Working for Weston Kincaid should come with hazard pay—and maybe a therapist on retainer.
The man is a corporate glacier in a designer suit—arrogant, ice cold, and allergic to anything resembling a work-life balance.
As his assistant, I basically run his empire, his schedule, and his caffeine supply. Holidays included.
Then his grandfather’s will drops a nuclear-level twist: Weston must get married ASAP to inherit a jaw-dropping Scottish estate straight out of a Highland fairy tale. Who does he choose? Me.
Qualifications: female, breathing, knows his coffee order. Romance isn’t just dead—Weston buried it six feet under and salted the earth.
I quit. Then flee to a café to rage-call my bestie—only to discover (too late) that Weston’s psycho ex is in the booth behind me, listening like she bought tickets.
Within hours, every woman who might’ve considered him refuses to touch him—even for a castle. Oops. My bad.
Cornered, Weston offers me a deal: so much money my bank app would crash, a chance to chase my dream, and (best of all) time away from the biggest bosshole on Earth.
All I have to do is live in the Highlands as his wife for a couple months. And I don’t know whether it’s exhaustion or insanity, but I say yes.
Naturally, the universe has jokes, because somewhere between the airport and the castle, my brain decided to develop a crush on Satan in a suit.
