I went to Vegas for a meeting. I came back with a husband.

Not just any husband. A six-foot-eleven Serbian basketball player with a bad reputation, a worse attitude, and a jacket that doesn't fit his shoulders. The same guy I spent all night arguing with at a hotel bar. The same guy I apparently married somewhere between my fourth tequila and an Elvis impersonator.

Now it's all over social media, my meeting is ruined, and his agent has the worst idea I've ever stay married. Fake it for a few months. Let the publicity save his image and launch my fashion label.

I moved into his too-big, too-empty house in Utah. Then his mother flew in from Serbia and started planning our future. Then he kissed me on the jumbotron and it didn't feel fake at all.


A sweet romance for those who

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