Chapter 1

The Wentworth family bought me for a year.

A full-ride scholarship, my grandpa's surgery bills, and my dad's little barbecue joint that was two months from getting evicted.

In exchange, I had to play fiancée to the Wentworth heir for twelve months.

But nobody told me there was more than one heir.

…

The whole school knows that two Wentworth brothers are fighting over a fat girl.

That fat girl is me.

My name is Tatum Gallagher. I'm nineteen, five-foot-four, a hundred and ninety-two pounds.

When I was five, I was playing in the park and noticed a little boy trapped under the frozen surface of a lake.

His face was swallowed by dark water. His tiny hands were flailing, barely moving.

He was about to die.

I dropped to my stomach on the ice and started punching it with both hands.

My knuckles split open and blood stained the snow, but I kept going until the ice finally cracked. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out.

I was too scared to tell any adults. I watched him cough up water, and then I ran.

As I got older, every girl around me was dainty and delicate. So I learned to hold back. I learned to pretend I didn't notice the way people stared at my body.

What teenage girl doesn't dream of being a delicate little flower, adored by the boy she likes?

That fantasy died on a Saturday afternoon, when a black sedan lost control and came barreling straight toward my dad's restaurant.

The dining room was packed with the lunch crowd. Dad was carrying a cast-iron pot of his signature smoked brisket.

I didn't think. I just ran.

I threw myself in front of the car and slammed both hands onto the hood.

The tires screamed against the pavement.

Two concrete tiles cracked under my feet. The car stopped less than two feet from the front window.

Through the windshield, I could see a white-haired old woman in the backseat, shaking like a leaf.

The next morning, she walked into Gallagher's Grill.

The first thing out of her mouth was:

"Tatum. How would you like to change your life?"

"My grandson needs a fiancée. One year."

Eleanor Wentworth slid a contract across the table.

"For one year, you attend events with him and maintain a stable relationship. In return, the Wentworth family covers your grandfather's entire medical treatment, buys out the lease on your father's restaurant, and pays your remaining three years of tuition at Ridgemont University."

Dad's knuckles went white around his coffee mug.

Grandpa's surgery couldn't wait any longer. The restaurant was three months behind on rent. I'd just gotten my acceptance letter from Ridgemont, but I couldn't even afford the housing deposit.

I read the contract from top to bottom.

"Deal."

Eleanor smiled.

"But I have one condition."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Can you throw in health insurance? Medical bills are insane. I just want to be able to see a doctor without going broke."

Dad kicked me hard under the table.

Eleanor laughed out loud.

By Sunday night, I'm dragging two suitcases up to the Wentworth villa near campus.

The driver offers to help. I tell him I've got it. The second I hoist the suitcase up the front steps, the wheel pops off and rolls straight into the flower bed.

The front door swings open.

Ethan Wentworth stands in the doorway. White shirt unbuttoned to the second button. Hair still damp.

He looks like one of those untouchable dream boys from a TV drama — sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and a gaze that carries just the faintest hint of rich-boy contempt.

He looks me up and down. His eyes travel from my round face, to my waist where my shirt clings a little too tight, and finally land on the broken suitcase handle.

Perfectly measured disgust.

"What did the suitcase do to you?"

"It looked expensive. I got nervous."

Ethan pauses. Like he didn't expect me to talk back.

"Three rules. First — when no one's watching, don't touch me. Second — when the family isn't around, don't call me your fiancé. Third — don't mistake this for love."

He turns to leave, then stops.

"This is the first time my grandmother has ever picked someone for me. She didn't even consider Serena Walsh."

He glances back at me, eyes are cold.

"What's so special about you?"

I look down at myself.

My oversized T-shirt can't hide the thickness of my arms. My jeans are stretched tight across my thighs. Standing in this cold, white-marble villa, I look like a warm smudge that wandered into an art gallery by accident.

Is it because I'm extra fat?