the deeper voice says, “Ah, squirrels roaming around here. Not the best wedding guests.”
The cheating couple’s attention is drawn away from my hiding spot, and I’d breathe a sigh of relief if I didn’t think it’d send me into another fit of sneezing.
“We heard the same,” James says easily, “but it’s not well maintained. We’ll be off now. You two enjoy your day.” He walks away without checking for Sammy, who follows close behind.
My nerves barely settle as the two men still remain.
“He’s right,” my unknowing savior tells his companion. “There’s no way the staff can do enough maintenance here to be ready for tomorrow. Tell your fiancée she’ll have to live out her wonderland dreams another way.”
“Well, had to try,” the other voice says.
The two walk off, and I wait as long as I can, nearly suffocating myself, measuring out enough time until they’ll be too far to hear me.
Just as my throat feels as if it’ll burst, I remove my hand, and a string of sneezes erupts from me.
Goddamn it, I must be allergic to something here. Great time to figure that out.
I wait until the sneezes slow, but something crawls along the back of my thigh, leaving a pinch of pain and heat in its trail. The sneezes rack my body as I free myself from under the bush of flowers. I mutter curses in between each one, pulling myself to a stand and straightening my dress.
For me, the video is enough. But will it be for Eliza and the people who align themselves with James? Jennie’s hunch went ignored, chalked up to two close friends with a bond that is inexplicable to people outside the bubble.
When it comes to the ones we love, we often can’t see what’s right in front of our faces. A curse of feeling too much and loving too much is that your sense of logic halves itself.
If I’d learned that lesson earlier in life, I wouldn’t have racked up two failed marriages, but that’s a conversation for my therapist . . . whenever I can afford one again. I need to regroup.
A sharp pinch burns into my arm, and I swat at the insect that hitched a ride on my skin. I’ll be finding welts, like the hives already spreading across my side, for days, but it’s fine—temporary pain for something bigger.
Every job I take gets me closer to what I’ve been working toward for years: buying into Save a Paw, the shelter where I started volunteering as a teenager. The owner’s retiring soon, and I’ve got a narrow window to come up with my share before he hands it off to someone else. I can’t let that happen. I’ve pictured myself owning part of that place since I was sixteen. All these inconveniences will fade into forgotten memories soon.
First, I’ll shower and lather myself in lotion to help with the itching. Then, I’ll check the Excel grid and see where else there’s an opportunity to catch the Birds—extra evidence wouldn’t hurt. They’re meeting at night, so that’s something, but I’d like to have less risk involved. Something might happen that means they can’t meet, or whatever evidence I gather won’t be enough. I’ll try to force as many interactions as I can before the day is up.
“Should I call security?” A voice brushes over my skin, and I yelp, whirling around.
My body stalls. I stand there in shock, half because his rough five o’clock shadow and dark, windswept hair seem so out of place in the delicate richness of where we are. This resort is like a slice of heaven, and he looks like he just sauntered his way through a storm.
The other half of me freezes to admire the height, the collection of muscles, and the eyes that seem simultaneously to be blue, green, or brown—their beautiful hazel a color I’d probably have tried to buy contacts to match a decade ago. He’s not overly muscled, but not too lean either. Like he works out when he feels like it, but it’s not a priority for him. His pale shirt is loose on him, aside from his biceps, where his sleeves seem to cling, rolled up to reveal veins and a Rolex.
And then I remember I just crawled out from under a bush. And his words sink in.
“And why would you do that?” I try to straighten myself out and make it seem like I’m not doing anything wrong. There’s a chance he didn’t see me unearth myself. I’m wandering around, just like him.
I get distracted by the dimple that appears as he speaks, when he points to me and then to my previous hiding spot. “I just assumed someone hiding under a bush isn’t a guest at the resort.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he speaks, his finger back to pointing at me. “Your wig is falling off.”
Shit.
I adjust the bundle of synthetic ginger curls atop my black hair as much as I can without a mirror. “Plenty of people wear wigs. Is that a problem for you?”
He raises a thick brow. “Not at all.” I realize his voice is that of my savior from earlier. “Do you have an explanation for the first part of my question?”
I make a show of looking around. “Funny, I didn’t hear any question marks.”
He tilts his head, his full lips, with a sharply pointed Cupid’s bow, pulling up. “They were more like statements, you’re right. I just thought if I said them, you’d answer.”
“Well, I’m not a mind reader. If you have a question, you should ask it.”
I blink as the scent of mango and sandalwood encircles me. “Okay, stranger, why were you hiding under the bushes?” “I don’t know you. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Amusement glimmers in his gaze, which travels up and down my body, and it takes all my self-control not to shift my weight or fidget. Usually, I have so much restraint over myself, but being caught like this is disorienting.
His thickly lashed eyes, the hazel that changes color depending on the way the light hits them, narrow on me. “You’re right again.” I’m sure he broke his nose during childhood, the way it crooks at an angle slightly. “But I saw you when I first walked through, and my curiosity is more than piqued.”
I’m well aware the curiosity is more about my actions than me, but the way he says it, softer, sexier, sends ripples of awareness down my spine. Suddenly, I remember just how long it’s been since I had sex, since I had a man speak to me with his gaze piercing me into place.
Just as suddenly, I realize what he said.
“If you saw me earlier, why didn’t you say anything?” I cock my head to the side. “You knew it was me sneezing, not an animal.”
“I’m no snitch,” he says, and his smile is too infectious for me not to mirror.
“Well, I’m not a threat, stranger. No need to call security, and thanks for keeping my hiding place a secret.” I step away, trying to make a break for it. He’s already seen my real hair under the wig and already has too much attention on me when I’m supposed to maintain a semblance of anonymity while wedding wrecking. After a job, if you saw me again, you might recognize me vaguely, but you’d never be able to give an accurate description to an artist. Whether I’m contouring my face, sculpting a sharper shape from my soft features, paling out my tan complexion, covering my freckles, plopping colored contacts over my brown eyes, or wearing crooked glasses, I always put in effort to look far removed from my actual appearance.
There’s only a slim chance someone will recognize me while ruining a relationship, but I prefer to make the margin even smaller. It’s not something I want my own circle of vastly more successful marketing peers and honor-roll college graduates to know about. As much as it feels good helping, wedding wrecking’s not supposed to be my forever career path; it’s just something I stumbled into five months ago, right after I lost my job. Even though my curiosity wants me to stick around a bit, it’s better I skedaddle while can.
He steps toward me. “I can’t even get your name?”
“I’d only give you a fake one.”
His chuckle is stormy and sexy, eliciting spots of warmth throughout my body, and the butterflies that have been long asleep flutter with anticipation. The way his appearance seems mysterious, but his eyes are alight with harmless mischief, is stimulating too many forgotten hormonal responses from me.
Love steals your logic, but lust steals your self-preservation.
“You’re only making me want to know more,” he says, his gaze traveling lazily up my body, and my legs actually buckle. All right, seriously, I’ve got to get out of here.
“Sorry,” I say, placing much-needed space between us. “Someone’s calling for me.”
Another amused sound escapes his throat. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Coming!” I shout to the sky, and with no other options, I literally and metaphorically run away, as fast as my heels can take me.
~
When I make it back to my room—after showering and popping some Claritin—I remove the three missed notifications from Taina, who’s house-sitting for me since I promised to check in on my neighbor’s cat while she was away before I got this job.
I open my camera roll and pull up the video I threw out my dignity for to send to Jennie.
The Birds are in center view, angled slightly toward each other, as if they’re in a romance poster. This could be it, what Jennie needs to save Eliza. I crank up the volume, hit play, and—
I rewind and try again.
I stare at the screen, the silence echoing in my skull.
My finger must have been on the speaker. The only noise is the occasional rustle of movement when I inch closer.
This isn’t good enough. I can’t send this to Jennie. It’s basically a silent film.
I drop the phone on the bed and flop onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. It might have sea glass embedded in it. Or maybe I’m hallucinating from stress and Claritin.
A pounding begins to drum behind my eyes.
This job’s already been harder than usual. The ruin is always simpler with time—it also allows me to infiltrate their bubbles more organically, instead of a last-minute insertion.
Some people want me to pretend I’m a long-lost lover. Others sneak me into the bridal (or bachelor) party to plant seeds of doubt into people’s heads. Less risk, less reward for my bank account. Others—and this is mainly because of the false advertisement my sister, Taina, wrote on the website, claiming I have experience as a private detective—want me to dig around and see if their gut feelings about cheating partners are correct. My one requirement is that I only target couples I’m certain are bad for each other—this isn’t about breaking up happy relationships.
Jennie’s request came just a week ago. Extra charge for the timeline, sure—terrible for infiltration. No cover, no invitation, so I’m just another plus-one at someone else’s wedding, poking around from the outside. Harder to get access, harder to find angles, harder to get proof.
Very little time to work with for a very big job. Regardless, I’m going to have to find that couple again tonight.
Get closer. Get cleaner footage.
With a long, dramatic sigh, I rub circles into my temples.
Some birthday weekend this has been—freshly twenty-eight, no real career, no real relationships, bug bites burning into my skin, and running around trying to prove someone’s infidelity.
My parents would be so proud.
Wedding wrecking was supposed to be temporary. A weird little pit stop before I found another marketing job preferably one that didn’t involve a New York tech firm run by misogynistic man-children with god complexes and backhanded compliments that slowly crushed your will to live.
A job where I wouldn’t have to worry about dress codes or about the way I speak. Or being assertive, but not too much, because you’ll sound like a bitch. Taking exclamation points off emails because it’s not professional, letting men think they’re explaining a process to you that you already know how to do. Repeating the same marketing plan used for every campaign because the people in charge don’t believe in thinking outside the box when they have a perfectly good, boring box already.
But that was five months ago. And I’m still here.
Every time I think I’ve hit rock bottom, the floor rips from under me and reveals another level.
When I first stumbled upon wedding wrecking, I told myself it would be just one time. That I was helping someone; that love, real love, should survive a little scrutiny. Then I did it again. And again. And suddenly, I stopped needing to lie to myself about why. Because the truth is, people don’t get married for love. Not always. Not often.
People get married for so many reasons that have nothing to do with love. Money. Timing. Guilt. Social pressure. Because they’re scared to be alone. Because their mom likes him. Because it looks good on paper. Because they’re thirty-two and tired of dating apps. Because it’s easier than breaking up and starting from scratch.
It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I do. I have so much love in me—it’s kind of the problem.
That’s why this job makes sense.
If love is real, if it’s as rare and valuable as everyone says, then what I’m doing is a service. Stopping people who don’t really feel it from walking down the aisle anyway. Making space for something truer to find them later.
Or at least keeping them from signing a contract with someone they’re already lying to.
Or maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better about blowing up other people’s fairy tales, because mine didn’t work out.
God, okay. That’s enough of a spiral for one night.
Needing a distraction, I dial Taina. She answers on the third ring.
“Hey, Taina.”
“Hey, Lucy.”
Her tone sucks every drop of relaxation from my body. Taina never answers the phone without greeting me as a ho or bitch or both. She once called me Slut-bucket while I was in the break room at work.
My heart starts to pound and my brain surges forward with every possible devastating scenario. Losing both my parents left an ever-present fear that the universe will come and finish the job by taking Taina away. I have to remind myself that she’s on the phone, so nothing could possibly be as earth shattering as that.
“What’s wrong?”
“I left for a few hours to meet a friend,” she begins. “Just a few hours! And then when I came back—well—I tried to stop him. I swear, I didn’t even notice the eviction notice he’d taped on the door. I even offered to pay the rent, but I guess he doesn’t trust you won’t be late again. That bastard must have been waiting until both of us left the place.”
Dread fills me, streaming from the pit of my stomach and spreading everywhere. “Taina, what are you talking about?”
“You’ve been evicted.”
Time pauses, and my heartbeat does too. “I sent him half the payment! He was supposed to let me stay.”
“I’m sorry.”
This can’t be right. He swore to me I could pay half now and the rest later. I rub my chest, and my heart starts to lose a steady rhythm. Maybe he just agreed to get what little out of me I had. And you, a grown woman, were naive enough to fall for it.
Taina says, “Whatever he didn’t trash, I’m having sent to my place.” Muffled, distant, she says to someone else, “Fuck you; my husband will sue you for all you have, you absolute asshole.You’re lucky I don’t shove those keys down your wrinkled ass throat, you lizard-looking bastard.”
God, I can’t even bring myself to ask what she managed to keep. Everything, everything in there was from our parents. I didn’t get rid of a single thing after their death. Almost everything they ever owned is in storage or in Taina’s basement, but the rest, the best stuff, was in my apartment.
With me, so I could feel them every day. So it wouldn’t feel like they were in an unreachable place. So I wouldn’t be alone.
“It’s a blessing in disguise,” Taina says in my ear, focus back on me. “You’ll be more secure with me, and we can see each other more. Your place was at risk of falling apart any moment anyway. This is exciting!” Again, muffled, to someone else. “Fuck you.”
I love my little sister, but God I don’t enjoy her voice very much right now. No way I would turn a miserable moment for her into a silver lining, not until she’s had the proper time to process. It’s been thirty seconds. I deserve at least sixty.
I turn off my phone. I close my eyes and try to breathe through my nose. Try to be calm. I hate being upset. Really, being sad is the worst. Your stomach feels raw and filled with rock salt and your eyes swell until keeping them open creates this headache, like a woodpecker is stuck behind them.
My hands grip my phone so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack. I take another breath and it turns into a sob.
I pitch my phone to the other side of the room. It slams against the wall, and all I can think is, How much is that going to cost?
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I rub my knuckles against my chest. Pressing as if it’ll stop my heart from beating so damn erratic.
I should have asked Taina what she managed to save. Now I’ll just think all the best stuff is gone. The Wall of Memories. Our family dog’s ashes. Dad’s favorite baseball glove. Mom’s go-to pot for rice. I need it all. It’s like glue linking me to them. A direct connection whenever I need them.
Evicted and jobless. But I can’t think about that now . . . I have a wedding to wreck.
Text copyright © 2026 by Elba Luz
How to Ruin a Wedding, by Elba Luz will be released on August 11, 2026 from Mindy’s Book Studio. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
