Preston Evans is a legend in and out of the bedroom. He's six foot two, gorgeous, and famous because his celebrity ex snapchatted his huge package. I hate him. I hate his stupid puppy store, Doggy Style. I hate the way he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat. I don't care that his abs are chiseled, his arms are tattooed, and his face belongs on the cover of a magazine. Every dog bred means a shelter dog dead!

I chain myself to his store in protest, but instead of calling the cops, he throws me a bone.
If I spend one week with him in Hawaii pretending to be his fiancée to snag an investor, he will transform his store into a shelter dog adoption center, saving thousands of dogs' lives.

One week and I never have to see this sexy, dirty-talking jerk again. How hard can he, uh I mean it, be?

Sex is off the table. So why do I want him to bend me over it?