Still single at 50, I’m in shock that a dropped batch of lemon bars leads to a marriage proposal. Which is great and all except for the fact that it’s for show.
I’m a plump, middle-aged woman with a talent for cooking and baking, not anyone’s idea of a wife. But Mad Dog needs me to marry him to suppress a scandal.
Maybe now I can figure out how he got that nickname.
My life won’t change much. He’ll live in my guest room, and I’ll feed him delicious food and yummy desserts. And maybe do his laundry.
But then shortly after the wedding, he asks me out on a date. What have I gotten myself into?