“So what kind of look are we going for?”

Though Frankie was hovering over my chair and looking critically at me in the mirror, he wasn’t talking to me. I’d quickly come to realize that he and Cara had their own mode of theater talk that was, at times, as incomprehensible as the twins’ chatter when they were just learning to speak.

“It doesn’t matter as long as he’s not recognizable,” Cara said.

“Shall we make him ugly?”

Before I could voice my objection, Cara laughed. “Like that would be possible.”

“Touché,” Frankie said, and I grinned, realizing that Cara had just paid me a compliment of sorts. “Okay, so we’ll go for a tourist-chic look.”

“Sounds good,” Cara said. “I want to wear a wig.”

“I’ve got some fabulous ones,” Frankie said.

That reminded me of something. “Thank you so much for that wig and dress you sent my daughter. She absolutely loves it.”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesticness,” Frankie said, bowing low again. “Now shush and let the grown-ups talk.”

Cara giggled and winked at me before conferring with Frankie in a low whisper. She was having such fun.

I wondered if she was aware she was testing me.

Frankie seemed to know. He’d been doing everything in his power to shock me. Not in a mean way—it was more like he was wanted to make sure I was good enough for his friend. That was somehow both irritating and endearing.

Perhaps Cara didn’t realize she was unconsciously testing my ability to go with the flow, but that was all right. I was determined to pass with flying colors anyway.

A small, furry creature landed on my head. Before I could push it off, Frankie shifted it away from my eyes, and I saw it was a black wig. “How about this one, Cara? We could get you a matching one. You could pretend to be brother and sister. I’m getting a real Luke-and-Leia-after-they-kiss vibe from you two.”

Cara emerged from a side room. “We definitely don’t want to be brother and sister, Frankie.” She was toying with a white curly wig that seemed to be from Victorian times. Like that wouldn’t stand out around town. To my relief, she tossed it onto a table.

Frankie was undaunted. “All right, you’ll be a married couple. Even better—newlyweds! I have just the ring. You can pretend you’re here on your honeymoon. Your name will be Bianca.” He studied Cara carefully. “I think Bianca should have a bigger nose, so we’ll need a prosthetic.”

Frankie whirled around, his hawk-like eyes focusing on me. “And for you… let’s call you King Richard the First. By all accounts, he was a good-looking chap.”

“That might not be the best name for attracting less attention,” Cara pointed out.

“Oh, right. Okay… how about Dante Eduardo?”

“Just Dante,” I said quickly before the suggestions could get any weirder.

“Perfect,” Frankie proclaimed. “So, we’ve got Dante and Bianca honeymooning in London. They’ll need hip but cheap clothes, as they’ve spent all their money the plane tickets over here. And the hotels—god, this city is the worst for hotel prices. Be sure to discuss that loudly at lunch, it’ll sound authentic.”

Frankie put his hands on the armrests of my chair, leaning in to study me. “Do you think Dante needs a prosthetic nose, too?”

Cara examined me, too. “No, I like his nose.”

“A prosthetic chin?”

“Nope.”

“A prosthetic penis?”

“What would he do with a prosthetic penis?”

“Who am I to presume to know the ways of royalty?”

The whole exchange made me want to either laugh or run screaming from the building, but I kept a neutral, even bored smile on my face. Cara had entered my world of royal traditions and protocols with dignity and class. I was determined to do the same now that I was in her world.

Frankie turned his razor-sharp gaze to my hair. “Am I allowed to cut this?”

“No,” Cara said at the same time I did.

“Guess we’ll stick with a wig, then.” He sounded disappointed.

Cara spoke up. “What about facial hair?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Were you thinking Chris Evans in Infinity War or Chris Hemsworth in Age of Ultron?”

“Like you even need to ask,” Cara scoffed.

“Or we could go with a sexy little goatee,” Frankie added.

The gleam of desire in Cara’s eyes prompted me to speak up. “Let’s do that one.”

Twenty minutes later, my fake wig was in place, making it appear that I had nearly black hair that fell almost to my shoulders. I kept having to push strands out of my eyes. The goatee felt strange, but not uncomfortable. To my surprise, it actually looked pretty good—maybe I should grow one for real someday.

I reached up to stroke it and Frankie batted my hand away. “Hold still, Most Highest-of-Highnesses.” He began outlining my eyes with a brown pencil, something that severely tested my vow to show Cara I could be cool around her theater friend.

Cara was behind a small screened-off area, changing her clothes, but she seemed to sense my concern. “Don’t worry, Frankie will blend it all in. You won’t even know it’s there.”

“Yes, you will, because you’ll look hotter,” Frankie added. Then he winked at me. “Not that you don’t look hot already, but it’s always good to take it up a notch, isn’t it? Or several notches. I have to admit, that goatee makes you look pretty damn kissable.”

Cara giggled. “Hands off, he’s mine.”

“Alas… back to a life of kissing frogs.”

Both Frankie and I looked up as Cara emerged. My goatee-covered jaw dropped as I stared at her. She’d gone for the total opposite of her normal look. Her wig was a caramel color with loose waves cascading over her shoulders.

Her black skirt was tight and short. A few inches of creamy thigh were visible above each high-heeled, black thigh-high boot.

But it was her shirt that drew my eye the most. It was skin tight and cut quite low. She must’ve done some kind of female magic because her cleavage was far more pronounced than I’d ever seen it. She looked totally different but it was undeniable that my body was reacting to the novelty. I could see why some people enjoyed role-playing.

“You look fabulous,” Frankie crowed.

“What can I say?” Cara asked, blinking her enormous fake eyelashes. “Bianca’s a bit of a tramp.”

“Bianca’s confident in her own sexuality,” Frankie corrected. “And I’m almost done here, so why don’t you find some clothes for Prince Charming?”

Frankie’s words barely registered—my eyes were glued to the enticing sight of Cara walking away, her pert ass swaying from side to side under her tight skirt.

“She’s quite a girl, isn’t she?” Frankie asked.

“She sure is.”

“Just FYI, I have theater friends all over the world. If you hurt her, we’ll mobilize, sashay across Europe, and wipe your country off the map.”

“Duly noted,” I said.

“You two look amazing—much better than when you came in.”

Cara laughed. “Thank you, Frankie. For everything. We’ll leave it all at the front desk for you tomorrow night.”

“Thank you, my dear, but you should buy yourself some clothes like that while you’re here. They look good on you.”

“That’s first on our agenda,” Cara said, winking at me. I think she knew how ridiculous I felt. They’d dressed me in black jeans and boots. Except for being a bit tight, that part was okay. But the long-sleeve gray shirt Cara had picked out fit me like my own skin. Tighter, in fact. When I’d pulled it over my head and tugged it down to my waist, Frankie had remarked that he could count my abs through it.

The jacket was the worst though. It was made out of a synthetic material possibly from another planet. It was shiny, and slightly puffy, and quilted. The overall effect in the mirror was one of those strange outfits you saw on fashion models—the kind that made you think: who the hell buys that stuff? Apparently, the answer was Frankie’s theater.

However, once Frankie marched us up to a floor-length mirror, I had to admit that though we looked nothing like ourselves, we were a good fit. We looked like fashion-conscious, trend-chasing yuppies, but we still looked good together. Oddly, it looked as if we’d somehow switched eyeballs. Thanks to contacts, mine were bright blue. Hers were a tawny gold, not exactly like my natural hazel color, but not too far removed.

Cara looked up at me as she squeezed my arm in hers. She didn’t seem all that stable on the stiletto heels of her boots so she kept hanging onto me, pressing her rather astonishing cleavage against me in the process.

That part I was definitely okay with.

She gave Frankie a hug and was about to totter out the door when Frankie said, “Wait.”

“What?” Cara asked, holding onto my hand for support.

“I almost forgot the rings! You can’t be newlyweds without rings.”

Crap, I’d forgotten about that part of our fake personas. Cara smiled and held out her hand, but I was suddenly a little uncomfortable.

Frankie put a humongous and obviously fake diamond onto Cara’s left ring finger. “Do you, Cara, promise to take this handsome man and to never, ever let him wear Dad jeans?”

“I do,” Cara said, smirking up at me.

Frankie produced a thick copper band which he held out to me. “Do you, Your Royalness, promise to take this lovely young woman and treat her the way she deserves including but not limited to, meals in five-star restaurants, frequent massages, and regularly scheduled pay raises?”

“I do,” I said. But when Frankie offered me the ring, I suddenly balked. I’d worn a wedding ring before, for real. Even though I knew this was all in good fun, it still gave me pause.

Cara was instantly attuned to my mood. “You don’t have to, Nico.”

“No, you don’t,” Frankie said, and with a flourish of his hand, the ring vanished. “William and Harry don’t wear them. Hey, did you go to their weddings?”

“No. I believe my mother was invited to Prince William’s, though.”

“Good thing I wasn’t invited, I would’ve cried the whole time.” Frankie engulfed us in his arms and ushered us toward the door. “Okay, you two kids go and enjoy your honeymoon… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Since it seemed unlikely there was anything Frankie wouldn't do, that sounded like a very vague request.

Still, I liked it. I had a gorgeous young woman on my arm in one of the most exciting cities in the world.

The weekend was definitely looking up.