Life was good. I was tending bar, making enough to get by, paying my rent, and enjoying the occasional cocktail with my best gay boyfriend, Matty. And then I got the call.
One of my customers had passed. The one who we nicknamed “Grandpa,” who’d watch us for hours from his seat at the bar, sucking on the same beer, never leaving a tip.
For some reason the old coot left me his estate. Huh? He looked like the last person in the world to have an “estate.” Well, did your mother ever tell you not to judge a book by its cover?
And thanks to good old Grandpa, it looks like I may never have to work again.
But of course there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. I only get Grandpa’s money if I’m 25 years old (check), and married (not checked; not by a landslide). And—I only have 30 days to pull this off.
I didn’t see how I could make it happen, until four eligible bachelors waltzed into my life. Then, I had a whole different set of problems . . .
Contains mature themes.
