I got cold feet and I ran, jilting America’s favorite bachelor at the altar. On national television.
No worries. Grumpy Nolan Brighton, to the rescue.
One middle-of-the-night phone call was all it took.
In my lowest moment, my grumpy boss pulled up in the getaway car, whisking me and my poofy wedding dress away from the train station. No questions asked.
He offered me a safe couch to crash on, a broad shoulder to lean on, a perfect pair of lips to dream about.
Now here I am, living under his roof. Working at his bar. Fitting seamlessly into the life he’s built for himself and his adorable daughter.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think this hot mess was romantic.
But I do know better.
