Archer’s mouth comes down on mine, warm and demanding and completely unexpected. His strong arms wrap around me, and my own instinctively grab onto him, partly for balance—because this kiss has definitely knocked me off kilter—and partly because out of a newly awakened sense of possessiveness. His tongue plays along my lips, seeking entrance. My lips, with no conscious direction from me, part of their own accord to let him in. The texture of his beard makes a strangely erotic contrast with his surprisingly soft lips. I’m lost in the feel and the taste and the scent of him.

For a few seconds, all rational thought is simply switched off.

As if from very far away, I hear the door open.

There’s a delicate cough. Brianna’s voice. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”

Rational thought switches on again, and I spring away from Archer, my face burning.

“Oh, hi, Brianna,” I mumble. “What, uh …”

“I just wanted to let you know that Aunt Mila’s getting ready to head out. I know she’d like to see you before she goes.” She’s talking to me but her cool smile is directed at Archer. I wonder if Mom’s told her he’ll be joining us on vacation.

With that thought, I realize I’ve capitulated. While the sensible part of me knows that it’s a terrible idea, the part of me that wants attention—and maybe another one of those kisses—has given in.

“Archer, I hear you’ll be joining us at the lake this weekend,” Brianna says.

He nods, damn him, and smiles cordially, not at all flustered at being interrupted while kissing me—of course, I realize he wouldn’t have kissed me if it hadn’t been part of the act. I’m not such an idiot as to think that was simply spontaneous attraction.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” he says.

“So are we.” Brianna pulls her gaze back to me. “Don’t forget about Aunt Mila.” She pauses just a beat. “Maybe redo your lipstick before you come down,” she suggests with just a hint of a smile, and steps away, closing the door carefully behind her.

I turn on Archer, embarrassment turning rapidly to anger. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Sorry,” he says, and he does, in fact, look sorry. Maybe a little sorrier than I’d really like him to. “I didn’t want her to walk in on us looking like we were fighting.”

“Well …” I splutter, trying to reassert control of a situation that has gone completely haywire. “Don’t do it again!”

As soon as I say it, I want to slap myself. Of course I want him to do it again.

And again.

And again.

But that way lies madness.

He nods, looking genuinely contrite. “I won’t, I promise. Please, Annabelle,” he gives me an imploring look that could melt hearts a lot stonier than mine. “How about it? You and me at the lake. You’d really be helping me out, and I promise I’ll be the best fake boyfriend you ever had.” The imploring look morphs into the hint of a charming smile.

I refuse to smile back, but it doesn’t matter. We both know a deal has been struck.

“Fine,” I grumble. “Just make me look good. That’s all I ask.”

The rest of the evening goes surprisingly well. Except for the fact that he’s acting, Archer continues to be the perfect boyfriend, attentive to me, charming to everyone, and effortlessly attractive. I continue to enjoy the looks of envy I get from other women and knowing what it feels like to be doted on.

Nothing has changed.

But everything has.

The kiss replays itself over and over again in my mind. I don’t fool myself for a minute that I’m Archer’s type or that this ridiculous arrangement could last any longer than a long weekend … but I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him and that the opportunity to extend this fantasy for a few days is too tempting to pass up.

As midnight draws near, the crush of partygoers starts to thin out.

Archer pulls me out onto the patio. “I’m going to have to get going,” he tells me quietly.

“Don’t forget to leave behind a glass slipper so I can find you again,” I say drily.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll leave you my phone number.”

Gentlemen, Inc., being protective of both clients’ and employees’ privacy, doesn’t give out direct contact information for either. It’s not too late for me to back out of the whole weekend deal. He has no easy way of getting in contact with me after tonight. If I refuse to take his number or to give him mine, the deal is as good as off.

“Isn’t this against the rules of your company to do this?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Yeah, it is. I’d be really grateful if you didn’t tell Cassandra about what we’re doing.”

What we’re doing. Bit by bit, he’s making this as much my project as his. I’m aware that he’s doing it, but I don’t know how to stop it. Of course I’m not going to say anything to Cassandra—I’m pretty sure there’s something in the contract that says I’m not allowed to make arrangements to see Archer again without going through her—and having to pay for his company for four straight days would wipe out my savings and then some.

And I’m drawn to Archer like a moth to a flame. A dowdy little moth to a bright and glamorous flame—a flame that’s hot in more than one sense of the word.

I’m very likely to get burned … but at the same time, I can’t resist the opportunity to shake up my boring little life. My whole life, I’ve felt drab and dull next to my sisters, but tonight something has shifted. I’m having fun being the center of attention for once, and I’m not going to miss the chance to feel this way a little longer.

As long as I remember that this is one of Archer’s transactions—I get my dream weekend, he gets a break from his roommate—and nothing more, I’ll be fine.

When Archer pulls a small card with his phone number out of his breast pocket and hands it to me, I take it.

Normally, I’m up by 5:30 am. I get my best writing and studying done first thing in the morning. Today, I sleep in until almost seven. I wake up in my room, surrounded by fragments of my childhood: the prize ribbons, the stuffed animals, school yearbooks on the bookshelf, and that photo of me and Tommy Lipstein, who fell out of love with me the first time he met Carina, on my desk.

Why do I keep that photo?

I stretch, feeling unaccountably excited. Okay, so I have a crush on Archer. He showed me a great time last night, that kiss was amazing, and now I’m looking forward to spending more time with him at my parents’ lake house.

Some annoying, sensible part of my mind is still insisting that this isn’t a good idea—my family could find out I hired him, Archer could turn out to be a total jerk when he’s not on the clock, and I’m pretty sure that violating my contract with Gentlemen, Inc. carries some stiff penalties …

That sensible voice has kept me out of trouble my whole life. It made me save my allowance when my sisters were spending theirs on clothes and makeup; it made me date nice, safe, nerdy boys instead of setting myself up for a fall with the cool, popular ones; it kept me in the library studying on weekend nights instead of partying when I was in college; and it made sure I went straight into the best graduate program I could get into rather than wasting my early twenties in dead-end jobs or aimless travel.

I owe it a lot, but for the next four days, I’m putting it on hold and living for fun over function.

I stretch again and bounce out of bed. I waste no time texting the details of our trip to Archer, then I quickly turn my phone off because I don’t want to obsess over how long it takes him to get back to me.

I throw a robe on over my pajamas, dig out my beloved fluffy slippers, and head down to breakfast.

Not surprisingly, only my father is up. I get my early rising habits from him. He’s already eaten but is sitting in the kitchen reading the morning paper.

“You’re up late,” he observes.

I laugh and help myself to the pot of coffee he’s made. “I’m still up before everyone else.”

I dig around in the fridge, find some leftover cut fruit from the party, and help myself to a plate of that and some yogurt, then sit down at the table with my dad.

“I hear your young man is joining us at the lake,” he says, his eyes still on the paper. Although my mother said Archer had made a good impression on him, it’s hard to know if he really did or if my mother’s enthusiasm is speaking for both of them.

“Mm,” I answer. “I hope that’s okay.”

My dad looks back at the paper, nodding. “How are you getting up to the lake?” he asks.

“I’m driving,” I answer, a little surprised at the question.

“Not driving with Archer?”

“Oh. No.” I wonder if Archer has texted back yet. We probably should have talked through the logistics more last night. “He’s taking his own car. I’m going to stay here and work on a grant proposal before I head out,” I add. “So I might not get there until a little later.”

My dad nods and folds up the paper. “Well, I’d better go wake up your mother and your sisters or the rest of us will be late too.” My dad has little patience for people who keep him waiting. Even Brianna isn’t always efficient enough for him.

He rises, puts down the paper and picks up his coffee cup. “I’m looking forward to getting to know Archer better,” he tells me before turning away, coffee cup still in hand.

“Me too,” I whisper to myself once he’s gone.

A few hours later, my parents, Carina, and Brianna have gone on ahead. I put the final touches on my grant proposal then send it to my advisor to look over. Having already done most of my packing back at the apartment, I don’t have to do much more, so I throw my bag into the back of my little Subaru and get ready to hit the highway.

And that’s when I realize my car won’t start.