Getting engaged wasn’t on my Santa list. I wanted cocoa, fuzzy socks, maybe eight hours of sleep. Not a fake fiancé with forearms that have their own fan base and a smile that ruins common sense.
My grandmother’s will says: “engaged by New Year’s or lose the twelve-million-dollar trust.” So I do what any not-panicking, rational woman would: I proposition my coworker.
Enter Wesley Kane — defenseman, Alaska’s favorite son, walking thirst trap. He needs a fiancée for Christmas revenge. I need one to keep my inheritance. Perfect.
The rules are: lots of PDA, one bed, absolutely no follow-through. It’s good to set intentions. Ten days. Way too much mistletoe. A small-town holiday where everyone thinks we’re in love.
But somewhere between “no follow-through” and his hands on my waist, something slipped.
And now I’m not sure if we’re lying to them…or to ourselves.
