There comes a time in every almost-thirty-year-old woman’s life when getting kidnapped off the street is preferable to admitting that the hot, rich boyfriend you’ve been bragging about for months does not, in fact, exist.
Yes, it’s terrifying being stuffed in the trunk of a Mercedes, but I would rather be locked in a stranger’s penthouse than sleeping on the floor of my parents’ apartment like the loser daughter I am.
Honestly?It’s nice to get some alone time. And my own bathroom.
He bribes me with money not to call the police.
I scream at him for forcing me to go to brunch as his prisoner at the hottest restaurant in New York.
Now everyone in my parents’ aggressively posh Manhattan neighborhood thinks we’re dating.
Buckle up, buddy.
I have a full wedding itinerary to attend, and congratulations—you’re my fake boyfriend.
Unfortunately, my kidnapper is the worst fake boyfriend in the history of fake boyfriends.
He’s mean.
Aloof.
Emotionally unavailable.
And deeply offended by how much time I spend on my phone.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to ignore how yummy he smells, all muscular and tall as he fumes next to me in bed, furious because I asked him when the sexy portion of the kidnapping is going to happen.
It’s a fair question, though, right?!? I thought kidnapping came with benefits!
Guess my kidnapper didn’t want me that much after all.
Men lying about their desire for a relationship. Story of my life.
Now I’m trapped.
He’s miserable.
And somehow, this is starting to feel dangerously like a relationship.
