What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Or does it? Okay, let me explain. I broke into my crush's dressing room to sniff his tights (not in a pervy way, I swear!) and got busted while, um... you get the idea. He then kind of, sort of blackmailed me into agreeing to a fake green card marriage with him. But hey, I'm not complaining. Next thing I know, we're on a flight to Vegas to make our friends and family think we had a crazy drunken night and, in the spur of the moment, tied the knot. Except... that's exactly what happens. (Thanks a lot, vodka.) Considering that he's the most desirable ballet dancer in New York City and I'm a garage-dwelling secret blogger with a major sweet tooth, there's no way this marriage could ever become real. Not to mention my totally crazy family and my aversion to every smell under the sun-except his. All I can hope for is to not fall in love with my husband. That shouldn't be too hard, right?
I'm a magician, not a stunt consultant. My record-beating dive without air was a trick. Of course, I can't tell that to my client, the royally hot Anatolio Cezaroff, a.k.a. Tigger. Not if I want to be able to pay my rent. Also, I'm not exactly comfortable around germs. All germs, including those lurking on uber-attractive men. So falling for my gorgeous client is out of the question, and I fully intend to keep my distance. That is, it was until he offers to train me in bed.
