I got cold feet and I ran, jilting Americas favorite bachelor at the altar. On national television.
No worries. Grumpy, jaded, hot-as-hellfire 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 ...
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