How I went from the fall harvest to secretly writing online dating and sex advice for the males of Mudville, I can't figure. All I know is I blame Harper for it. Apparently dating a writer has done something to my brain.
But that's not the worst of it. Oh no. My bigger problem is that my youngest brother is sprinting to the altar, intent on a Christmas wedding with a woman he's known for barely a year. Boone beating us to "I do" is not going to sit well with my girlfriend. It should go over about as well as the news that I'm the author behind the column she loathes.
What will happen when I finally confess that I'm secretly Mr. Naughty, the man she's declared her arch enemy? Hell if I know, but I don't need any advice column to tell me that my holiday this year is not going to be merry.
