“I need a ride,” I said to a sexy stranger on a Harley.
Three hours later? A six-foot-tall Marilyn Monroe was officiating our Vegas wedding at the Happy Chapel.
But it’s not love—it’s business—a marriage pact made out of desperation so my career doesn’t go up in flames.
Sure, Flynn Winslow is a hot, broody, mysterious man that women all over the globe would sell their souls to land for real, but I have my eyes on the prize and our marriage arrangement will end in three months with no strings attached.
Right?
Or will it all go out the window when I have to move in with Mr. Mysterious and our fake marriage starts to feel remarkably real?
I wish it were as easy as telling myself, Do not fall in love with your fake husband, Daisy, but apparently, when feelings get involved, not everything that happens in Vegas knows how to stay in Vegas.
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