“All right.” The brusque dressmaker gets slowly to her feet. “It’s the bride’s turn.”
She whisks Presley into a change room, and I stare at myself in the big section of curved mirrors that frames the room. Objectively, the dresses are pretty. And on the other women with their beautiful hair and tanned complexions, the design is perfection. But on me...hmm.
I’m sure it’ll be fine on the day. Having a pair of high heels on instead of Docs will do wonders.
“You’re very different, you and Presley,” Sherilee says as we stand around, waiting for the bride’s big reveal. “Especially for identical twins.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why we we’re different.” I shrug. “At some point after years of comparison, it’s appealing to stand out as an individual.”
She nods. “I can see that. My parents always compared me to my older brother—nothing I did was ever good enough.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Seriously. I felt like I was the dud child until I married my husband and then suddenly I was legitimate in their eyes.” She shoots me a rueful smile. “And that’s only because they want me to start popping out kids. They’re desperate to be grandparents.”
“And you’re not ready?”
She shakes her head. “I love my job and I want to see how far I can go in this career...at least for now.”
I feel an unlikely kindship with Sherilee. What women want is always open for criticism, and even when we try to conform, when we try our damnedest to be what someone wants...it’s never enough. “But isn’t your biological clock ticking?” I say with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
“Don’t even get me started!” She snorts. “And seriously, I think the dress-up Jack and Jill party will be super fun. Don’t let the best man bully you into doing something else.”
At that moment, the curtain parts and Presley walks out of the dressing room and into the middle of the couture dress shop. It’s all I can do not to let my jaw hit the floor. Presley and I have exactly the same body—tall and slim, all arms and legs without much to speak of in the boobage area. Yet this dress has transformed her into curves and sweeping lines. The strapless bodice moulds to her figure, drawing her waist in and flaring out over her hips so she looks like a perfect hourglass.
She’s so beautiful I know our mother will cry buckets on the day. But then I’m struck by something deeper, something intense and...painful.
The dress looks identical to the one I tried on three months ago. I did it on a whim, while shopping in London. Vas and I were due to have dinner that night at some hoity-toity place in Mayfair and I had a feeling he might propose. So I’d ducked into a bridal shop and slipped myself into a dress exactly like this—giddy with excitement and so in love I couldn’t see the red flags through my thick rose-tinted glasses.
Suddenly, it all comes crashing down. The breakup and my heartache, the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing with my life and seeing Presley—which is like looking at myself—all dressed up for her wedding...
There’s a lump in my throat. Tears prick the backs of my eyes and when Presley sees me, her face crumples. But I will not let any of my shit ruin her day. So I pretend it’s nothing more than sisterly admiration.
“You look so beautiful, Pres,” I say. And it’s true—she’s majestic. So perfect I wonder how she even exists. “Mike is going to be bowled over when he sees you.”
She rushes over and wraps her arms around me, despite the cries from the dressmaker about crushing the fabric. Presley smells like vanilla cupcakes and a spring garden, as she always does. I hold her tight, blinking back tears and pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“You okay?” she whispers. “It’s not like you to get all emotional.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I was...taken aback. The dress is perfect.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.”
We hold each other tight for another minute, and when we break apart there isn’t a dry eye in the room. No matter what happens in my life, I’m grateful to have Presley. Even if she manages to be everything I desperately want to be.
* * *
An hour later we all bundle outside to go for cocktails and make important decisions around bridal accessories and hairstyles. I pull away for a moment and bring up my email on my phone. There’s another email from Giant Pain in the Ass. Or rather, his assistant.
To: Melanie D. Richardson
From: Francis Albright on behalf of Flynn Lewis
Subject: Lewis-Richardson wedding: Jack and Jill Party
Dear Ms. Richardson,
My name is Francis Albright, and I’m Mr. Lewis’s executive assistant. I’ve stepped in to assist with the organisation of this event. To save further delays, I have gone ahead and booked the venue for the Jack and Jill party (please see a record of the booking with all pertinent details attached).
A theme of “black and white with a touch of gold” has been selected and the venue will be decorated accordingly. Email invites are currently being designed and will be distributed next week according to the list you compiled. A sample menu, music list and schedule are attached. At this stage, nothing further is required on your end.
If you have any questions, please contact me rather than Mr. Lewis.
Kind regards,
Francis Albright
That motherfucker! Not only did he palm me off on his assistant, but they went and organised the whole event without me. And ignored everything that I put forward to ensure the event was what Presley would want it to be.
If I were a cartoon character, steam would be shooting out of my ears right now. I’m livid. Beyond livid.
But here’s the thing Mr. Lewis doesn’t know about me: when someone decides to play dirty, I’m more than happy to change my tactics and respond in kind. This is no longer event organisation: it’s war.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Flynn
THE DAY IS surprisingly warm. I leave the office around four and head to my brother’s place for a beer. It’s Saturday, so Zoe has been to ballet class and she’s refusing to get out of her uniform. If Gabe let her, she’d eat, sleep and shower in pink tights, matching legwarmers and her black leotard with the dance school’s logo.
Even now as we sit out back, shaded by the veranda and big, sweeping jacaranda that’s in the early stages of blooming with purple flowers, Zoe is diligently practising her pirouettes. She flies around with abandon, her thick-framed glasses sliding down her nose. I know her vision is getting worse, and it breaks my heart.
“Don’t say a word.” Gabe takes a long swig of his beer. “I can’t talk about it today.”
I nod. My brother wants to pretend we’re a normal family with normal problems. That’s hard for me—because I’m like a dog with a bone when it comes to this stuff. I want to tell him about every aspect of the trials, about the experts I’m hiring and all the hope I’m pouring into this work. But some days it’s too much for him and I have to respect that.
“Tell me something good,” Gabe says. He pulls a pair of sunglasses over his eyes as the clouds shift and bright light filters under the veranda’s edge. “What have you been up to?”
“You told me not to talk about it.” I sip my beer. I let the relaxation filter through my muscles.
“I mean besides work.”
“There’s nothing besides work.” Though that’s not entirely true. There’s Blondie—the sexy anomaly in my otherwise perfectly structured life.
I had phone sex like a horny teenage boy. I don’t know what I was expecting when I dialled her number, but hearing that sleepy, gravelly voice was so utterly intoxicating. I’ve never experienced anything like it. It took all my willpower not to go to her apartment and bang on her door so she’d let me inside to bang her.
Fuck. I need to get her out of my head. Even today—Saturd
ays are quiet, so it’s my most productive day—I couldn’t concentrate. Blondie is occupying way more of my brain than I want her to. That she’s occupying anything at all is a problem.
“You need something besides work, man.”
“Like what? A relationship?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad. Don’t use me as a yardstick for what it’s like.” Gabe is self-deprecating like that, but he has no idea how much pain his words cause. “My failure of a marriage shouldn’t deter you.”
His failure of a marriage might be my fault. Here’s the thing—Gabe and I have been best buds since the second I was born. He’s older and he looked after me, showed me the ropes, and I’ve always looked up to him. Idolised him, even. It killed me when he married Monique, a woman who didn’t deserve someone half as good as Gabe.
He was steady and she was irresponsible. He was strong and she was weak. And selfish. And judgmental. She undermined him, manipulated him—spewed her negativity into him until he was a husk of the man I knew. Things started to change when Zoe came along...until they figured out something was wrong.
Then Monique started partying. Sleeping around, from all accounts. She was killing my brother and neglecting her child.
I couldn’t take seeing Gabe like that anymore, so I decided to lay it all out for her. Help her have a “come to Jesus” moment about what she was doing to her family. I told her straight—no bullshit—that she was lucky to have Gabe and Zoe, and she was throwing it all away. I thought I’d gotten through to her, helped her to see the error of her ways.
The following morning, she packed her bags and took off, leaving behind a note that said she didn’t have it in her to be the wife and mother that Gabe and Zoe needed. They haven’t seen her since.
And I’ve never told Gabe about that conversation.
“I don’t have time for a relationship,” I say flippantly, shoving down the shameful memories. “I certainly don’t have the headspace to deal with another person’s baggage.”
“For someone who’s so intent on making himself out to be a selfish bastard, you sure do visit us a lot. Baggage and all.” Gabe smirks. He knows I’d take a bullet for my family. “You could cut that time in half and find a woman. Be happy.”
“That’s not going to make me happy.”
“Then go out and get laid, at least. Christ. One of us has to live.”
I glance over and see the crinkle between Gabe’s reddish brows. We’ve got the same colouring: red-toned hair, blue eyes. None of that got passed onto Zoe. She’s her mother through and through—chestnut hair, hazel eyes and skin that tans at the drop of a hat.
“Fucking around isn’t living,” I reply. “Despite what pop culture would have us believe.”
“So you don’t want a relationship but you don’t believe in casual sex. What’s left?”
I grin, though it’s hollow. But I don’t want to bring Gabe down. “A peaceful, drama-free life of solitude and meaningful work.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s freeing.” I shrug. “I don’t need someone else to make me happy. I’ve got all I need right here.”
“I don’t buy it.” Gabe shakes his head. “You were the guy in university who had all the women flocking to you.”
“I was young and stupid.”
“You weren’t bogged down.”
“You think I’m bogged down?” I raise a brow. “By what, trying to do something with my life?”
“By living your life for other people.”
I let his comment stew for a minute. “Even if that person is your daughter?”
“Yes.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Zoe is the one who’s got it all figured out. She tries everything and fails often and doesn’t miss a beat before trying again. She makes new friends every day.”
She’s at the age where Gabe is starting to talk to her about her disease, to help her understand why she’s a little different from the kids at school. But they haven’t had the conversation yet...that probably won’t happen until she’s a little older.
“Some days I swear she knows what’s going on.” Gabe’s voice is a little choked up. “It’s like she’s trying to cram a whole life’s worth of experience into every day. Don’t you think we could learn from that?”
I don’t want to disagree with him, because it seems cruel. I love that Zoe is living each day like it’s a whole life—and she should. But that life isn’t for me. Because I’ve seen the darker side of that lifestyle. People like my mother and Monique put their own pleasures before responsibility—they’re hedonists who neglect the people they should love so they can be “free.” So they can “find themselves.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
So no, I don’t subscribe to the “live every day like it’s your last” theory. I’m building my life on stability and responsibility and future-focus, because that’s what Zoe and Gabe need from me.
“I should get going.” I push up from my chair. The amber dregs swish around the bottom of the glass as I set it on a table.
“More work?” Gabe asks drily.
“Self-preservation. Little Miss Ballerina mentioned something about a movie night involving Frozen and I can practically sing ‘Let It Go’ in my sleep at this point.” I shudder. “That one’s on you, buddy.”
Gabe chuckles and his expression softens again. “Thank you. I know I don’t say it enough—”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t give me an emotional declaration. I don’t do it for you.”
Both our gazes slide over to the little girl who’s dancing, tinny classical music belting out from a pink speaker that Gabe bought her so she could practise in the backyard. When she notices me standing, she rushes over and throws her arms around me, burying her sweet little face against my leg. I stroke her hair and pack everything I feel down into a small lump so I can swallow it all.
This is why I can’t afford to get distracted. Not by Blondie, not by this stupid Jack and Jill party. Not by anything.
CHAPTER NINE
Drew
I WAKE WITH a start. It’s late—lights glimmer against an inky backdrop outside the window and I’m lying on the couch doing my best impression of a pretzel. What happened?
Cocktails. Lots of cocktails.
I’d started out with the bridal squad and when they left, it was Presley and me. My sister might look like little miss perfect, but she can pound tequila like nobody’s business. I groan and push myself up into a sitting position.
I couldn’t have come home that late, since we started drinking around 3:00 p.m. It’s coming back to me—Presley bailed around nine when her fiancé picked her up. Then on the way home I’d made a phone call...to who? I search my memory.
Oh, no. The venue for the Jack and Jill party. I’d called them to confirm we’d had a change of plans—the bride wanted a new theme. It would now be a dress-up party—come as your hero. And I’d asked them to direct all future queries about the event to me, instead of to the Giant Pain in the Ass’s assistant.
Presley is going to kill you if you start a war with her in-laws.
Then I came home and...yep, greasy pizza and bad reality TV. The television screen is black with an “are you still watching?” message displayed.
“Don’t judge me, Netflix,” I grumble as I pick a piece of salami from my leggings.
Although maybe Netflix should judge me. I’ve clearly fallen asleep mid-drunk snacking and now I have grease stains on my pants. I peel them off, immediately dropping them into the washing machine tucked away behind a neat little door next to the bathroom.
I glance around the room. The pizza box sits open, illuminated only by the glow of the TV and the city lights filtering in. The view is magnificent. In the dark, Melbourne is splashed across the window like a masterpiece. My mind flickers to the night on the balcony when I’d given Mr. Suit a show.
I don’t think I’ll ever look at balconies the same way again.
For a moment, I consider leaving the pizza and dragging my tired, slightly still-drunk butt to bed. But I’m a guest in this house. Scooping up the box, I head to the front door and scout the hallway. It’s a little after midnight and dead silent—I guess that’s too late for the older residents and too early for younger ones to be coming home.
I dart across the hallway to the door marked “trash chute” and open it.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The gravelly, male voice startles me and the chute lever slips out of my fingers, the metal banging against my other hand. I’m ready to chew the ear off the person who’s appeared behind me like some creepy-ass stalker. But my gaze collides with a steely expression and a shock of reddish hair. Mr. Suit.
Never one to waste an opportunity to pay back a man who’s rejected me, I glare at him with all the fake anger I can muster. “You usually sneak up on vulnerable women like that?”
He cocks a brow, his eyes roaming up and down my body. Is he thinking about our naughty phone call? Or the night on the balcony? Then I remember I ditched my grease-stained pants into the washing machine. My jumper is oversized, so my underwear is covered. Barely.
That’s twice now he’s seen me without pants.
“You usually break the rules while staying in someone else’s apartment?” He folds his arms across his chest.
I was aware of the garbage chute curfew, but in the moment I forgot. I am not surprised, however, that Mr. Suit is a stickler for the rules. “Do you usually get your knickers in a knot over other people’s behaviour?” I fire back.
“That’s rich coming from a woman who doesn’t seem to own any pants.”
Touché. “I’m not disturbing anyone by getting rid of my pizza box.” I wink, knowing it will grate on him. Maybe I should change his name to Mr. Stick Up His Butt.
The Fling--A Scorching Hot Romance Page 5