After a teeny incident with red paint, my hometown votes that it’s done with my activist ways. Now I’m on an entirely different planet, holding a single suitcase, standing on a platform, waiting for my new alien husband to arrive in his vehicle.

I bite my lip as I wait because there’s one serious problem with this whole situation. After a best forgotten, one-night stand gone wrong, I’m three months pregnant and obviously this baby won’t be his.

My rancher husband parks his vehicle next to me, looking like Satan himself. I manage to not choke with fear. His dark, assessing gaze pauses at the slight swell of my stomach.

He inhales deeply and gives a curt nod. “Get in,” he orders. “Now you’re both mine.”

Oh my. I leap into the vehicle beside him. Because it turns out I have a thing for sweaty, bare chested, hard muscled men who breathe fire. Who knew?