Finding Mr. Wrong

Here's a tip: never trust a jackass in preppy clothing.

The phrase "trust me" should have been my first clue to hightail it out the door, but hindsight is always 20/20.

So there I was, on a stage with two other men, being asked ridiculous questions by a woman I couldn't see, but whose voice made my pants tighten―and not around my ankles.

Before I knew what was happening, I'd signed up for six weeks in paradise, isolated on an island for forty-two days with a complete stranger. And when I finally laid eyes on the sexy brunette who belonged to that voice, a part of me thought this wouldn't be so bad.

I've always been a levelheaded guy. I am a successful, smart, and shrewd business man. But that was when I was listening to the head above my shoulders. Once the blood traveled south, I always ran into trouble.

She called me Mr. Wrong, and that was fine with me.

Lesson learned: lust always trumps logic.