Marina put together a nice dinner for us – fresh crab cakes to start, followed by a seafood bisque and lobster for the main course. Everything is amazing. That's one thing I do miss while living in L.A. and being away from home – Marina's cooking. It really is to die for.

“So then, Christopher and Miles stumble in with these big shit-eating grins on their faces –”

“Neal, language,” my mother admonishes.

“Sorry, Mom,” he laughs. “Anyway, both of them were covered in mud and smelling like skunk and Harold wouldn't let them into the house.”

“Not without stripping down and letting him hose them off first,” my mother adds. “In his defense, he had just spent a week doing all of the floors. In his place, I would have done the same thing.”

The laughter around the table is contagious and there are smiles all around. The faux-Alice laughs along with us, clearly delighted by the stories. Honestly, she fits in with our family pretty seamlessly, I have to admit. If it wasn't for the whole, lying-about-who-she-is thing, I'd say she was one of our small tribe.

Both my mom and Neal seem to adore her and the three of them are having a great time swapping stories and cracking up. I don't think either one of them have noticed that none of her stories ever involve Christopher. The stories she's telling are of her own childhood and growing up experience – long before she supposedly started dating my brother. Or maybe they have noticed and don't care, since they're all trying to get to know each other.

I can't imagine what it's going to do to them to find out she's a fraud, and nothing more than a con-artist who's been using us the last couple of days.

Still, I can't help but feel a bit sorry for her. Typically, my empathy for people hovers around zero. I believe that we create our own circumstances – good or bad. Yeah, there are always other mitigating factors, of course. But, all too often, I've seen people choose to dwell in their own misery, rather than put their best foot forward and try to get out of their situation.

This woman – whoever she may be – is clearly hiding from something. I don't know what it is, but she's risking a lot just to spend a couple of days here – away from whatever it is she’s trying to get away from.

Still doesn't make it right, though. What she did is deceptive and wrong. It's pretty much common knowledge that I don't suffer liars any better than I tolerate fools – which is to say, not at all – and yet, I don't feel any anger toward her. Which surprises me.

She's got charm and charisma pouring out of her in spades. My mother is right, there is a kind of wild, untamed, free spirit to her. There's something so utterly fascinating about “Alice” to me, that I can't help but be drawn to her. And yeah, maybe the fact that she's not actually Christopher's girlfriend makes her even more appealing since I no longer have to fight that restriction or guilt.

Before I can even think about going down that rabbit hole, I need to figure out who she is and what this is all about. I'm pretty confident that she's not dangerous and isn't here to cause us harm. Likewise, I'm fairly certain that she's not here to rob us blind. If she were here for either of those reasons, she likely would have done so before now.

Which makes her even more of a mystery to me – and adds one more interesting question that I'm looking forward to getting an answer to.

“What about you, Miles?” our guest asks me. “Got any stories about your misspent youth you care to share?”

“I think you guys are doing just fine on your own,” I say.

“Come on, big brother,” Neal says. “I know you have a few.”

“Actually, I have to go make a couple of calls,” I say. “Need to handle some business.”

“Do you really have to do that now, dear?” my mother asks.

“Nate just texted me. Seems important,” I say. “Please, don't stop on my account. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

I stand up and drop my napkin in my chair. The three of them carry on, laughing uproariously and cutting up. It's a nice scene and under other circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed it. But, right now, I have a mystery to solve.

Turning, I leave the dining room and cross the foyer. I pause at the foot of the stairs and listen for a moment. The conversation is still going strong, giving me all the time I should need. Taking the stairs two at a time, I hustle down the hallway and slip into Christopher's room. Quietly closing the door behind me, I rush over to her bag and start to rifle through it.

Not seeing anything important – like something that will tell me who she is – I turn around and spot her laptop sitting on the bed. I open it up and the screen instantly comes to life, pulling up her desktop and showing me an open document. At least it wasn’t password protected, I guess. I read the first few lines of what she has written and realize it’s some sort of manuscript. I minimize the screen and start poking through some of the other files on her desktop. There are folders for story ideas, rough drafts, final drafts, and works in progress – but find none that contain her name or any personal details.

That's when it hits me – she's a writer. Or at least, she’s trying to be. I quickly scroll through the folders and see three or four novels in her final drafts folder, and more than a dozen in the works in progress folder. Bringing the file I'd minimized back up, I start to read it a little more carefully.

And as I read further into the book, I start to become impressed. She's got real talent. Obviously, I'm not an expert or any sort of a book critic, but I used to read quite a lot when I was younger. These days, I'm essentially limited to complaints, briefs, transcripts, and depositions, but I still love to lose myself in a good book when I have the time. And I have to say, her words draw you in and paint such a vivid picture. Her prose is beautiful. The woman has the soul of a poet. Honestly, based on this sample, she is every bit as engaging as my favorite writers.

I finally disengage myself from her words and close the laptop. I'm clearly not going to find what I'm looking for in there. I set the computer back down and spot her purse sitting on a chair next to Chris’s desk. Hustling over, I scoop it up and dig through a bunch of crap before I find her wallet. Glancing back at the door, I quickly drop her purse on the chair and open up the wallet.

“So, who are you really?” I slip her driver's license out and read the name. “Sasha Gates, huh?”

I quickly note that our guest lives in Los Angeles – not too far from my office, actually. Now that I know who she is, I just need to see what her plan is. When I was out walking with her earlier, she'd tried to hide it, but I saw the quick flash of panic in her eyes when I mentioned the fact that Christopher would be home in the morning. In that moment, she realized she was out of time.

I have a feeling I know what her plan is and I'm curious to see if I'm right.

Staring at the picture on her license, I'm drawn in once again by the depth of those blue eyes and her soft, kissable lips. Even in a photograph, the woman stirs something inside of me – and not just in my groin. When I look at her, when her eyes are locked onto mine, I feel my heart skip a beat.

I have no idea what it is, but I can't recall ever having this kind of a reaction to a woman before and I find it almost fascinating. Al – Sasha gives me a buzz I haven't felt in a very long time.

But, as I look at Sasha's license and stare into those lovely cerulean eyes, I have to remind myself once more that she's a liar and a con-artist. Nothing more and nothing less. She pulled one over on me and my family, and would no doubt do it again if given the chance.

I have to be ready for whatever she has planned.