The Pucking Clause

Getting engaged wasn’t on my Santa list.

I wanted cocoa, fuzzy socks, maybe eight hours of sleep.

Not a fake fiancé with forearms that have their own fan base and a smile that ruins common sense.

My grandmother’s will says: “engaged by New Year’s or lose the twelve-million-dollar trust.”

So I do what any not-panicking, rational woman would:

I proposition my coworker.

Enter Wesley Kane — defenseman, Alaska’s favorite son, walking thirst trap.

He needs a fiancée for Christmas revenge. I need one to keep my inheritance.

Perfect.

The rules are: lots of PDA, one bed, absolutely no follow-through.

It’s good to set intentions.

Ten days. Way too much mistletoe. A small-town holiday where everyone thinks we’re in love.

But somewhere between “no follow-through” and his hands on my waist, something slipped.

And now I’m not sure if we’re lying to them…or to ourselves.