Përshkrim
He’s thirty-five and all man, I’m twenty-two and all . . . virgin. He’s also my fiancé. Correction: my fake fiancé.
We start out as a bet. He doesn’t believe that anyone holds my last name against me. So he offers me his to prove a point.
It’s a win-win. He gets a break from his concerned family’s prying, and I get a chance to shed my family’s reputation while I save up to ditch this small town.
He says all I have to do is wear his ring, follow his lead, and pretend I can’t keep my hands off of him in public.
But it’s what happens between us in private that blurs all those carefully drawn lines . . .
It’s what transpires behind closed doors that doesn’t feel like pretending at all . . .
This engagement was supposed to be for show. This agreement? It has an end date.
He once told me he’d never fall in love.
And yet here I am, head over heels for my fake fiancé.
Shqyrtime
Ende pa shqyrtime.