Tatum
Scotty Levinson is a dead man. My (alleged) best friend has stolen my license, assumed my identity, and married my kidnapper on my behalf. Now, I find out he’s planned a double wedding for us behind my back. He can claim it’s because he’s too scared to walk down the aisle alone until he’s blue in the face, it doesn’t change facts. Abi Kincaid is my kidnapper, not my husband. So, no. I am not returning home for this busted-up, backwoods wedding, I am not introducing my parents to my kidnapper. And I am not walking down any aisles. Contrary to what he might tell you, I am not Abi Kincaid’s property, nor am I his pretty baby or his little one. I’m just a man with a lackluster plan that will allow me to finally break free.
Abi
Tatum St. James is a mystery. An enigma, wrapped in a hot-pink jockstrap and a skin-tight crop top. For six months, I’ve cared for him. I’ve nursed his broken heart. When he’s lonely, I provide companionship. If he’s drowning in self-doubt, I slip a finger inside to remind him he’s safe. I even indulge his newfound exhibitionist kink, because a body like his deserves to be seen by the masses. He can claim stress-induced memory loss as many times as he wants; six months ago, Tatum St. James begged me to give him a bigger, brighter life, and I always keep my promises.
