Cutting out Love: A Sweet Southern Romantic Comedy, E-Book

I'm fake engaged to the grumpiest guy on the planet, and he's the reason my cozy haven got turned into a disaster zone.

It all began with a crash. Not the kind that makes your heart skip a beat, but the kind that reduces your house to a pile of splinters, thanks to JoJo's logging crew and an ill-fated pine tree.

After a string of hilariously bad attempts at finding a temporary roof, he somehow talks me into crashing in his basement. No, it's not as creepy as it sounds. Or at least it wasn't, until I got woken up by his spry eighty-year-old grandpa the next morning.

But here's the kicker: when explaining my presence to Grandpa Joe, JoJo claims I'm his fiancée. Yep, you read that right. Why, you ask? Grandpa Joe has this thing where he won't pass down the family forestry business unless JoJo ties the knot.

Seems easy, right? Faking out an old man who rarely ventures beyond his own porch.

Wrong. Especially when you're in a small town where everyone's up in your business. And Grandpa's there, reminding you to wear that engagement ring every time you step outside.

Oh, and just to amp up the drama, he spills the beans at church that JoJo and I got hitched!

I'm stuck waiting for my poor house to regain its glory, all while trying to conjure up fake feelings for my pseudo fiancé/husband to sell the grandest lie.

But here's the twist – the more we're forced to share space, the less I have to pretend about my feelings.

Now I'm in a pickle: should I confess that my "fake marriage" has somehow turned into real feelings for Mr. Grumpy?

Chapter One

Adrianne

You never know what’s going on around here. We have all types of hunting seasons, so rednecks frequent the woods behind my house all year. I grab my headphones and start my favorite playlist as I exit through the back door.

Like most middle-class Southerners, I have the luxury of my own above-ground pool. After standing on my feet all week indoors, it’s my go-to fix for relaxing my limbs and taking in some natural vitamin D.

It doesn’t take long for me to settle onto my favorite float, belly down, and drift toward the middle of the water.

Shania Twain belts out “Any Man of Mine,” and I regret pushing away from my phone so soon. This is one track

I’d prefer to skip today.

I mentally go over my grocery list and all the items I need to pick up for the salon. Of course, that leads my mind to products we’re running short on, which leads to Marcus. Ugh, Marcus Farcus. Actually, Marcus Mosely, but Farcus is more fitting.

My brain takes on a table tennis match between productivity and the promiscuity of the man I last trusted to love me. Well, love is a strong word. I’ll go with adore, or simply like. If only he hadn’t liked a lot of other women as much as me—at the same time.

By the time the song ends, I’m worked up and ready to mix hair removal in his styling gel. As an evil little scheme cooks up in my head, something crashes beside me, sending me and half the pool water over the edge like a tidal wave.

My heart leaps in my throat as I rip out my earbuds, which are thankfully waterproof, and hold on to my Dollar General raft like it’s a fragile ancient artifact. As I ride the wave to the ground, I notice the pool is split in half by a massive pine tree.

My heart races a million miles a minute as I scramble to my feet. It’s a miracle I’m not dead!

“Are you all right?”

I lift my face to a scrawny guy with a soul patch and a mullet, wearing a sleeveless flannel shirt. It’s like someone put Joe Dirt and Morgan Wallen in a blender and this guy poured out.

I cross my arms over my bare stomach. Partly to hold in the nausea building from current events, and partly because I don’t care for how Morgan Dirt is eyeing me.

“Whoa, mama.”

“Hey.” I’m about to chastise him for a sexist slur when I notice his eyes have now trailed to my roof. At least what remains of my roof.

All modesty takes a back seat when I rush toward the house. Pine limbs stick out of the top like Clark Griswold’s Christmas tree.

“What have you done?!” I snatch my phone, which now has a cracked screen. Some lifecase.

Adrenaline rushes through me as I search for the sheriff department’s number. I’ll certainly need to put on clothes before Bradley shows up.

With my back turned to Morgan Dirt, I wait for Bradley to answer.

“Hello?”

When did his voice get so deep? And why does it sound like he’s behind me rather than on the phone?

When I hear another ring, I turn to find another man standing by the scrappy soul-patch guy. My temperature rises, as this man looks like someone threw The Rock and Thor in a blender.

Except he’s dressed like a Duluth Trading commercial and has facial hair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I’m certain I’d remember a guy like this.

Of course he’d show up when I’m in my new bikini, minutes after I’ve started my man fast.

Great sense of humor, God.