When Willa Jameson stumbled into my bar drunk, heartbroken, and desperate to save her family farm, I offered to marry her. For “convenience.” Which is hilarious, because nothing about my attraction to this hurricane with hips has ever been convenient. Now we’re sharing a roof, a bed, and a potential felony thanks to our fake marriage. It’s supposed to be a favor between not-quite-friends-but-not-quite-enemies. Then our late-night arguments turn into practice make out sessions. But according to her, that changes absolutely nothing between us. No matter how many lines we draw, we keep crossing them—in the kitchen, on the porch, in the tiny bed that’s become both heaven and hell. And the woman who swears she hates me starts looking at me like I might be exactly what she needs. She calls me her temporary husband. I call her my daily torture, because every day we play house, it feels less like pretending and more like home. When this ends, I don’t know how I’m going to forget what it felt like to call her mine. So either I walk away with her, or I don’t walk away at all.