I am supposed to be on my honeymoon right now. I was about to marry the most eligible bachelor in town. Until I caught him doing the nasty, with someone else, minutes before I was supposed to walk down the aisle. I should be heartbroken, right? So why do I feel like I escaped a fate worse than death? Why are these Tequila shots sliding down my throat like sweet fire? And why can’t I take my eyes off the gorgeous weirdo who just walked into the bar wearing an outfit that looks like he stole it off the set of a Star Trek movie? Twelve hours later, I wake up sprawled across a large, muscled chest. One look at my ring finger and I realize, I married that smoking hot, sci-fi nerd. Problem is, I can’t remember the actual ceremony, or how the drunk bear ended up locked in the bathroom. I can’t remember if we—-ummmm, you know—. Maybe the raccoons raiding the kitchen cabinets will fill me in. He says his name is Rygar. Did we really, REALLY, get married? He thinks so, because he starts talking about fate, and mates, and outer space. I think maybe he’s off his rocker until the Men In Black show up. I might be able to hide my clueless husband from nefarious government agents, but I’m a complete failure at keeping my hands to myself because—YUM. Unfortunately, if my surprise, sexy husband is telling the truth, he’s not from around here—as in not from this solar system—and worst of all? He’s leaving as soon as he fixes his broken spaceship… and he expects me to go with him.