The last thing I expected when I ran out on my wedding was to wake up in Vegas married to Mason Reyes, the cocky, gorgeous, and much younger NFL quarterback for the Boston Rebels.

I've always been a smart, responsible doctor. The good girl.

And yet here I am with a drunken photo of our nuptials leaked and spreading like wildfire.

Considering my ex is his former teammate, it's as bad as it gets.

Mason says the only way to save face and avoid further scandal is to move in with him and stay married for three months. After that, he promises we can talk annulments.

Reluctantly, I agree. It's only three months and I've put us in a strict no-sex zone.

For a while, the plan seems to work.

The press moves on, my ex starts to get the picture that it's over, and we're on our way toward the finish line of this marriage being done. I even manage to ignore the way my body reacts when he calls me, "My wife."

That is until two things happen that completely derail everything.

One, our no-sex zone flies out the window in a tangle of hot, sweaty limbs and filthy whispered words.

And two, the stick shines with one bold word: Pregnant.