Sliding into the bed, she got a whiff of the cologne Cruz wore on his pillow and grimaced, shoving it away from her. She wasn’t angry at him, per se, but rather this catastrophic mess she was getting deeper and deeper pulled into. Moreover, in a true trope of a romantic story she herself couldn’t have written any better, this wedding farce was a smack to her own face and sensibilities. She was literally doing a fake wedding, to a bossy, jealous CEO billionaire, to appease the father of the groom. If nothing screamed romance novel like her current situation, then she was in the wrong damn profession.
She glowered at his scented pillow as if it was the cause of her current angst. She was self aware enough to know the reason she was out of sorts was because she was worse than the heroines in
