I’m in a bad mood when I get back from the hospital late that Wednesday afternoon.

As promised, the money arrived in my bank account bright and early on Monday morning, and after waiting two days for it to clear, I was excited to go to the hospital and pay off our mounting bills. But when I arrived, that asshole Dr. Campbell was there. He studied me like I was a common criminal as I wrote out the check to pay our bill, and for the upcoming treatments.

And then, I watched as he set Joey up for the treatments. Joey was conscious, though lethargic. His senses were dulled by the painkillers, and yet as Dr. Campbell handled him, roughly, like a piece of meat, Joey kept grunting and crying. “Could you please be more gentle!” I’d begged him.

“This procedure needs a firm hand,” he’d said. “Besides, the child’s on morphine. He’s not in any pain.”

There it was again. The child. I’d wanted to reach over and smack that doctor, screaming, His name is Joey! Instead I watched him, biting my tongue, tears falling from my eyes until the treatments were over and Joey was resting.

After Dr. Campbell left, I’d wanted to put Joey at ease, to talk to him and make him smile. But he’d slept the entire time. Meanwhile, I texted Talia, wanting to fill her in on Sunday’s meeting and subsequent “date”. She didn’t respond, so I couldn’t even get any best-friend encouragement.

I didn’t want to leave until Joey woke up, but he didn’t. He snoozed peacefully, his bloated face so cherubic and sweet. As I left, I knew he’d probably wake up and wonder where I was. He’d think I didn’t care about him. I took the bus home, near tears, feeling absolutely miserable.

I put on my brave face, though, as I always do, when I walk through the apartment door. There is no room for moping and bad moods in the Brogan household, I tell myself, forcing the corners of my mouth into a smile.

When I get inside, I’m surprised to see Calvin in the kitchen, his hands buried to the elbow in oven mitts. I know it is chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese again, since that’s the only thing he makes. We’d had hot dogs the night before, or I’d think this was a running record.

“Hi,” I say to him as I enter the kitchen and give him a peck on the cheek. “Where’s Cara?”

He shrugs as he checks inside the oven.

“What?” I look at him with alarm. It’s not normal for Cara to be anywhere but here. And he and Cara are like peanut butter and jelly. She doesn’t have after-school activities, and her family life pretty much precludes her from having a social life.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the bus. I thought you knew where she was.”

“No!” I reach for my phone to text her. It’s only seven in the evening, so not that late. But still.

“Well, she’d better get her ass home. I have a shift at the Home Depot at eight.”

“You do?” Shit. Max is picking me up at eight. This is not good. I open a text to Cara and type in: Where are you?

I study the chat box, willing her to answer, when the text changes to “Read” and I see the three dancing dots. I sigh with relief, glad she’s not dead in a ditch somewhere. A moment later, I read: I’m stuck at the library for a project. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back. I’m sorry.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I check the time again. Then I look at Calvin. “Do you think you can get out of work?”

He narrows his eyes at me. Usually, I’m begging him to pick up hours. He doesn’t know about my new padded bank account. “No. Two of the other cashiers are on vacation.”

I sigh. The oven dings signaling our nuggets are ready. I type another text to Cara: Do you think you can be home by eight? I really need you. I have somewhere to be.

A moment later: This is a big project. It’s half my grade. I’ll try.

Calvin is looking over my shoulder, at my texts. “Where do you have to be?” he asks.

“Um, well . . .” I don’t know what to say. Clearly, I can’t tell him I’m just going out with my rich doctor boyfriend, because since when was going on a date more important than school projects? I swallow. “I wanted to, um, go back and see how Joey is doing with the new treatment.”

Shit. Now I feel lower than ever, lying about that. “Did you just come from there?” he asks.

“Yeah. But he was asleep when I left so I wanted to be there when he woke up. I guess I don’t have to,” I say as he begins to plate our dinners. The kids are playing hide and seek and there aren’t many places to hide, despite the mountains of dirty laundry and garbage everywhere, so they’re constantly underfoot.

I snatch my phone away and open a text to Max. Can we do a raincheck?

A moment later, a text comes back: We need to talk right away. My father’s condition is deteriorating quickly and I know he’ll want to meet with me soon.

Right. It’s so bizarre, how in these rich families, his father has to arrange an appointment for his son to visit him, and he’s just supposed to drop everything and run. I tap my chin, thinking, but no solution comes. Griffin barrels into my center, shaking me from my thoughts. This is impossible. I type in: I’m sorry but tonight isn’t a good night. Tomorrow?

I’m working tomorrow. Why is tonight not good?

I take in a deep breath. Max Winchester is all expensive frou-frou things and hoity-toity everything. He probably does everything in his power to stay away from children. I type in: I’m stuck at home, babysitting the kids.

I wait for a response. I’m shocked by it.

I thought you were a virgin.

I burst out laughing. They’re not mine. They’re my siblings.

Ah. Well, I like children.

I smile. Really? That was one thing I never expected him to say. Do you want to babysit with me?

Do I have a choice?

I find myself smiling goofily. Who knew Mr. Stick Up His Butt Business-Man actually had a bit of a charming sense of humor? Well, I suppose he had to use something to snatch up all those women he said he’s been with. Not that those gorgeous looks of his couldn’t have done just fine on their own. Eight, then?

K

It strikes me that that’s the same response I’d given him two days ago. Terse, and to the point. I didn’t want to make it seem like I’d been thinking about him. Even though I had been, almost maniacally. I’d even googled him, to find out that one, yes, he was worth billions, and two, he did have quite the reputation as the manslut, as the society pages of Manhattan Today could barely exist without a daily rundown on which eligible supermodel, actress, or socialite he was banging.

It had all made me even surer that yes, even though he’d gotten a little flirty with his hand on my knee on Sunday, he wanted this to stay a business deal. The flirty-fingers thing was probably just practice, for when we were around his father and brother.

Though deep down, without a doubt, I wanted more. And I wanted real.

He really thought I’d be disgusted by him? No. Right now, I was more like… intimidated.

His brother, Dan? I’d googled him, too, and it appeared his brother was his complete opposite. He was more of the quiet, subdued, family type—not as attractive, not as smooth, shorter and stockier. I could tell why the two of them didn’t get along. I was an oldest sibling, after all. Dan Winchester struck me as the type of person who would always be in my stuff, tattle-taling whenever I did wrong. I may not have had anything else in common with Max, but I understood him, because of that. I know what it’s like to just want to get out of your family’s constant direction and live your own life.

I quickly finish up dinner, and do my best at straightening up, but it’s a lost cause. The second I clean one corner of a room, another one falls into complete chaos. I give up and go into the bedroom I share with Cara and Maisie, and change into jeans and a sweater, the best I can manage. The boxes Max sent are still piled a corner of the room, threatening an avalanche. I still haven’t had the chance to go through them. Truthfully, after seeing those white digs, I’m a little scared about what else he wants me to wear. He’d said modest, but I hadn’t felt modest at all on Sunday.

Calvin goes off to the Home Depot, and still, no Cara.

At eight, I’m trying to wrangle the kids for a first attempt at a bedtime. My hair is a mess, I’m sweaty, and I have play-doh crusted on the front of my sweatshirt, when the doorbell rings.

I run to get it, still having a hard time picture Max Winchester among such meager surroundings. When I open the door, it becomes even harder. He’s standing there, wearing his typical three-piece suit.

Holy hell. Does this man ever dress down?

And why is he suddenly hotter than I remember? God, that strong, clean-shaven jaw, chiseled cheekbones . . . those cool blue eyes, under arched eyebrows that always look like they’re trying to figure me out. He scratches one long, manicured finger on his temple, his frown revealing nothing.

There’s that need, low in my abdomen again.

I’m getting used to feeling it, whenever he’s around. And contrary to what he thinks, it’s not disgust. Far from it.

“Hello,” I say tentatively, looking past him, toward the limo parked on the road. Several of the complex’s residents are scoping it out, like they think the president might have made a wrong turn into our neighborhood.

“Hello.”

I step aside and let him in, and I smell the citrusy spice of his aftershave, powerful but not overwhelming, like he must have just taken a shower. I, in contrast, probably smell like a chicken nugget. Lovely.

Suddenly, Maisie comes barreling into the foyer. She stops short, staring up, up, up at all six-feet-five of him, open-mouthed.

“Maisie, this is—“

Before I can get the introduction out, she lets out an ear-splitting shriek, does a one-eighty, and high-tails it out of here.

“That’s Maisie,” I explain. I lead him into the kitchen, which leads to the postage-stamp sized living room. Tyler and Andrew are playing kill-each-other-with-random-items-around-the-house, this time, using pillows. Well, that’s better than the knives. They’re so enthralled by the game, climbing over the furniture, that they don’t even notice Max’s entrance.

“That’s Andrew and Tyler,” I say. “And, um. Griffin’s in the boys’ room, probably, reading.”

Or, he could be dead. I never put it past my siblings when they play this game.

He nods. He walks around the kitchen island, hands clasped behind his back, looking at the ceiling, like he’s afraid the roof may cave in on him. I feel like I’m in the army, and he’s making an inspection. “You have four siblings.”

“Seven, actually.” I lean on the kitchen counter as he studies the pictures of my family members that we’ve stuck on the refrigerator, so many now that you can barely see the surface. When he turns to me, astonished, I explain, “Joey’s in the hospital, Calvin’s at work, and Cara . . . no clue.”

“Ah.” His eyes shift toward the television set, where Nick Jr. is played pretty much twenty-four seven. He takes a step and his expensive loafers slide on a Lego. He kicks it away without much trouble. “And your parents?”

“They died in a car accident last year,” I say. “I’m my siblings’ legal guardian.”

If he’s shocked, impressed, or interested, or horrified, he doesn’t let on. He simply nods, studying the various items of his surroundings. There are dirty dishes in the sink—I wish I’d cleaned those earlier, and someone left their snotty tissues on the coffee table . . . lovely.

Maybe that’s why he looks even hotter. He’s surrounded by all this garbage. He strides around the room, larger than life itself, and all I can think is that he’s beautiful to look at. Simply perfect.

How could he think he would disgust me? He must think I’m disgusting for living in this shithole. He must think this is the exact opposite of the world he wants his fiancé to come from. I stand there, feeling like I’m bracing for him to tell me that. But he doesn’t; he just stands there, almost oblivious to how much of a sore thumb he is. He doesn’t let on what he’s thinking at all.

And then Maisie peeks her little, blonde-curled head around the center island and looks up at him. Gathering her courage, she says, in a timid way, “Do you play Candy Land?”

He looks at me, straightens his tie, and in a very deep, serious, but gentle voice, says, “I have been known to.”

I just stare at him. He plays Candy Land? Seriously? Maisie looks at me hopefully. She’s been forever looking for a playmate to play with her, but I rarely have had the time.

I smile and go to the closet, where we keep all the board games. I think Maisie might have found a new best friend. They sit down together at the kitchen table, and he’s patient with her, even when she forgets to choose a card during every turn. I manage to corral the other kids for bedtime, and when I come back, I’m shocked that Maisie doesn’t even raise hell when Max draws Queen Frostine and gets to jump way ahead. She clearly is enamored.

And as I watch them together, I have to say, I understand the attraction.

I finally get the older children into bed at nine, and then there’s just Maisie. When they finish the game, she holds up her arms to him.

I’m shocked. She isn’t this way around anyone else. Maybe just imposing, incredibly attractive me. She’s going to be trouble when she’s older. “She wants you to pick her up,” I explain to him when he looks at me.

He lifts her with ease, and she fits against his chest like she belongs there, like he’s been picking up little kids all his life. He carries her to the bathroom, and I help her brush her teeth and get into bed. She usually asks for one more of a million things; one more kiss, one more drink of water, one more story, drawing out bedtime for ages. But she takes her stuffed dolphin, turns over, and smiles at us.

“Good night, Lily. Good night Max,” she says.

I close the door, and heave a sigh of relief, and we sit down on the couch. I collapse there, feeling sweaty and gross, and when I look at him, I realize that he still looks like he stepped right off a magazine cover.

Damn him.

“Why are you so good with kids?” I ask him, kind of annoyed at his perfection. “You have nieces and nephews?”

“Well, yes, I do. But they’ve been living in California. I only just met them yesterday,” he says. “No, I suppose I just understand them. My father wasn’t around much for me, as much as I wanted him to be. So I get that feeling. I always wanted to have a dozen kids of my own, actually. But . . ”

I blink. A dozen? I know the “but”. He might want a dozen kids, but not if he has to have a wife. He’s made it abundantly clear how he feels about that.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t go out and that you got cornered here,” I tell him.

He waves it away. “It’s fine.”

“I know we have a lot to talk about. I suppose I need to know all about you, your family, your life. So that people think we’ve been together . . .” I stop, thinking. “How long have we been together?”

He pauses. “Two years?”

It’s a question. I don’t think he’s thought this through at all. “Okay. Two years. That sounds reasonable. And we met . . . where?”

He scratches his chin. “Vail.”

“Where?”

“Vail. I love to ski. Therefore, my fiancé loves to ski, too.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I do not ski. And I don’t even know where Vail is.” I raise my palms to the ski. “Suppose someone asks me to describe Vail at length? I won’t know a thing about it.”

“All right, all right. Then we met . . .”

“The supermarket? Everyone has been in a supermarket,” I muse. “You might have been having trouble selecting the perfect melon?”

He frowns. “I’ve never been to a supermarket.”

I stare at him. How is that possible? Oh, I guess he must have servants, and maids, and cooks that do that for him. “Um. Running? In Central Park?”

He nods. “That will work.”

I haven’t run since high school track. Haven’t had the time. But, whatever. “I pulled a hamstring. You offered to help me limp back to my car.”

“Not car. No one drives to Central Park.” He taps his finger on his chin. “I live right there. It started raining, so I took you back to my apartment to wait out the storm.”

I think about the logic of this, imagining being in his apartment with him, sweaty and wet, the tension zinging back and forth between us. Something tells me his place makes this one look like gum on the bottom of someone’s shoe. I bet it’s as perfect as he is. “And then you asked me out, and on our first date, we . . .”

“The Natural History Museum.”

I stare at him. I thought he’d take his date out to a fancy, romantic restaurant, and buy her thousand-dollar, caviar-encrusted steaks.

He shrugs. “I like museums. And when I was growing up, I lived a few blocks from it, so I have a thing for the place.”

“Okay. The museum it is.” I’d been there, once, in high school. I think about it, our fake first date, and I can almost see us strolling the exhibits together, hand in hand. Suddenly, it hits me. “Who am I?”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“Well. You want a woman who wears Valentine clothes, who— “

“Valentino,” he corrects.

“Right, Valentino,” I say. “Who skis. Who acts a certain way. I know you introduced me as Lily, but who am I?”

His gaze gets even deeper. “Just the woman you are, I suppose.”

“But is that the woman who would be your fiancé? I’m a jeans and t-shirt girl. If anyone asks me where I want to eat, I usually say Mickey D’s. I live in a shithole in Lodi. And until a few days ago, I was a waitress. If I say any of that to your brother or father, won’t they have a hard time believing you could have proposed to me?” I ask. “What sort of woman do you want me to be? I’ll play any part you want.”

He leans forward, thinking. “Yes. I see your point.” He takes a breath. “I think you should be an attorney. You should live in Tribeca, which would still be a good area, but not so close by that they might want to stop in and see you.”

He crosses his arms, and starts listing more and more things that his perfect woman would be. Not only does she ski and run, she does yoga, and meditates. She gets weekly mani-peds and doesn’t let her roots show. She’s well-traveled, has a subscription to Cosmopolitan, is wholly conscious of the food she puts in her body and tries to eat mostly vegetables . . .

The truth is, it’s obvious why he is single. He has such a specific picture of a woman in his mind, she can’t possibly exist. The more characteristics he lists, the less this woman sounds like a woman, and the more she sounds like a goddess from another planet.

I find myself struggling not to roll my eyes. The woman he wants for his wife is, without a doubt . . . my worst nightmare. I’d never be her friend. In fact, I’d have a hard time not punching her if I saw her on the street.

And he wants me to be her.

“ . . . Additionally,” he adds, finally coming to the end of his list. “She’d be very affectionate toward me, with a kinky side, and share my insatiable appetite for sex.”

My jaw drops. I blush crimson, and it’s definitely too hot in here. “Kinky?” I choke out. “Insatiable?”

He nods.

“Like . . . what kinky?” I honestly don’t know. Heck, in my world, kissing with a tiny bit of tongue is about as kinky as I’ve gotten.

He leans forward and whispers, “She likes to be tied up. And spanked. And that’s why we’re compatible. Because I love doing that to her.”

I find myself averting his eyes as my mouth hangs open. My heart is beating out of my chest.

A slow, sly smile breaks over his face. “Good thing this is just pretend.”

Just then, I hear a key jiggling in the lock. I jump to standing, which is stupid, because we’re just talking. We’re not actually . . . doing those kinky things he said . . . although, we might as well have been, for as hot as I feel now.

Cara walks in a second later, and drops her bag to the ground. She’s studying Max suspiciously. “Is this your doctor friend?” she asks me.

It occurs to me that as much as we’d been talking about what part I’m supposed to be playing, we also should have been talking about his part, too. “Um. Yes,” I say. “Um, Max, this is Cara. Cara, Max.”

They exchange polite hellos as her eyes scrape over his three-piece suit. “Oh, so you’re the reason there’s a stretch limo taking up most of the parking lot out there.”

Thank goodness, Max doesn’t let on that he’s not the doctor. I say, “Dinner’s in the microwave. Did you finish your project?”

“Huh?” She looks around, confused. “Oh. Yeah.”

“As long as you’re home . . . Do you mind if we go out for a bit, then?”

She shakes her head, looking dazed. “No. No, it’s okay.”

Max stands up and starts to walk toward the door. I have to laugh. He has a Cheerio that must have been on the couch, stuck to the back of his perfectly creased pant leg. Thank god; so he’s not infallible.

I reach over and pick it off without him noticing, as he gets the front door for me.