When my brother’s best friend asks me to fake marry him to secure a business deal he desperately needs, I laugh in his face. Me, help Carter Harrington? That’s split-your-pants, rip-roaring hilarious. I don’t even like him.

It had been one year, two months and seventeen days since my last date. So my best friend Abby decided to sign me up for a dating app. She guaranteed that she could get me the best date of my life within one week. I didn’t really want to do it, but I figured what did I have to lose? Turns out that I had.

I would like to request more information about the assistant job I saw advertised in Sunday’s newspaper with the six-figure starting salary. I have a bachelors degree in English and many years of work experience and think I would be a good fit for the job. My questions are as follows: 1. What is the exact nature of the job? 2. Is it a strict requirement that I live with the boss? If so, can I have friends and others over? 3. The ad states there is a uniform. May I ask what sort of uniform? And why?

City girl in Montana looking for her Romeo. Sounds like the start to a Hallmark movie right? Well, it would, if they had movies about idiot women flying across the country to marry a man they’d never met. That’s what I did. I responded to an ad in a newspaper that I found on the train. And now I’m trying to find Horseshoe Ranch so that I can marry some cowboy I’ve never even seen. And no, this isn’t the 1800s. I’m just desperate. To make matters worse, the cowboy doesn’t even know I’m coming. I figured life couldn’t get any worse in Montana. I was wrong.

She’s my best friend’s sister, and I’m her new boss. There are three things I expect from a good assistant: Punctuality, honesty, and trustworthiness. She says she’s all that. Despite my reservations, I decide to give her a shot. To my surprise, she follows my every command.

I never intended to actually send the email. I’m not crazy. It was just a way to vent. I actually did need the money way too much to go off on my boss. Only when I went into office the next day, there was a note on my desk. It read, “A million years is up. See me in my office.”

I pretended to be the girlfriend of one of the richest men in New York City. It was only meant to be the one time. I mean it was the week before Christmas, I was shopping with my best friend and we were hungry and wanted to dine at the new swanky restaurant on the upper west side. For some reason the hostess misheard me when I mentioned Max Parker’s name. I’d been complaining that he was the reason why I’d lost my job. Who was I to correct her when it meant that “my relationship” had caused a table to suddenly open up?

Emmett Lasker is impossible to work for. He might be model handsome and stupidly wealthy, but he also has it out for me. He’s given me more last-minute and weekend requests than anyone else, ruining any plans I make. I should quit. And I will. Just as soon as I hit my two-year anniversary and earn out my signing bonus. But after a particularly awful day at work, a breakup (via text!), and my computer crashing, I’ve had enough! So at 11:59 Friday night, I barge into Emmett’s office to tell him what I really think of him. Only, that’s not what happens. AT ALL.

I was a small-town girl with big city dreams and more ambition than money to my name. He had everything—money, privilege, and the world at his feet. Opposites in every way, but that didn’t matter. We were lightning in a bottle, and everything felt possible when we were together. Life was perfect.

When my grandmother found out she didn’t have long to live, she embarked on a crazy trip—jumping out of airplanes and scuba diving with sharks. After I repeatedly voiced my concern, Gram blocked me—her own grandson—on text and social media, leaving me only her travel companion Eleanor’s number.

Raise your hand if you’ve ever done this. Written a racy message and sent it to—oops—the wrong person. Yeah, me too. Except, I sent my latest Tales of a Naughty Virgin column detailing my fantasies about my hot, charming, thoroughly bangable next-door-neighbor to…my entire company. Did I mention I’m a children’s book editor? Well, I was. *Facepalm.* At least the column goes viral, but I’m still the gal who gets fired for her not-safe-for-work thoughts about the so-called “Mister Sexy Pants”.

I kept smiling when I caught my fiancé coming down my sister’s chimney on Christmas Eve. I gave polite congratulations when they got engaged. And I even offered to help decorate for their Christmas wedding despite the fact that was supposed to be my dream wedding. But when my sister cuts up my great-grandmother’s one-hundred-year-old wedding dress and turns it into a skank show, even though that was the dress I was going to wear on my wedding day? Well, this elf is torching down the North Pole.

I’ve sworn off men to focus on my dream job that starts on Monday. But my best friend talks me into a final night of fun—a blind date. I only agree because the guy is going to work as a doctor in Africa. It’s the best date of my life. Dr. Africa makes me laugh and swoon, and I want to give him a thorough physical examination. He turns into Dr. One Night Stand, and I’m not sad about it. Monday morning, I’m enthusiastic and excited, until I bump into...you guessed it.

Rule number one for dating your best friend’s sister: Don’t. Just don’t do it. Especially when your best friend is dead and the last thing he made you promise him was that you’d keep an eye on his little sister, but not too good of an eye.

For the last year, I’ve wanted someone I can’t have. The man my father built his latest multimillion-dollar business with. He’s nearly a decade older than I am, and he’s entirely forbidden. The fact that he’s never given me a second glance only makes me long for him more.