“Your dad and I brought it down to the garage. The decision on what to do with it is still pending.”

“What are the options?”

“Your parents want to give it away to charity, but Jules point-blank refuses. She wants to keep it in case we have a daughter.”

Ice courses through my veins. “You guys are… mmm… expecting?”

“What? No!” Paul laughs the question off, and I can breathe again. “She’s just thinking future tense; way future tense.”

“Err-hem,” Diego clears his throat behind me.

I had completely forgotten he was here.

“Oh, right.” I turn sideways in the hall to give him room to climb the last two steps. “Paul, this is Diego, my boyfriend. Diego, Paul, Julia’s soon-to-be husband.”

Another handshake, and Paul is on his way downstairs.

So far so good. Operation “Fake Boyfriend” is proceeding well. Nobody looked at Diego and me and screamed “Imposters!”

In my room, I drop Mr. Darcy on the bed, the bags on a chair, and finally remove my coat. I was overheating; it must be eighty degrees in the house. Once Diego is inside, I close the door behind him and whisper, “What do you think?”

He looks at me sheepishly. “Of what?”

“Did they look suspicious?”

“Relax, b—” I give him such a fierce scowl that he changes words mid-sentence. “Nikki. We’ve talked to them for only five minutes. No one suspects anything.”

I take his jacket and hang it next to mine. “Good. Great job buttering up my mom,” I say. “Nicely done.”

He grins. “Hey, I have a mom, I know how to handle those. Your sister is a different story, though, she didn’t seem to warm up to me.”

“Julia was probably just surprised.” I do an evil laugh inside my head. Yeah, surprised that her dream man just materialized before her eyes as my boyfriend. “You’re not exactly my type.”

“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.