The next day, I look at my half-packed suitcase and despair. “Crapmuffin, he’s picking me up in five minutes!”

“So? He can wait,” Jules replies.

“Um, I’m on the clock, remember? Official girlfriend duties.”

I scramble off the bed and toss a couple handfuls of panties into the suitcase. Pajamas! An extra bra! Should I be going casual chic or dressy formal here? Do I need to bring my own toothbrush or will toiletries be complimentary? So many questions I should have asked. I’ve been to Palm Beach before, on a spring break trip back in college, but I’m guessing the Carlisles don’t stay at the Beachsider Motel, with two-for-one shots on Friday.

There’s a knock on the apartment door. Jules goes to answer it while I stuff my essential makeup into a travel bag. The suitcase bulges as I zip it up, and I haul it into the living room in time to hear Jules saying, “So you’re the man of the hour.”

Max leans against the doorframe, looking gorgeously casual in dark-wash jeans and a simple white button-down shirt, open at the neck. It hits me for the first time just what I’m signing up for.

Me. And him. Playing at being in love. For a whole week.

It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.

Max gives Jules a charming smile. “The man of the week, unless Hallie’s had a change of heart. You’re the roommate?”

“Jules Robinson.” She offers a lawyerly handshake. “Esquire. Compliments on your contract. Very tight.”

Max laughs. “That’s not a compliment I’m used to hearing, but sure. Thanks.” He turns that delectable smile on me. “Ready to go?”

“As ready as I’m going to be.” I say, my stomach doing a dance of nervous uncertainty. “Viva Palm Beach!”

“Have fun, but not too much.” Jules kisses me goodbye.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she does,” Max calls back. The sly glint in his eye suggests he meant the “too much” part.

He turns to me and takes in my massive suitcase. “It is a week we’ll be gone for, not a month.”

“I believe in being prepared for anything,” I inform him.

Maybe that comes out a little flirtier than I meant, because his smile grows. “My kind of woman.”

There’s a sleek black town car waiting at the curb outside. The chauffer is already opening the trunk for my bags, and tipping his cap to me.

Not for the first time, I’m glad I have some experience living the high life. Sure, it was trailing after my old boss, making sure his life ran smoothly, but I know enough to give a murmur of thanks—and keep my knees together—as I slide into the backseat of the enormous car.

Max slides in after me. Even with the expanse of seat between us, he feels close.

Too close.

I drink in his chiseled jawline and smiling blue eyes, and begin to feel lightheaded. It’s just the nerves, I tell myself, trying to pull it together. Focus on the job. The part he’s paying you for.

Ogling is strictly extra-curricular.

“So why don’t you give me the rundown on this family of yours,” I say, pulling out my trusty notebook and a pen. “I’m going to need details if I’m going to make this trip as smooth as possible for you.”

Max smiles. “Doing your homework?”

“Just trying to be prepared.”

“Ah yes, you’re a regular Girl Scout.” Max looks amused.

“You said it was your grandfather’s birthday?” I prompt, pen at the ready.

“Franklin Carlisle III.” Max nods. “It’s his eighty-fifth birthday. He’s the one who summoned us all back to pay tribute to his genius.”

So: cantankerous, old, rich. Got it.

“And what about your parents?” I ask. If I brought a guy home to meet them, Mom and Dad would be all over him in a heartbeat, wanting to find out everything from his high-school GPA to his blood type.

But Max just shrugs. “Mom checked out of the Carlisle duties about the time of the divorce—said it was the one good thing about it. That, and the alimony. My dad will be around, with wife number three. No, wait, four. You’ll meet Uncle Kenny, and the awful cousins.”

“Your favorite people?” I tease lightly, and he laughs.

“You’ll see.”

I pause. “And they won’t think it’s weird that I’m showing up out of nowhere?”

Max doesn’t seem concerned. “I’ve been off traveling the past few years. And let’s just say I’ve been known to act impulsively before. Bringing home a mysterious new girlfriend is nothing compared to . . .” He stops, with an impish smile. “Uh, maybe that’s a second-date story.”

I arch an eyebrow. “According to our cover story, we should be on date two hundred by now.”

“Good point.” Max grins. “But we’ll save my teen rocker phase for another story.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” I wag my pen at him. But despite the very brief debrief, my stomach is still trying out a contortionist act.

My nerves must show, because Max reaches to squeeze my hand “Hey, all you’ve got to do is follow my lead and act like you’re enjoying my company. Which won’t be an act at all.”

His touch is warm. Firm. Dangerously exciting.

Remember the rules. No hanky panky.

I release his hand. “What time’s the flight? We need to leave plenty of time for security, and checking in—”

“We can do that curbside,” Max interrupts. “And don’t worry about a TSA pat-down. You’ll be sipping champagne before you know it. Just one of the perks of flying first class.”

---

The delicious drinks aren’t the only perk. Between the cashmere blanket, full media library, and more legroom than I can shake a toe at, I’m almost disappointed when we touch down in Florida.

The heat blasts me the moment we step out of the terminal, and I shade my eyes against the dazzling sun. Max strides on ahead, effortlessly steering my bulky suitcase, and comes to a stop besides a cherry-red Jeep rental.

“Hop in.” He grins at me. “We’ll swing through town to pick up a few things for you before you meet everyone.”

“As you’ve already pointed out, I packed plenty. No need to detour for my benefit.” I climb into the passenger seat.

“That wasn’t exactly a suggestion, so much as a plan,” Max says, pulling away from the curb.

His imperious tone makes me pause. “I am capable of dressing myself.”

“Not to insult your packing skills, but I think you’re probably going to need a little more for this week than you’re used to.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s going to be afternoon tea, pre-dinner drinks, dinner, the party—black tie, of course—beachwear, sailing, tennis, luncheons . . .”

I gulp. “OK, you win,” I say reluctantly. “But—”

“My treat.” He answers the question before I even ask it. “Work expenses.”

And just as I’m feeling touched he’s so concerned about me fitting in, Max gives me a wink. “Besides, can’t have my girlfriend making me look bad.”

He guns the engine—and I hang on for dear life.

“So, I have a question for you,” Max says, as we speed onto the highway.

“Uh huh?” I gulp, watching the scenery whipping past.

“Why did you say yes?”

I look over.

“To me, this whole crazy arrangement,” Max clarifies, shooting me a grin. “I mean, not that I don’t think I make an irresistible package, but you didn’t seem all that impressed when we met.”

I didn’t? I guess my poker face is better than I thought.

“Well, you said it yourself, you’re a tempting proposition,” I say lightly. “And the paycheck isn’t too shabby, either.”

“That your final answer?” Max raises an eyebrow. I pause, but I don’t feel like spilling my guts about the failure of my career just yet, so I shrug.

“For now. We’ll see if you earn another one later on.”

Max chuckles. “Hallie Gage . . . I can already tell, you’re going to keep me on my toes.”

---

We stop at a fancy boutique, the kind so posh the clothes don’t even have price tags. All the better not to give me a heart attack. The minute we step foot through the gleaming doors, an immaculate sales clerk materializes.

“My girlfriend is looking to update her wardrobe,” Max says with a mega-watt smile. “And you look exactly the kind of woman to help her out.”

“Of course, Mr. Carlisle,” the shopgirl says with a flutter of her Bambi-esque eyelashes. “I’ll take care of that for you.”

She disappears in back, and I give him a look. “A regular, are you?”

He looks bashful. “No, but I get written up a lot. You know, eligible bachelors, society pages, that kind of thing.”

Oh yeah, I know—that Max is tabloid catnip, and I’m supposed to look like I belong on his arm. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but there will be more than just his family sizing me up. Every guest at the party—or eager shop clerk—is going to wonder just how I landed this hot, rich, charming man. And sure, my self-esteem is doing just fine . . . but it’ll be a lot healthier wrapped in some designer labels.

I look around with new eyes, feeling like I just stepped into my very own Pretty Woman fantasy sequence.

Without the escort part.

Kinda.

“So when you said this was your treat, did you have any . . . limits in mind?” I pick up a silk sundress that feels like heaven under my fingertips.

Max chuckles. “Go crazy. I’ve got to grab a couple of things too, so I’ll meet you back here in a while.”

Go crazy. Not words you should ever say to a girl in an expensive clothing store unless you’re willing to pay the price. Max saunters out, and I’m left alone to survey the possibilities with a massive smile on my face.

“Is there anything special we’re looking for today?” the shopgirl asks.

“I don’t know . . .” I muse. “How about everything?”

---

I spend the next hour ducking in and out of the luxurious dressing room so many times I’m starting to get whiplash. But damn, the clothes here are gorgeous. Gowns, flirty day dresses, some frothy little wrap number that I would never in a million years wear back in the city, but here, seems perfect for evening cocktails on the terrace . . . I try it all.

“That looks amazing on you,” the shopgirl gushes over a swooping floor-length silk gown in emerald green. “You have to get it.” I think I can see commission dollar signs lighting up in her eyes.

As I watch her take my armfuls of purchases over to the counter, I feel the smallest pinch of guilt. But Max did say to go crazy. And I wouldn’t even need a pair of cute boat shoes (plus full sailing outfit) if he hadn’t, in fact, suggested I needed to be spending the day on a boat.

Suggested? More like demanded, but Max still hasn’t reappeared as the shopgirl rings everything up and stacks a mountain of bags beside the cash register. I catch sight of the total, and feel dizzy.

It’s OK, I have to tell myself. It’s all on his account.

“Excuse me.” A haughty-looking woman approaches. “I am quite disappointed with the selection of scarves on display. Do I need to speak to your manager?”

“Oh, sorry, I’ll see what I can do,” the girl squeaks, and hustles off after Ms. Haughty without another word to me. After all, she’s gotten her commission now, right?

I grab the bags and meander toward the door. It’s hard navigating the maze of racks when I can barely see over the mountain I’m carrying, but somehow, I make it to daylight without tripping over anything.

“Excuse me.”

A voice comes from behind me, just as I manage to swing the door open. A hand clamps down on my shoulder and yanks me around, and suddenly, the bags tumble out of my arms and scatter on the ground.

I’m face to face with a hulking guy in a security uniform. And he doesn’t look happy.

“Not so fast, madam. ” He turns and yells across the store, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Hey, Candice, I’ve got a shoplifter!”