It's eight in the morning on Friday, our first full day in Savannah, and I'm still in bed, half naked. It was the first time I've slept in bed all night with a guy, and it was surprisingly wonderful. When we weren't kissing, we cuddled.

I stretch, feeling decadent and wanting to eke out a bit more time here. Immediately I feel guilty about this. Alex showered and dressed without waking me, and now he's nuzzling my neck.

"Staying in bed all day is a better option than anything else," he murmurs. "But I guess we have to brave the crowd downstairs. I'll stay here while you get ready."

"No, don't wait for me." I pinch his butt. "I'll meet you downstairs for breakfast after I shower and get ready. Don't let me hold you up."

Alex is wearing a black hoodie and gray sweatpants. I giggle, thinking about my sister. About how loud she would screech if I told her about last night.

He leans in and kisses my nose. "What are you laughing about?"

I consider telling him about the sweatpants challenge. Maybe later. "Nothing, you look cute is all. I'll see you downstairs."

He brushes one quick kiss on my lips, growls, then kisses me harder. Every time he puts his lips to mine, warm tingles flow through my body.

"Okay. I might take a few minutes now to go to the drugstore to buy some necessities. Oh, and hey, I meant to tell you . . ."

"Tell me what?" We kiss again.

"If you happen to talk with Beau or Rose today, keep it light, okay?" He strokes my hair.

"About what? Us? Or what happened with you and Rose, or Rose and Beau? I'm confused."

"They might try to pump you about me. What I'm planning if Gram appoints me as CEO. They might try to get you to divulge my plans for my takeover. Or try to get at me through you."

"I don't know your takeover plans. So they'll be out of luck if I'm part of their fact-finding mission. Can't get blood from a stone and all that."

"I know. Don't let them get under your skin. They're . . ." His eyes dart around as he eases himself off me, and the bed. "They're a bit ruthless."

A grin spreads on my face. "Something to look forward to. Don't worry. I've dealt with worse."

"Okay. I want you to be prepared for all possibilities today."

"Consider me the princess of possibilities. I'm all yours."

His lips part, and he pauses while his gaze scans my face. "Yes. You are."

He bounds out of the room like an eager Labrador retriever fetching a particularly juicy bird while on a hunt.

The tingles stay with me as I shower, and while I put on one of my new dresses. This one is a little black-and-white number, with a floral print and a tie at the waist. As I slip my feet into black sandals, my stomach flutters with nerves about going downstairs and facing his family. Hopefully I'll sort of blend in. And my still-flushed face and shining eyes don't scream: Hey, fam, we've been getting it on all night, sort of, and we'll definitely have sex later.

Maybe everyone will be finished with breakfast, and I can have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast in peace. This family looks like they'll have the really excellent bread, and probably a selection of jams.

On the way downstairs, I pause in the hall to look at some family photographs. Unlike the historic ancestor paintings downstairs, these are all of Alex and his family. More normal, if yachts and auto races and motorcycles are normal. I pause to look at one picture that looks like a wedding. Or prom? Oh, cotillion. That's what it says in embossed gold script at the bottom of the photo. Of course.

All the girls have perfect straight hair and beautiful long dresses. The boys in back are in tuxedoes. I locate Alex at the far right of the frame. He was handsome even then. I doubt if he even had a teenage awkward phase.

The girl next to him is adorable. Blonde, wearing a pretty white dress and clutching pink flowers. I wonder if that's Rose. How could anyone do what she did, screw Alex's cousin a few nights before their wedding? It's too revolting to think about.

The house is so big that I almost get lost on my way to the kitchen—Alex said his mother would have breakfast waiting for us—and I'm stunned to see several people around the formal dining room table.

"Good morning," his mother trills, waving me in. Everyone at the table, around ten people, turns their eyes to me.

I give a little wave. "Morning. When Alex said there would be breakfast, I didn't think it would be a sit-down like this."

His mother pats the empty seat next to her. "We're catching up over coffee."

With the gold-rimmed china, it looks like more than a casual coffee, but whatever. As Mrs. Jenkins piles my plate with bacon, croissants and fruit, she introduces me to everyone around the table. Aunts, uncles, cousins. People from Charleston. People from Jacksonville. I immediately forget everyone's name. By the time I spear a strawberry, I'm in a light sweat. These adults are all between twenty and fifty years older. They all look exceedingly well-dressed. Where is Alex?

"Alex said he'd be right back, dear." Mrs. Jenkins can obviously read my mind. "He said he had to run a couple of errands."

I nod and smile weakly, hoping she doesn't guess what he's going to buy. I'll keep myself busy by eating until he gets back. Hopefully if my mouth is full, I won't have to make casual conversation. Mrs. Jenkins stands up, saying she'll get more champagne for the mimosas. This is a family that likes to drink, that's for sure.

One of his aunts, a lady with white hair, leans in. "Dear, where did you say you were from? You look so familiar."

I'm certain I don't know this woman, but I smile patiently. "I grew up in the suburbs, but I live in Atlanta now."

The woman beams. "That's where I know you from." She turns to the man next to her. I think it's her husband. I spear a juicy piece of pineapple and shove it in my mouth.

"Sam, she was in cotillion."

Sam nods thoughtfully and pops a slice of bacon between his thin lips. How is Alex related to these people?

The woman mentions a year. "You were in cotillion that season, weren't you? I knew several of the girls in that chapter because of my daughter-in-law. You might know her. Rose Jenkins? Well, that's her married name. It was Rose Richardson."

"I'm sorry, how are you related to Alex? I'm trying to get his family tree straight. He has so many relatives." My tone is soft, deferential.

"Alex's father and my husband are brothers. I'm Beau's mother."

"Oh. Oh!" So this is the woman that gave birth to the smarmy Beau. Interesting.

She says her name—Bunny, short for Barbara—and I spear another piece of fruit. Cotillion is a staple of people like these. A formal ball where "debutantes" are presented to society. A throwback to another era. It's for the rich and snooty, in my opinion, and there was never a thought in my parents' minds that I'd be a debutante. My mom once mentioned it, but only in the context of how sexist it was. Of course Sabrina also wasn't a debutante. The very idea makes me want to roll on the floor in hysterics.

"Like I was asking, Evie, what year were you in cotillion?"

"No, I'm sorry. You must be mistaking me with someone else. I wasn't in cotillion." Again, the eyes of the table turn to me, and I grow uneasy.

"You weren't?" The woman frowns. "I could have sworn there was an Evie in that class."

I glance around, and everyone is looking at me with curious expressions. Is it that unusual that I wasn't a debutante? I know it's a popular thing in parts of the South, but I met plenty of girls in college who weren't.

"No," I say firmly, thinking of my mother. And I'm proud of it, I want to add, but don't.

I tear a corner off the croissant and put it in my mouth. Bunny purses her lips. This is Alex's aunt? I'm disliking this branch of the family more and more.

Mr. Jenkins, who's seated at the head of the table, chuckles. Obviously he sees the absurdity in this.

"I think she's the first non-debutante Alex has ever dated. Guess he went through the entire social register." Mr. Jenkins guffaws, and the entire table laughs.

Oh. My. God. Did he say that out loud? I look around nervously, and no one will look me in the eye. He sounded so convincing that I'm now doubting Alex's assertion that his playboy persona was all an act.

The croissant mingles with the lump of discomfort in my throat, and I gulp water to wash everything down. How long do I have to sit here after that little humiliation? Ten minutes? Five? Thirty seconds? I feel like hurling coffee at everyone and smashing this expensive china against the wall. One thing was made clear to me, whether Alex's family meant to do it or not: I'm an outsider here.

Alex isn't. He's as firmly rooted in this upper-crust life as any of these people at this table. And he can tell me a million times that I'm beautiful, that I'm smart, that I'm hardworking. He can give me a thousand passionate kisses. He can tell me, like he did last night, that I'm so different than the other women he's slept with, and how he adores that.

But he will never, ever choose me to live in this world as his real girlfriend.

The next ten minutes are excruciating. Everyone at the table is silent, the clacking of silverware against plates the only noise.

"Lovely day," someone says in a pleasantly fake tone.

Everyone enthusiastically begins talking about the weather and how it will be perfect for croquet in the garden later, and I'm left to marinate in my humiliation. Of course these people would subtly make fun of me—I'm a zero in their minds. It takes all I have not to start bawling. The bitter coffee helps a little.

Mrs. Jenkins returns with an open bottle of champagne, and pours me a glass, topping it off with orange juice.

"Here you go, darling," she says.

I beam at her, grateful she wasn't in the room when her husband made the crack about Alex and the debutantes—and when everyone laughed.

"It's such a beautiful day out, I think I'm going to drink this on the porch and wait for Alex. I also have to make a phone call." Mustering all my courage, I stand up, and push my chair in. I don't even have my phone with me, nor do I have anyone to call.

"I'll tell him you're out there, dear," Mrs. Jenkins says.

I thank her and hold my head high as I grab my mimosa and walk out. Screw these people. Well, not Mrs. Jenkins. She's nice. Everyone else is awful. No manners. Money can't buy class, my mom used to say. I'd doubted her when she said it all those years ago, but she was proven right.

The porch is a welcome respite. I sink into the comfy cushion of the wicker love seat and take a sip of my mimosa. Ugh. It mixes with the gallon of coffee in my stomach, and I feel like I'm digesting rocks. And I haven't even met the infamous Rose.

Can't wait for that.

Last night was perfect. Something out of a dream. Or a romance novel. We kissed for what, eight hours? It probably wasn't that long, but it felt like it. He was so gentle. Yet dominant. And patient. Probably a lot of guys would have tried to have sex without protection. But he didn't. Alex said he wanted us to get to know each other's bodies, to feel comfortable with each other.

And the way he whispered in my ear when he touched me? I'm unsteady and turned on as I replay the night in my mind.

Will you come for me again, Evie? Please? I love watching you.

Even though I'm sitting here swooning, I should be rethinking everything after that scene at breakfast. I have no place here, or with him.

My sigh is drowned out by the sound of happily chirping birds. At least someone's in a good mood.

"Hey, beautiful."

I look up, and Alex is coming through the doorway. A charge of adrenaline goes through me, like it always does when I see him. He looks unusually alive, a flush of color on his sharp cheekbones. Good lord, he's handsome. More so today, I think. Maybe it's because of what we did last night, or because he'll never be mine for real. Grinning, he plops down next to me.

"How is my fiancé?" he whispers, taking the mimosa out of my hand and finishing it. He sets the glass on a table, then leans in, his hand on my neck, pulling me toward him.

"Kiss me," he murmurs.

Denying him is impossible.

As his lips touch mine, I consider whether I should tell him about what went down at breakfast. What would I say? Your dad was snarky and everyone laughed at me because I'm not a debutante from a rich family like your other girlfriends?

God, why does he have to be such a good kisser? His tongue slides into my mouth.

Alex breaks from our kiss and sucks in a breath while putting his forehead to mine. "I went to the store and purchased the things we need. They're in our room," he whispers. "I'm tempted to take you upstairs right now."

If only we could do that and forget about everyone else. "Don't we have to make an appearance for your family? Aren't there games? Someone at breakfast mentioned croquet."

Even uttering that phrase aloud seems foreign on my tongue. I wasn't even aware people still played croquet.

He sighs and sits back, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I guess. Did you meet everyone at breakfast? I grabbed a bagel and left. C'mon, let's go do our duty." He stands up and holds out his hand. I allow him to pull me up, and he tugs me in for a hug. "Why do you feel so damned good, Evie Cooper?"

Hearing him say my full name makes me melt into his body. And then his words echo in my ear.

Do our duty.

I can't forget the real reason I'm here. I'm hired help. And now, hired help with benefits. The thought sends a hot poker of pain through my stomach. He's probably fooling around with me because I'm convenient. It's not like this will continue when we get back to Atlanta. If I tell him what happened at breakfast, he'll wonder why I care. I won't see these people again. He might even laugh, like his family did.

And he'll probably assume that I'm falling in love with him, and that might be a correct assumption. It was the one thing I told him I wouldn't do, and here I am, wondering if what we have could be real.