It’s easier to hate him than to admit I wish our fake engagement were real. He calls me the man-eater. I’ve crowned him the H-Town f*ckboy. Everything about the man gets under my skin and secretly turns me on. From his seductive stroll to his yoni-stimulating smile. So when I concoct a plan to take a fake fiancé to my sister’s wedding, I land on his doorstep. Pretending I considered carrying off this hair-brain plan with anyone other than him. But I recognize the cage of his pursuit too late. I ask him to pretend we’re engaged for a month. He quickly agrees in exchange for the request of the wear his engagement ring for six months. Unspoken desire burns in his eyes after we seal the deal with a life-changing kiss. Then he declares his plan to claim every part of me—even my heart. He can’t claim what doesn’t exist. I’m the runaway bride. The commitment-phobe. The man-eater. I’m not the forever kind of woman. Not even for a Montgomery. Yet I agree, praying I don’t break his heart, knowing he might change my soul forever.