When I end up unemployed a few weeks before Christmas, I do what any self-respecting twenty-five year old without a lucrative savings account and a long-forgotten dream would do. 
 
I panic, eat way too much ice cream, and agree to be a gorgeous woman’s fake date for the entire holiday season in exchange for more money than I know what to do with. 
 
It should be easy. A fast way to bankroll enough money to start my own business. 
 
But it’s anything but. 
 
Because the looks she’s been giving me go straight to my core, and if she doesn’t stop acting like she wants to unwrap me like her very own Christmas gift, I might melt faster than a snowman on a warm winter’s day.