What’s a heartbroken American to do when she’s in London trying to get over her ex? Find herself a fake fiancé. Obviously.
I’m walking past Big Ben, trying to get over the world’s worst break up, when I slam into a hot hunk of British man.
And pour scorching hot coffee all over him.
My caffeine casualty not only forgives me for ruining his shirt, but when I ramble on about needing to distract the press from my recent heartbreak, he agrees to be my pretend prince charming faster than you can say ‘espresso’.
Our agreement is clear: nothing is real.
Except the more time we spend pretending to be a couple, the harder it is to keep my side of the bargain. And his smoldering stare tells me he might be having the same problem.
And then we have a game night. Maybe it’s naked Twister that pushes us over the edge.
I’m starting to think my fake fiancé might be husband material.