“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 priz...
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