The Playboy's Guide to the Fake Fiancée

All I want to do is…well…whatever I want, with whomever I want…preferably without a single string attached. But Dad’s secretary keeps calling to make sure I’m not trying to dodge the Friday meeting, where he’s gonna dump the Montclaire family business in my lap.

Perfect time for a vaguely familiar woman to pound on my door in the middle of the night.

“Remember me?” she asks.

I do not, which doesn’t mean she isn’t carrying a little Montclaire scion.

“It’s Chloe Davis and you know me from when we were kids. I told my grandmother we were engaged so…would you like to take me to her 85th birthday party? In Florida?”

I would not, but I’ll do anything to get out of town for this meeting.

That’s how all six feet of me wound up stuffed into the passenger seat of a subcompact, managing snacks, staying in cheap hotel rooms, and sitting in a white Cracker Barrel rocking chair next to the nuttiest, most unpredictable, charming, deliciously sexy woman I’ve ever avoided responsibility with.

Did I mention she brought her own ring? Of course she did.

Every time I’m sucker enough to think things can’t get weirder, they do.
And call me crazy, but this batcrap sandwich of a fake relationship is starting to feel realer than anything I left in New York.