Despite the small army of cleaners, caterers, florists, bartenders, and valets that my parents hire every year for this event, it’s still a whirlwind of last-minute tasks and errands. Brianna, naturally, is second-in-command after my mother. She goes over a checklist with the head of the catering company while dispatching me and Carina to make sure that the right centerpieces have been delivered, that the catering trucks aren’t blocking the driveway, that there are clean towels and hand soap in each bathroom, that the bartenders have everything they need, and on and on.

My father, wisely, stays out of the way.

Finally, I’m allowed to go upstairs to change, where I take a quick shower and slip into my dress.

It’s a raspberry silk cocktail dress from the 1960s that I found in a vintage clothing store. A sleeveless halter top with a sweetheart neckline, it starts with a fitted bodice that shows off my rather generous breasts and small waist—my best feature, in my opinion—then falls into a draped, sarong-style skirt that makes my hips look more voluptuous than heavy. I had the dress shortened so that the longest part of the hem hits the top of my calf and my knee peeps through the slit when I walk. I add a pair of white pumps and a triple-strand necklace of huge fake pearls, also from the sixties. I look in the mirror and sigh, wishing I’d been born in a different time when clothes were designed for the short and curvy among us, rather than the tall and willowy.

Still, I’m pleased with the result. I do most of my make up then grab a handful of liners and shadows and walk down the hall, hoping to talk Carina into doing my eyes.

On the way, I pass my parents’ room and knock gently at the door. I’ve barely seen my father since dinner last night and, if I’m being honest, I want his approval.

I’m not disappointed.

I find him sitting in an armchair with a book in his lap and a glass of whiskey in his hand. His tuxedo jacket is lying on the bed, but otherwise, he’s ready to go and charm the crowd. He looks up as I come in. His handsome face breaks into a warm smile and he stands up.

“Belle!” he says, using the family’s pet name for me. “You look lovely.” He sweeps me with a nostalgic gaze. “Seems like just yesterday it was all strollers and diapers, and now look at you. It’s hard to believe the three of you are all grown up.”

“Uh oh. You’re starting to sound like mom. She’s hinting more and more that it’s time for some grandkids.”

He nods in agreement. “High time. Tell me about this boy you’re bringing to the party.”

I laugh. Thanks to my coffee date with Archer yesterday, I’m starting to feel more comfortable with the whole rent-a-date scenario. Archer is gorgeous, but he’s less intimidating now that we've shared a little of ourselves, and I’ve decided that the whole situation feels sophisticated and empowering. I’ve got a streak of Brianna’s control-freak nature in me, and I find there’s something nice about being in charge of a situation like this.

“He’s very nice, but we just met, so don’t get your hopes up. I want to get my PhD out of the way before I even think about settling down.” This is not entirely the truth, but I think it sounds like a respectable reason to not have a boyfriend. “You should pick on Brianna. She’s the oldest.”

He looks dubious. He knows as well as I do that Brianna is probably a lost cause as far as producing grandchildren for him and my mother to dote on. She’s far too busy being ambitious.

“Actually, Carina might be your best bet,” I admit.

“Well, plenty of time for all you,” he says, but he sounds a bit wistful. Maybe even more than my mother or Carina, he loves kids, and I have many fond memories from my childhood of him reading me stories, playing games, taking me to parks and zoos and museums, and applauding me at every school event I ever participated in. He’d be a wonderful granddad, and I almost wish I could magically produce a child just to make him happy.

“So, is my presence required yet?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry, no one is going to let you forget to come down.”

“More’s the pity,” he grumbles, but I know he enjoys this event as much as my mother does.

“I’m on my way to Carina’s room. Just wanted to come in and say hello.”

“Thanks for checking on your old man,” he says. “Have fun tonight—and make sure you introduce that young man of yours to me.”

I roll my eyes playfully, but the butterflies kick up again. I can only pray the whole thing goes smoothly. I am a sophisticated and empowered woman, I remind myself. “Will do, Dad,” I promise, and slip out the door again.

Carina sweeps me into her room and sits me down, acting like I’m doing her a favor by letting her do my eyes. She wears a flowing floor-length gown in a wispy sea-green chiffon. Spaghetti straps draw attention to her perfect shoulders. Her hair is held back with big fake flower on one side so that shiny brown curls tumble over the opposite shoulder. It’s the kind of style that shouldn’t work anywhere outside the pages of a glossy fashion magazine, but somehow she carries it off.

A few minutes later, she shows me to a mirror and I smile in appreciation at the smoky cat’s eyes staring back at me. I’d never have the nerve to do my own make up this dramatically. The effect is somewhat lessened when I put my glasses back on, but I still look much more glamorous than usual.

Carina frowns at me. “When are you going to get contact lenses? You have such pretty eyes. It's a shame to cover them up.”

I shrug. “Contacts make my eyes itch,” I say, a bit regretfully.

“Well, it doesn't matter,” Carina assures me. “You look gorgeous either way. You’re going to knock this boy of yours on his ass.” She gives an excited little laugh.

“Thank you.” I laugh too, but it feels a little forced. The confidence I felt a few minutes ago is dissipating the closer we get to showtime. Another jolt of nerves shoots through my stomach. Even though I’ve hired him, even though he's gone out of his way to make me more comfortable around him, part of me still wants to make a good impression on Archer.

There’s a knock on the door, and Brianna steps in. She’s wearing a sleeveless white floor-length gown that is almost severe in its clean lines and simple silhouette. As always, she looks stunningly elegant.

“You two ready?” she asks. “People should start arriving in just a few minutes.”

We’ll be expected to help Mom and Dad with the meeting and greeting, especially at the early stages of the party when there are only a few guests. I’ve told Archer to show up at 7:30 so that I have time to help settle in the new guests without having to worry about him.

Even though he won’t be here for another half hour, my heart is starting to race. I can’t tell if I’m anxious that my plan won’t come off or nervous about impressing him.

Sophisticated and empowered, I remind myself. It’s not about impressing him. It’s about … what is this about, again? Reassuring my family that I’m not a total loser, I guess.

I follow Carina and Brianna downstairs just as the doorbell rings for the first time.

For the next half hour, I’m kept busy shaking hands, hugging old friends, directing guests toward the bar or the bathroom, and generally being a dutiful youngest daughter.

As the time creeps closer to 7:30, my heart starts to pound so hard that I’m sure everyone else can hear it. If it weren’t too late to get my money back, I’d be tempted to cancel the whole thing.

Just before 7:30, I run upstairs to check myself in the mirror. I reapply lipstick and fluff my hair a little, just as the doorbell rings.

Although we’re still expecting many more guests, I somehow know that it’s him.

My heart firmly lodged in my throat, I head to the top of the stairs. I no sooner take the first step than I see my father striding toward the door.

I have to restrain myself from running down the stairs to intercept him. Instead, I force myself to slow down and walk casually. My father opens the door and sure enough, there’s Archer. They shake hands, introducing themselves.

As promised, Archer is casual but very, very presentable. He wears a brown leather jacket over a dress shirt and pressed khaki pants. His hair is slightly less styled than it was the morning I met him but still sexy in a effortless kind of way. He looks like a struggling actor who can’t afford a tuxedo but has nonetheless done his best to dress up.

He has not cut himself shaving.

My dad beckons him in and looks around, presumably for me. He spots me, and Archer’s eyes follow his. I’m standing mid-step halfway down the stairs when our gazes meet. A slow, delighted smile spreads over Archer’s face.

He’s acting, I remind myself. It’s what he does. But the smile is so sincere, so pleasantly surprised, that I’m having a hard time convincing myself.

And then I realize that I don’t have to. This whole thing will go better and be more fun if I just relax and go with it. A gorgeous man looks delighted to see me. Heck, yeah! I’m going to enjoy this.

I smiled back, feeling my cheeks get a little warm, and finish descending the stairs. Archer gives me a light kiss on the cheek then stands back and gives me an admiring once-over. “You look amazing,” he says.

My blush deepens. My dad says something, I murmur some kind of agreement, Archer drapes his arm comfortably around my shoulders as if we do this all the time, and we turn and walk into the crowd.