“Also, you need to stop calling me ‘boss.’ When we’re with my family, I’m Nikki.”

“Or I could tell them I call you ‘boss’ for how bossy you are.”

“I’m not bossy.” I hand Diego his cheat sheet of information about my family and keep the one about his. “So, backgrounds.”

“Bossy.” He grins.

I scowl. “Be serious, we can’t make mistakes. My family really needs to think we know each other.”

Diego leans forward, dropping his elbows on his knees. “But we do, and better than most couples. We’ve been together all the time for two weeks.” Never this close, though. His nose is only a few inches from mine. “Doesn’t matter if you forget my third uncle’s name.”

“You think you know me?”

“I do.”

“Prove it,” I challenge him.

“Name: Nicola Addison Moore. Birthday: April 24. Born and raised in Old Saybrook. NYU graduate with a degree in Marketing and Visual design. Father: Jason Moore. Mother: Dora Moore, maiden name Appleton. Only one sibling, Julia, soon to be married to Paul Collins. And it doesn’t matter if I don’t remember your Aunt Laurel’s middle name”—he pauses to peek at the sheet—“is Clara, and that she’s the one allergic to nuts.”

“It matters! You could offer her the wrong cookie and kill her,” I say, somewhat annoyed that he’s basically memorized the whole sheet, while I still struggle to remember all of his nephews’ names.

“No, it doesn’t. This list isn’t that important; not when I’ve learned everything else about you.”

“Like what?” I cross my arms pettily.

“You only have a few friends, but the ones you have, you would die for. Harry Potter is your favorite series, but you refuse to pick a single favorite book like everybody else because the story wouldn’t exist without all seven novels. You never leave the house before spraying yourself head to toe in Flower by Kenzo, the same perfume you’ve used since you were sixteen…”

I gape at him. “How do you know that?”

“Blair told me.” He winks.

Oh, so the two buggers talked about me behind my back.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Yes. You like to paint your nails in the most obnoxious, shocking colors.” I stare down at my fingers, and the tips are in fact neon pink. “But you’d never use a lipstick shade other than nude. Pity, because a bold red would look killer on you, if I may say.”

“You may…” I mock-scold him.

Eyes never leaving mine, Diego continues, “You refuse to dress more casually at the office, even if your boss has probably told you a million times you could lie low on the suits…”

He has.

“…When you’re concentrating, you reach out to twirl a lock of hair around your finger, only to lower your hand, disappointed, because you’ve forgotten you’ve chopped it all off…”