If I had to pick a bride of convenience, my first choice would NOT be Peach Maloney.

My fiftieth choice would NOT be Peach.

Top spot on my list of occupational hazards? Yes.

Royal pain in the crumpets? Yes.

A bride of convenience? No.

But I’ve unexpectedly gone from royal bodyguard to monarch, having inherited a crown that was stolen from my family long before my birth. The kicker of this unexpected royal gift? In order to take the throne, I must find a wife.

Have I mentioned Peach would NOT have been my hundredth choice?

But I’ve no other options, and she needs a favor that my new position can fulfill quite nicely. So we’ve agreed to play the doting newlyweds out in public.

In private, though, our rules are simple:

No touching.

No talking.

And certainly no sex.

I should have known better than to marry a rule-breaker.