Releases early June 2026



Marriage is anything but convenient.

As San Francisco’s top divorce attorney, Justine should know. She’s freed hundreds of couples from their shackles, so she knows better than to fall into that trap.

Until her grandmother hits a hot bicyclist with her car.

When everyone mistakes the victim, Pax, for her boyfriend, Justine does what any lawyer with a healthy fear of liability would do: she proposes a temporary marriage in exchange for a donation to Pax’s collapsing animal shelter. Not only is her grandmother protected, but her bosses have practically promised Justine the senior partner position she covets – if she’s married.

Six months of marriage, just until her promotion is secure, should be easy. But Pax, with his gorgeous face and to-swoon-for physique, is anything but easy to resist. Especially when the for-pretend kisses start to feel genuine and when he starts to throw around the phrase that makes her shiver – “my wife.”

Real feelings in a sham marriage are anything but convenient.

You’ll be smitten with this spicy age-gap (she’s older!), marriage-of-convenience romantic comedy with a side of adorable rescue animals and a meddling grandma.

How will I get my book?

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Tropes

• Age gap (she’s older!)
• Marriage of convenience
• Opposites attract
• Grumpy sunshine (she’s grumpy)
• Animal lover
• A meddling grandma

Chapter 1 look inside

“Marriage is a fine institution, but I'm not ready for an institution.” ― Mae West

JUSTINE

If a hot guy cycles through your neighborhood, you go outside to ogle—no, respectfully admire—him. 

Look, I don’t make the rules. When you’re a single-by-choice lawyer working sixty hours a week, you take pleasure where you can. And one of the few joys in my life happened every Saturday between two twenty-five and two thirty—two thirty-two if I was lucky and there was a car he had to wait for. This meant at two twenty, I slapped my laptop shut.

My eyeballs felt ready to bleed after scanning the privilege log for the Vanderpool case since eight this morning. I deserved a respite. I rolled back my Herman Miller chair, the same one I had in my office across the Oakland Bay Bridge, and stood, stretching my back. At forty-three, I really needed to take more breaks from hunching at my computer.

I grabbed my lipstick and dabbed it on in the bathroom. I spent three seconds more to run my fingers through my short blond hair. As I slipped on my slides by the front door, I caught sight of my grandmother’s sneakers.

Remorse was a sharp stab to my gut as I remembered telling her I was too busy to take her to the craft store. But the shop was open until six on Saturdays, and besides, she wasn’t even crafty. I’d take her after I watched my guilty pleasure’s muscular calves pedal away. 

I shouted, “I’m going to check the mail, Gramma,” and slipped out my front door. I jogged down my front steps, then slowed to a more dignified pace befitting an established attorney and homeowner in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Berkeley. 

“Hey, Justine.” In an irritating complication, my neighbor, Heather, met me at our twin mailboxes. She opened her arms for the awkward, perfunctory hug of bisexual exes everywhere. I stepped in, and her black scrubs crinkled against my threadbare Stanford Law T-shirt.

“Are you on your way to work?” I asked, hopeful, as I waited a second before gently disengaging.

“Just got home. And Hamilton’s not back from golf yet.”

Shit. I’d never get rid of her. I glanced at my watch. Two twenty-three. 

“Were you working?” she asked with a sympathetic pout.

“Always.” My slight grimace meant yes, and I’d like to get back to it.

“Still gunning for that promotion.” It wasn’t a question.

My smile was slightly more genuine this time. The case I was working was my best chance yet for my name to come up when the partners discussed who’d fill the empty Family Law Practice Group chair position. “Always.”

“Hamilton says you won’t get it while you’re single.”

“Oof. He didn’t actually say that?”

“He did.” Despite the tired lines around her eyes, she stood straighter and puffed out her chest in a decent impersonation of her husband, who was one of my bosses. “Family law firm…family values…blah blah blah.” She crossed her arms. “And we all know how you feel about marriage.”

After three years together and another two as neighbors after our breakup, she knew exactly where to punch for maximum pain. “You know I—” 

“Whoa. Who’s that?” She looked past me.

Dammit, I’d almost missed him. I whirled to face the street that bordered my corner lot. I spotted the familiar blue bicycle, the strong legs that pumped the pedals, the muscular forearms that gripped the handlebars, and thick dark hair that flew back in the wind. 

All my irritation washed away as I regarded the beautiful man. It wasn’t creepy that gawking at a hot stranger was the high point of my weekends, was it? It was a respectful thirst. I’d never touch him or even speak to him.

But I could dream. “My boyfriend,” I sighed.

He turned his head and lifted his hand in a wave. He’d never done that before. White teeth flashed as he smiled. My heart thudded as I glanced at Heather. Was he waving at me or at her? With guys, it was usually her. She was more femme with her long, dark hair and petite frame. My cropped, blond hair and athletic frame didn’t usually reel in the men.

Then something else caught my eye. A matte blue BMW turned onto our street and crawled toward us. I thought I had the only in the neighborhood. Irritation prickled under my skin. I’d special-ordered that paint to stand out. And now I had a copycat.

When I made out the license plate, my stomach plummeted. That wasn’t a twinning neighbor. It was my car. And my grandmother was behind the wheel. She must have realized she was caught because her eyes widened and then she accelerated just as the still waving cyclist ignored the stop sign. 

The scene seemed to unfold in slow motion. My car and the bicycle were juxtaposed for a moment. They collided with a clang like a church bell. The bike and the man flipped and separated. The bike skittered off into the street, and the man landed with a bone-crunching thud, a low bounce that tossed him onto his side, and a skid into the grassy curb. My car screeched to a stop.

The street went silent.

There was a flash of black—Heather’s scrubs as she ran toward the man in the street. My Gucci slides weren’t made for running, but I took off as fast as I could toward my car. When I reached it, I flung open the driver’s-side door. “Gramma! Are you okay?”

Her face was white under her shock of garish magenta hair, but she was buckled in, and the airbag hadn’t deployed. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a scratch on her. Her voice shook when she said, “I hit the wrong pedal. Is he alive?”

My stomach clenched. I reached across her to press the button to turn off the car. “I’ll go check.”

I ran to where Heather bent over the man. He’d rolled onto his back, his arms and legs out straight and, hopefully, unbroken, but blood was smeared across his tan forearms, and more welled from a scrape on his chin. “Is he okay?” I asked, then I winced. Of course he wasn’t okay. He was bleeding because my grandmother had hit him with my very solid German car. “Should I call 911?”

“No 911,” the man murmured without opening his eyes.

Thank god he was conscious. “Should we listen to him? He might have a head injury.”

Heather considered for a second. “I’m going to get my kit,” she said. “Keep him still but turn him on his side if he vomits.”

Once, when we were dating, a child had started choking at a nearby table in the restaurant. Before I even understood what was going on, Heather had barked out a series of orders to the closest server and the kid’s parents, then performed the Heimlich maneuver on him. A chunk of carrot hit the floor, and in a few minutes, the kid was fine. I’d been in awe of her cool-headed control of the situation. I’d never seen her at work, but I imagined that was what happened every day when she walked into the hospital emergency room: she flipped a switch, and she was no longer fun, slightly goofy Heather. Instead, she was capable Dr. Huang.

As she jogged away, I kneeled by the man’s side. I shifted until I cast a shadow over his face on the uncharacteristically sunny January day. As many Saturdays as I’d watched him cycle past my house, I’d never seen him up close, and it was unsettling to see the man’s formerly fuzzy features sharpen. He had an angular face with high cheekbones and a clean-shaven, sharp jaw, but his mouth was soft, crowned by a well-defined Cupid’s bow. His unlined skin was pale. Sweat beaded his forehead.

His hair was almost black, straight, and long enough to fan out on the grass. It was definitely too long for anyone working at my law firm. Gently, I brushed a few strands out of his eyes. “God, you’re pretty.”

I winced. What a silly thing to say. I’d meant to ask him if he was okay, if there was anything I could do for him, if I could give him mouth-to-mouth. No! Not that. Respectful thirst, remember?

His long eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes blinked open. They were deep brown, I thought, or maybe his pupils were dilated. Did that mean he had a concussion? I wished I’d listened more closely to Heather talk about her work. His glassy gaze fixed on me, and a vague smile teased at his soft lips. “Marry me.”

Thank You!

I love it when you buy direct from my store. As a small business, I earn more from each sale, which means I can continue to write all the steamy, funny romances you love to read. Thanks again and happy reading!

All my love,

Michelle