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.
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