“I leave you alone for half an hour and you manage to get yourself arrested.” Max smirks, his blue-gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “So much for the Agency’s top-flight vetting.”

“Are you ever going to let me live this down?” I groan, emerging from the cell where I’ve been waiting. OK, it’s not so much a cell, as a back room in the security office, but it’s my biggest brush with the law since I got pulled over for driving too slow in college, and my cheeks are burning up with the shame of it all.

“Hmm, let me think about that . . . Nope!” Max chuckles, then drapes an arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ve done hard time too. There was that police precinct in Brazil, the run-in with Saudi Arabian bodyguards . . .”

I slap his arm lightly. “This is your fault! You walked in there like you owned the place. I assumed you had some kind of account set up.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” Max grins.

“The clerk didn’t even ask for a credit card. How did you expect me to pay, anyway?”

“I expected you to wait until I got back,” Max replies. “I guess I should have known better. You’re obviously an impatient type.” We reach the Jeep—now with a heap of shopping bags in the back seat. “I see you had no problem listening when I told you to go crazy, though.”

“They all looked at me like I was a criminal.” I wince at the memory, climbing into the car. I bury my face in my hands. “I thought I was going to get dragged off to jail!”

Max pats my head. “Don’t worry. This was just a minor setback. I promise not to tell my family about your criminal past.”

Despite his reassurance, my heart beats faster with nerves. “Please don’t. It doesn’t exactly scream ‘perfect girlfriend.’ ”

“Aww, you’ll do just fine.” He glances over at me. “Nervous?”

“From what you’ve said about them, I think there’d be something wrong with me if I wasn’t.”

“They’ll love you,” Max says. “They’ll wonder how I managed to land such a smart, gorgeous girl, but they’ll love you.”

I roll my eyes at his teasing, but the sweet words still make my chest flutter.

Remember this is a job!

“I think we should establish some ground rules,” I announce suddenly, as we drive along the curving ocean road. Palm trees are swaying, the ocean is glittering aquamarine blue, and it’s all so gorgeous and romantic, I need to cling to some semblance of professionalism.

Max groans. “Do we have to?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “We’re pretending to be in a relationship, so things could get . . .”

Hot . . . Tempting . . .

“Complicated,” I finally decide.

“OK.” Max sounds amused. “What did you have in mind?”

“No touching below the waist,” I say. “No PDA except holding hands and quick kisses. No tongue. And no talking about our imaginary sex life.”

I’m a little too hot and bothered just imagining we have an imaginary sex life.

“Um . . . I think that’ll cover it.”

“Fine.” Max grins. “I promise not to ravish you in front of my entire family.”

“Good.”

“So, are you ready? Because we’re here.”

My head snaps up. He pulls off the main road to a massive wrought-iron gate set in a stucco wall. Max gives the security camera a little wave, and the gates glide open. On the other side, a massive lawn stretches at least half a mile to a mansion so huge it could probably cover an entire New York City block. Palm trees bow over the driveway. Sculpted hedges surround cobblestone walking paths. There’s a fountain jetting streams of water that’s bigger than my entire fucking apartment.

Holy shit. Maybe I’m not ready at all.

Max cruises down the drive like it’s nothing. I pick up my jaw and let myself admire the house as we get closer. It’s typical southern estate style: white walls, red clay tiled roofs, a massive main building with wings stretching out on either side. I can see the attention to craftsmanship in the arches of the windows and the sculpted columns along the colonnades.

It’s not just massive—it’s a work of art. And I’m suddenly very happy I packed my camera.

I mean, I knew the Carlisles were rich, but this is something else. Generations upon generations of compounded wealth must have gone into this place. And at least three of those generations are waiting inside to meet me.

Help me, Jules, I think at my way-too-distant friend. I’m about to get eaten alive.

Max pulls into a garage that could hold thirty cars—and does hold about a dozen. I’m dazed enough that I don’t undo my seatbelt until he’s come around to open my door for me. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I snap out of it.

“I’m fine,” I inform him, even though he didn’t ask. “It’s . . . a very nice place.”

He laughs. “Not quite up to your usual standards, though?”

I hop out, taking another deep breath. I can do this. All I need is a little time to explore and settle in. “Well, it could stand to be a little bigger. And no swans in the fountain? I’m disappointed, I really am.”

He laughs. “I’ll have to bring that up with my grandfather. Or maybe you can.” He steers me toward the inner door. “Right now, if you’d like. We should be just in time for lunch.”

My legs stall. “We’re meeting everyone right now?”

“Probably better to get it over with quickly anyway. I’m not going to promise you they don’t bite, but most of the teeth will be directed at me. And you’ve got a thick skin, right?”

“Uh huh,” I answer faintly. At least I changed into one of the outfits from the boutique, a pale-blue Lily Pulitzer sundress that just screams “preppy”—until you get close enough to see the print pattern is made up of tiny penguins. Still, I was hoping for time to relax, refresh, brace myself . . .

I guess Max can tell I’m still a little overwhelmed, because he leans close.

“Let me tell you a secret,” he murmurs, his lip brushing my ear and sending hot sparks rushing down my spine. “I’d rather be in some dusty tent in the Saharan desert than about to face these people. So if you’re uncomfortable, at least you can know you’re not the only one.”

Before I can decide what to make of that—or of the bolt of desire that shoots through me at the same moment—a man who’s obviously part of the house’s staff hurries over to greet us. “Mr. Carlisle,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Hey, Phillips. Good to see you. Still rocking the Whole 30, I see.”

The man puffs up, obviously proud. “I’m down twenty pounds already.”

“Don’t let Chef Renauld hear you,” Max warns. “He’ll be sneaking butter into your kale salad in no time.”

“Noted. The others will be pleased to know you’ve arrived. Along with your guest?” Phillips’ gaze lingers on me with polite curiosity.

“My girlfriend,” Max declares, draping his arm around my shoulders again. I still can’t get used to hearing that, but I guess I better, and fast, as Max is steering me down a long hallway that seems to go on forever, with marble floors and huge French doors leading outside.

I suppose it’s too late to make a run for it? Besides, in these wedge sandals, I probably wouldn’t get far.

“Try not to look like you’re heading to the guillotine,” Max whispers.

Ha. Apt. The revolutionaries would have a field day here. The ceiling has to be twenty feet high, with a flowery pattern carved into the crown molding. A runner with a velvety thick pile covers most of the floor. Maybe it’s not the people here who are going to eat me alive—it might be this gorgeous monster of a house.

Max pushes me through a set of double doors into an immense dining room. Two dozen pairs of eyes turn to stare our way.

I gulp.

“Hey, everyone,” Max says in a casual voice. He makes a motion with his hand that’s somewhere between a wave and a salute. “Good to see you all. Please give a big, warm Carlisle family welcome to my girlfriend, my sweetheart, the love of my life, Hallie.”

There’s silence.

So much for easing in slowly. After that introduction, I’m surprised there isn’t a full-blown fanfare and ticker-tape parade.

I raise my hand in a tiny wave. “Hi there.”

The silence continues.

“Flora, great to see you,” Max ambles over to the table and ruffles the hair of what must be one of his cousins, a goth-styled girl with dyed black hair and thick eyeliner. “Parker, Brad, been working out?” He high-fives a matching set of blond, tanned figures. I can’t tell if they’re siblings or husband and wife—until I see the kids beside them. Because who else could have produced the identical children-of-the-corn style little boys?

“Artie, meet Hallie.” Max continues his welcome tour with a guy in a sweater vest and a sneer. “And his wife, the lovely Cordelia.”

“Hi.” I manage a smile. She sneers back.

OK then.

I look around. Spread out around them are assorted older family members I have to assume include Max’s dad and stepmom and all the aunts and uncles. And at the head of the table is clearly the great Franklin Carlisle himself. He studies us with sharp, dark eyes set deep in his wizened face. His thin white hair sticks up in wisps on one side of his head as if he got hit by a strong wind and hasn’t combed it since. His sinewy hands are clasped together on the table in front of him. He looks not so much like a family patriarch as an aging king holding court.

I’ve changed my mind. If I get eaten, it’s definitely going to be by these people.

“Grandpa.” Max reaches him. “Still alive and kicking, then?”

“Last time my doctors checked.” Finally, Franklin looks at me and breaks into a smile. “Lovely to meet you. Does this mean my grandson has finally stopped gallivanting around?”

“I don’t know about that,” I reply, still nervous as hell.

“Of course you do.” Max draws me closer, giving a mischievous smile. “One look at my buttercup here, and my wayward days were over.”

Buttercup?

I curl my lips into a saccharine smile. “Oh, pooky, you’re so sweet.” I look down the table. “Isn’t he a darling? I’m so happy to get the chance to meet all of you. My Maxie-poo has told me so much about you.”

They look about as dumbstruck as Max.

“Maxie-poo?” he murmurs under his breath, sounding ill. I dig my elbow into his ribs.

Franklin snorts. “All right, all right, you love birds. Get yourselves a seat. Or preferably two.”

The only remaining available chairs are between sneering Artie and an aunt with a puff of blue-gray hair. Everyone around us is already eating, and a server materializes behind us and sets plates with perfectly cut sandwiches in front of us. I think the chef must have used a ruler to get lines that straight.

The blond sporty duo is sitting across from us. Parker leans forward with a jab of her fork. Her plate is a sandwich-free zone, I see. Just a spread of quinoa and kale and . . . is that a heap of seaweed?

“We thought Max was kidding when he said he was bringing someone,” Parker says, eying me suspiciously. “ How did you two meet?”

Gets right to the point, doesn’t she? Not even a hello. But—oops, maybe we should have discussed our cover story before we marched into the fray.

Max opens his mouth. I’m suddenly sure whatever story he comes up with, I’m going to look ridiculous in it. Which is fine, this whole situation is ridiculous, but if we’re doing that, he’s coming down with me.

I give him a little kick under the table and paste my smile back on. “Oh my God,” I gush. “It was the most romantic thing ever. We were in Paris—can you believe it?—and our eyes locked standing right there under the Eiffel Tower. We were even eating the exact same crepe: banana and caramel. It was so obviously meant to be. Wasn’t it, mon petit chou?”

I snuggle against Max’s arm with an adoring glance. He manages not to look exasperated, but I think it’s a near thing. “It sure was, mon demi-glace,” he says, with a French accent I have to admire. Except that he also kicks me back at the same time.

“Paris, huh?” Parker says, with a slight grimace. I’m not sure if she’s offended by the corniness of the story or the thought of eating a crepe. Maybe both. “I guess it’s no surprise you were off overseas, Max.”

“I’m surprised you bother showing up here at all,” Artie says with a sniff. “Seems like most of the time you’d rather be anywhere else. Preferably on the other side of an ocean.”

He kind of sounds like he prefers it that way too.

Max keeps smiling, but I feel his body tense next to mine. Even though I shoved us down this path, the snarky comments make me bristle. I’m giving him a hard time in fun. His cousins sound like they’re looking down their noses at him.

I squeeze his arm reassuringly. He may be an irritatingly cocky playboy, but for this week, he’s my irritatingly cocky playboy.

Franklin clears his throat. “I hope the presence of your girlfriend means you’re putting that wayward chapter of your life behind you,” he says. “At thirty, it’s about time you stopped running off on wild adventures and settled down a bit.”

Max takes my hand, brushes a quick kiss to my knuckles, and looks past me to his grandfather. “Absolutely,” he says. “You’ll be happy to know that Hallie and I feel the exact same way. Which is why I asked her to marry me this morning. And she said yes.”

What?!