A fiancee. I’m going to Chicago to pretend to be some Italian Stallion’s future wife. Why a massive hunk, boxer, and rich restaurateur needs a fake bride is beyond me. Then again, I’m not paid to know why. I’m paid $100,000 to be his escort, or in this case, the woman he’s supposedly “going” to marry.
The moment I met Antony “Tony” Fasano, I thought I might have lost my ability to breathe. In my twenty four years of life, I’d not seen anything like him. Clad only in a small towel precariously dangling from his hips–water droplets streaming down every inch of his muscular frame–I knew right then and there, I’d finally seen male perfection in all its raw glory.
What happened next blew me away.