Football is my life. I'm not interested in marriage or babies or poopy diapers. Yet here I am, standing in front of a judge saying "I do," with a six-month-old on my hip and an aspiring storm-chaser on my arm.
From the time I was a little boy, sleeping with my head on a football, I've had one goal: carrying on the Bradford-family legacy.
Our famous father trained all my older brothers and me to be star athletes just like him, but seven years later, I'm the only one still focused on the game.
Until Raven Gale storms into my life.
She's smart, sassy, curves for days, and lightning in the sack. When I met her at my little sister's wedding we bonded immediately over our dedication to our dreams, our determination to let nothing stop us, and our insatiable, all-night, barrier-busting chemistry.
A baby girl is a surprise neither of us expected, but Raven has a plan. We'll have a quickie marriage to secure her trust fund, be together three months tops, then shake hands and walk away.
The only problem is with every late night I spend chatting with my wife or consummating our marriage (which we both agreed was a bad idea) or rocking my baby girl to sleep or yes, even changing poopy diapers, the stronger our bond grows.
It never rains in California, there's no football (for me) in south Alabama, but when you collide with a cyclone, everything changes, including what you thought were your plans.
