Faking it. I’d been faking it ever since I was sixteen years old.
Every orgasm during sex.
Fake.
Every sigh and moan. Every compliment and encouragement.
Fake.
No, sir, you do not have the biggest one I’ve ever seen.
Every cute conversation and sultry smile with a customer across the bar.
Fake. Fake. Fake.

So, why was it this hard for me to find a fake date to my sister’s wedding? Christmas was in one week, her wedding on the 26th, and I had yet to find some handsome, brainless, charismatic nobody to pretend to be my date for what was sure to be one week of utter hell.

Then I decided on him. The creepy regular from my bar. He might have potential with a makeover, but this... was going to be a disaster!

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