It's the perfect plan.
He needs a wife in order to buy the vineyard where he's worked for years. I need a place to live with my four-year-old daughter.
All I have to do is pretend I'm madly in love with Beckham Lawrence, and I get to live rent-free for the next year.
There's just one problem.
Beckham hates me. I can't blame him. After all, I'm the reason he spent a year of his life behind bars.
The last thing I expect is for the tattooed grump to give my daughter the bedroom of her dreams.
Or to walk in on him reading her bedtime stories.
Or for him to sacrifice everything when her sperm donor makes a surprise appearance after all this time.
This was just supposed to be pretend.
But with every day, I start to imagine what it would be like for Beckham to call me his wife and mean it.
