Poor Miss Morielli’s cheeks look like we set them on fire, and I’ve never related to a person so much. Jude really knows how to work a person up. “Well, I guess it’s a moot point, with as much paperwork as you both just signed together, you may as well be married. At least for the next twelve months.”

“I’m not sure I believe in marriage.” Jude stands up and rounds the table. I swear, the woman is incapable of keeping any of her thoughts to herself. She’s lucky she’s too far away to kick this time. “But I am a fan of sister wives . . . without the husband, of course. It’s all of the support with none of the dude drama. I guess you could say that’s what we’re doing.”

“Sister wives, huh? I think you might be onto something.” Miss Morielli holds out two keys. “I hope you’ll enjoy your new home.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jude grabs the keys out of her hand and crosses the room, placing them next to the only photographable plant in the room. I have no doubt in about two minutes the photo will be on her Instagram feed with about a million filters. “We’ve only been planning this for our entire life. This is going to be the best year ever.”

I think about asking Miss Morielli for her notary and making Jude sign that statement. Because as much as I’ve warned her and she’s said I’m crazy, I have a feeling having a rule-following mom and a five-year-old for roommates is not going to be everything she thinks it will be.

But like it or not, she’s stuck with us now.

CHAPTER 1

Jude

Children and hangovers do not mix.

I’m sure it’s common sense to most people, but this is not a problem I ever thought I’d have.

For one, my uterus is under heavy protection. And two, by the time I have kids—if I ever do—I’ll be a real adult who makes grown-up decisions. You know, like one glass of heart-healthy red wine with a well-balanced meal and not the parade of low-carb vodka shots I had after eating a side salad, no dressing, last night.

But as the sticky, tiny fingers literally peel open my eyes, and my tongue is uselessly stuck to the roof of my mouth, I have the very unkind realization that this is my new life . . . at least for the next year. And for the millionth time, I hope that if a giant sinkhole were to open up, it does so underneath Asher Thompson’s feet.

“Auntie Jude, Mommy made pancakes. She said to ask you if you want some before you go to your special meeting.” Adelaide holds my eyelids hostage and stares into my eyes, which are no doubt bloodshot, with the most innocent expression that it almost makes me smile. Almost.