Note to self:

Don’t fake date your ridiculously hot best-friend-slash-roommate if you’re not prepared to accidentally ride him like a pony in paradise.

Which is why telling our families that Swayze Wolff and I are dating is easily my dumbest idea yet.

But with a toxic ex waiting at my twin brother’s destination wedding, and months of online dating resulting in nothing but unsolicited d*ck pics with a side of shriveled nut sacks…

what choice do I have?

FML.

We’re forced to go from estranged BFF’s who only communicate via snarky post-it notes to hopelessly devoted in a matter of minutes.

Not that it matters. He’s a commitment-phobic police lieutenant and I’m a hot mess who doesn’t do boyfriends, unless they have batteries.

It’s foolproof, right?

Totally the safest option.

Except my “fake boyfriend” is way too real. My family adores him.

My ex loathes him.

And when my boss hands me a buzz-worthy

assignment, guess who volunteers to take notes?

Two weeks in paradise.

One bed.

Zero boundaries.

And suddenly I’m ready to rewrite all the rules.

But last time I believed in a fairytale, I got trapped in a nightmare, and that’s one chapter I don’t plan on rereading.

Sour Notes

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