“You have a type?”

Yes. Tall, blond, blue eyes… engaged to my sister…

“I do.”

“And why am I not it?”

Because you’re not Paul.

“You’re too dark,” I say instead, gesturing at his hair.

“So why pick me again?”

“You had the best face, I’ve already told you.”

“So I was chosen solely because of my face?” He gives me a long and penetrating stare, prompting quick flashes of the other photos in his portfolio—where his face definitely played the extra—to invade my mind.

I break eye contact and manage to mumble, “Among your other very respectable assets.”

“Oh, so now I have assets?” He chuckles. “What assets?”

“You know, stuff?”

“What stuff?”

I huff, exasperated. “You have a nice ass, happy?”

“Very.” He laughs. “Likewise, boss.”

I hide my blush with an angry pout. “Don’t call me ‘boss.’”

“All right, all right. You want to go downstairs?”

“No?”

I’m terrified.

“Well, unless you want your family to think you’re up here playing with some of my assets… we’d better go.”

I try to ignore the sexy pun, even if my cheeks heat up, and ask, “Are you ready? Do you remember everything?” I fire one nervous question after the other. “Do you need to meditate? Take a few moments to get into character?”

“I’ve had two weeks to get into character. I’m ready if you are.”

“Okay.” I hold out my hand and he takes it. It’s nothing romantic, just human solidarity. Even if his hand is warm and dry and really big and it feels kind of good in mine. “Let’s go do this.”

And shame on me because, as we exit the room, I peek behind my shoulder at the reflection of my butt in the wardrobe mirror. I never thought of myself as a nice-ass girl; I never really gave my buns much consideration. Still, there’s nothing I can do to hide the small, satisfied smile that hasn’t left my lips since Diego’s comment.

When we arrive downstairs, everyone is already seated at the dining table and gossiping—probably about us, seeing how the conversation dies off the second Diego and I enter the room. Could they be any more obvious?

Mom and Dad are sitting at opposite heads of the table, with Julia and Paul occupying one of the long sides between them. So I sit next to Dad in front of Julia, and Diego takes the seat next to Mom, facing Paul.

An embarrassed silence lingers for about thirty seconds before my mom gets up. “Everyone’s here,” she says, moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll go get the food.”

In sixty seconds she’s back with a steaming oven dish filled to the brim with delicious and super-creamy-looking mac and cheese.

And, yes, the lobster and breadcrumbs topping. Yum!

Mom sets the dish in the center of the table and disappears back into the kitchen, returning with a smaller, round dish that she lays in front of Julia. My sister’s special preparation seems like a smaller tureen of mac and cheese, but the color is slightly off—a sad, dirty white instead of rich cream—and there is no lobster or breadcrumbs on top. Also, the pasta is different; looks kind of gummy.