Angol
My best friend's little sister has been getting under my skin for decades. She's my lifelong nemesis and now-apparently-my wife.
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.
