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Why couldn’t a sexy Frenchman be the way to nurse a broken heart on a honeymoon for one? The question plagued me, and part of me figured he was just what the doctor ordered!

On the steps of the Eiffel tower, the hottest man I’d ever seen referred to himself as a wanker on the phone and a surge of heat grew inside me.

And why did British slang suddenly sound like a name in my fantasies?

When Mr. Wanker shows up on my train to Italy, we make a deal that he’ll take me to Monte Carlo and then we can continue onto Rome, together.

My lonely honeymoon for one is now heating up.

And the more time I spend with my Mr. Wanker, the stronger my fantasies of tossing everything and moving to Europe play out in vivid color in my mind.

Falling in love wasn’t supposed to be a part of this vacation. Reality always ruined fairy tales…