Marriage in a Minute - Alina Jacobs

Synopsis

What kind of moron pretends to be broke then makes the girl pay for his expensive drink and his Uber home?

And what kind of idiot marries a tool like that?

Oh right, me, that’s who.

You’d think that with living with my grandmother who makes candles that smell like her vag and a foul-mouthed parrot, I would have enough drama in my life.

But when my wedding planning firm organizes four marriages at first sight, I found myself at the altar pledging my eternal hatred to Mr. I Think Women Are Gold Diggers And I’m Going To Be Obnoxious Until I Set You Off And Make You Prove It.

We are not compatible. (Shocking!)

Chris Winchester is a billionaire with serious trust issues, and I am a photographer trying to survive in the world of high-end weddings.

And the billionaire’s penthouse is about to be Marriage and a Murder if he doesn’t stop hitting his snooze button a thousand bazillion times in the morning while I’m trying to work and get my life back on track.

I storm into his bedroom to give him a piece of my mind and destroy that stupid alarm clock…

And of course, he’s not wearing anything except a tiny corner of his high thread count sheets.

So I might have had a peek at that muscular chest, washboard abs, and the barely-covered bulge.

Apparently, I am the proud owner of a hot AF husband. Who knew?

But I will not have the full marriage experience.

Love makes a marriage, not hate.

But when Chris says in that deep voice,

“Hate sex makes great sex.”

That might be the first thing in the marriage we agree on.

This standalone, full-length, fun romantic comedy has no cliffhangers but does have a swoon-worthy HEA! This book has tons of STEAM, a billionaire with a bad attitude, and a heroine who has had it up to her sweetheart neckline with wedding drama.

To my Aunt who had a very tasteful third wedding.

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1

Grace

“We are lowering our expectations. Lowering. Them. Very low.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose under my glasses. My date was late.

Figures.

I should have been home working on the three thousand wedding photo edits requested by my latest bridezilla, yet here I was, in a generic hipster bar, waiting on some guy named Chris to bless me with his presence.

Grace: I’m leaving if he’s not here in thirty seconds.

Ivy: Don’t give up! He could be your Prince Charming!

Elsie: Not if he’s late.

Grace: Thank you!!!

Sophie: Remember, we’re lowering our expectations! You are almost thirty, and you haven’t been on a date in three years. Clock is ticking!

Grace: I don’t think this is going to work for me.

Ivy: He just needs to be able to get it up. This is you dipping a toe back in the dating and sex pool.

Brea: She needs to dive in headfirst!

Sophie: Technically, the guy really needs to do that.

Grace: I’m having second thoughts about allowing a stranger’s mouth down there.

Amy: But sex is nice!

Brea: Very nice!

Sex would be nice. I would give Chris two more minutes, but then I really needed to do some work.

As a photographer for the weddings of Manhattan’s rich and entitled, I had attended record numbers of magical, high-society weddings. Even though some—okay, many of the brides—could be full-blown bridezillas, I still loved going to weddings, engagement parties, and bridal showers. I loved the fairy tale, hearing about how the happy couple met and capturing the moment when they whispered, “I do.” Part of the fun was living vicariously through the couple’s romance, but lately I’d been wanting one of my own.

I had fantasized about the perfect guy watching me from across the room of a super-posh bar. He would catch my eye and saunter over—crisp suit, French cuffs, no indoor sunglasses, two specialty cocktails in hand—sit down next to me, and say something witty.

Lowering our expectations.

Instead there was Chris. He was the least douchey of the men I had met on the dating app I had downloaded. I had my choice of Chris, the guy who wanted to smell my feet, or one of the three hundred bots that had messaged me asking for iTunes gift cards or plane tickets to bring their grandmother’s hairdresser’s sick daughter to America.

I checked the time on my phone. The two minutes were up.

Chris was not going to show. In fact, I would bet my DSLR camera that he’d never had any intention of coming.

I tried

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