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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.

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