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The most eligible bachelor in New York City just asked me to be his fake fiancé.
Gavin King is six and a half feet of delectable billionaire with a devil’s smile that says he knows exactly what he’s going to do to me later. Because he has.
Three years ago, I caught him in the shower and promptly fell into his bed. But neither of us were relationship material. Not to mention I’d just broken up with his best friend.
Now, I’m back in the city and he has a plan:
Go to his cousin’s wedding.
Convince his family that he’s not an eternal bachelor.
Post a huge elaborate break up later.
With those big puppy dog eyes begging me to agree, claiming I’m the only one who can pull it off, I say yes. What could go wrong? Other than pulling it off so successfully that the line between real and fake blurs.
When my family flips the whole script, I can’t see a way out. And I’m starting to wonder if I even want one.
