“This isn’t helping,” I said.

“It’s helping to amuse me,” Steph said, sitting back and sipping her coffee with a twinkle in her eyes. “I mean, Lizzie’s usually the sister I like to watch go down in flames, but flames are flames.”

I glared. “If you’re just going to rub it in, you can leave.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m fucking with you. Us imperfect little sisters of Lizzie The Golden have to stick together. Some of us don’t shit nuggets of pure gold and charm out for everybody we meet to gubble up.”

That earned a grin from me. “My feet smell, too.”

“You mean little puffs of perfumed air don’t woosh out of your shoes when you take them off after work? What?”

We both laughed. Lizzie was our big sister, and even if we loved her, it was impossible not to be annoyed after a lifetime of living in her shadow. She graduated top of her class in high school and was homecoming queen. She was a cheerleader and student council president. Even worse, she refused to flame out after high school. She went on to play soccer at a division one school, earn a Master’s degree in business, and date all the hottest guys. People just loved Lizzie. They were always too busy being dazzled by her looks and her big, gravity-defying perky boobs that were still refusing to droop even in her early thirties.

My leading theory was she’d struck a deal with the devil. Maybe on her thirty-seventh birthday, she would just poof into flames, or something. It was honestly the only explanation. And if she didn’t go up in flames, I hoped she would at least get a pesky wrinkle right in the middle of her forehead or something.

“Seriously, though,” Steph said. “Just tell everybody you two broke up. You can pretend you’re staying away from each other during the wedding shit because you’re pissed at each other. Easy.”

“No. If Mom and Dad think I’m single for my sister’s wedding, they’re totally going to play matchmaker. They might even invite someone and try to pawn him off on me all week. Like that Landon guy. Remember him?”

“The one from the family reunion with the Star Wars t-shirt?”

“Yes. He told me my nose was beautiful. Who says that? Serial killers or creeps. That’s who.”

Steph reached out and stroked my nose while pretending to moan in ecstasy.

I slapped her hand away, grinning. “Not as creepy as you, at least,” I added.

“Does Dean know this is going to happen? Like, does he know your family is going to be there?”

“No. But I’m guessing he knows we’re both going to be at the same conference the week before the wedding, too. That’s two weeks of pretending. Week One we have to play the happy couple in front of our co-workers and bosses at the conference in Asheville. Week Two we have to ramp up the stakes and do it in front of family at the wedding venue in Colorado. It’s a freaking disaster, Steph.”