Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Romantic Comedy Series Book 1)

by Emma St Clair

  “Nervous isn’t a good look on you,” Jack says, not looking up from his phone.

  “Yeah, well, one of us has to care about this meeting.”

  Jack slides his phone into his pocket and smiles. “I care. But I’m too busy manifesting success over here to worry.”

  Manifesting. That’s Jack’s favorite word. He manifests success and wealth and all kinds of things daily. I prefer good, old-fashioned hard work. Which is why I’m always the last one to leave the office and the first one in.

  I wish I could manifest myself right out of this situation. I’d rather be at home. Working out. Feeling the tension ease as I push my body to the limit. This place has to have a gym. Probably a nice one. As soon as we make it through this dinner, that’s where I’ll be.

  Maybe it’s just nerves because a lot is riding on these investors. We’ve got so many VCs already, but we need more to make it through the home stretch, to the launch in a month. The wining and dining has never been my favorite part. I’m the one who does things behind the scenes, where I’d prefer to stay. But Jack insists that we both need to be the face of the company. I know he’s right, even if I hate it.

  And tonight, added to the normal pressure, we have two wild cards: Charla and Abby.

  Charla is a mistake. A desperate choice. Her number had been in my phone, listed under Charla From Bar, CPA. I’d had a vague memory of her in my head as a pretty, bubbly brunette I’d meant to ask out but forgotten. The CPA by her name made me think maybe she was professional. But the outfit she showed up in had me wondering if the CPA stood for something else, like Car Park Attendant.

  And then there’s Abby. I’ve only ever seen her in a skirt once, and it had been paired with motorcycle boots. She looked amazing, but if she wears something like that tonight, how will the VCs and their wives react? And how will I keep myself from being totally and utterly distracted by her? That’s the real question.

  At that moment, the elevator dings. And, as though Jack and I can both sense the occupants before it opened, we straighten up, watching as our dates step out.

  I’m not sure what’s more shocking: the way Charla has transformed so that she actually looks like a CPA, or the way my whole body reacts to Abby in a dress.

  First my breath hitches, like the oxygen in the air has been replaced with some other kind of compound, much too dense for my lungs. Then my chest tightens, and my heart takes off like a racehorse released from the starting gate. It’s gone, and I may never catch it.

  Abby doesn’t look like she stepped out of an office, but she also doesn’t look like she was pulled out of a mosh pit somewhere. No. Abby looks … gorgeous. Unique. Tantalizing. Tempting. And like the no-nonsense, smart-mouthed woman who’s been haunting my office and my mind all week.

  Her white blonde hair leads down to pink curls. She still doesn’t have on a ton of makeup, but a little more than usual. Her eyes are dark-lined and gorgeous, the hazel color I’ve been trying to pin down looking more green than brown. But it’s her lips I’m drawn to, full and bubble-gum pink.

  I don’t even realize that I’m walking toward her until Jack steps between us, wrapping his arms around Abby in a hug.

  Because she’s not my date. She’s his.

  Despite that fact, and despite the reality of Charla standing here, I have to fight the urge to toss Jack over my head and into the potted fiddle-leaf fig next to the elevator.

  With all the discipline in my body, I turn to face Charla, copying Jack as I give her a quick hug. “You look perfect,” I say, meaning it. She looks exactly like what I’d hoped when I told her that we hoped to make a good impression on the investors at dinner.

  So, why am I terrifically disappointed?

  Maybe because I feel suddenly sure of what I want. And it’s not casual dating and then amicably parting ways. It’s not careful distance so my heart isn’t involved. It’s not the kind of women I’ve been dating. Pretty. Boring. Safe.

  I want Abby.

  While I watch, Jack holds out his arm to her with a smile. “Shall we?”

  Abby looks at me, as though waiting for something. I wonder if my realization is all over my face. Can she feel my longing to be next to her? Can she sense how much I want to tear Jack’s arms off?

  That day in my office, I should have fought Jack for her. I should have claimed Abby and asked her to be my date. Watching her with him is torture.

  But I didn’t ask her. I let Jack win. And I don’t say anything now as Jack leads her away.

  Charla takes my arm. “Everything okay?”

  Not even close. “I’m fine,” I tell her.

  Our table is large and round, which is going to make conversations awkward. Jack seats himself between Abby and Charla, leaving me without a clear view of Abby. Because I can’t see her face, I’m desperate for any little thing I do see. Her hand on her water glass. Her hair grazing the tablecloth. When she leans to the side, I see a tattoo peeking out of her dress near her collarbone. How have I not noticed it before?

  And what’s the tattoo look like?

  As if she feels my eyes, seeking her out, Abby finally catches and holds my gaze, giving me a secret smile that I want to tuck in my wallet the way some men keep pictures of their kids. It’s the kind of look I want to remember forever and see again and again. My eyes are drawn to the tiny white scar on her face, the one she told me about on the drive here.

  It’s barely noticeable, reminding me of a tiny piece of a constellation, a lone star winking out from her high cheekbone. Remembering the vulnerability in her voice when she told me about what I’m sure was humiliating at the time, I wish I had gotten a chance to do the same. To open myself up to her.

  She caught me off-guard, asking about the scar on the back of my head. My hair almost covers it, and I don’t have to see it since it’s on the back of my head. People don’t often ask about it, but I still wish I could easily cover it. Too bad I hate long hair, and mullets aren’t ever going to be in style.

  It came from the safety glass—you know, the stuff that isn’t supposed to cut you—in the car accident that killed my mom.

  I shake my head, realizing that Abby has leaned back again, hidden from my sight.

  The dinner doesn’t turn out as horribly as I thought. Jack does that schmoozing thing he does so well, and the VCs seem to be enjoying themselves. Eventually, we switched the seats around so that the women are on one side of the table and the men are on the other. It’s more convenient for the business talk but feels very … chauvinistic. Like we’ve relegated the women to the children’s table at Thanksgiving.

  And because Abby is now directly across from me, I’m subjected to the occasional looks she shoots my way, telling me she agrees.

  From the brief snippets of the women’s conversation, I’ve heard confounding phrases like capsule wardrobe (like, a time capsule?), blowouts (tires?), and microblading (which sounds like a slow death or maybe like inline skating for tiny people). Abby crosses her eyes at me when one of the investors’ wives—Sara, I think—mentions making appointments tomorrow to have their nails dipped.

  I can’t help but grin back at Abby, then realize that I’ve missed out on some question that Rick, Sara’s husband, just asked.

  “I’m sorry—could you repeat that?” I ask.

  “I was wondering about the specs for the app. Jack said you were the one to ask. Is it on track for completion?”

  Of course, Rick would ask this question. My eyes go straight to Abby. I don’t want to reveal that we’re having issues, but I also don’t want to feed him a line.

  “It will be on track,” Abby says, leaning forward in her seat.

  A hush falls over the table for a moment as the two investors take her in and the women look slightly scandalized that Abby joined the men’s conversation. I can’t help but wonder how they see her: pink hair brushing the tablecloth, her hazel eyes bright, her voice confident. She’s captivating. I have to force myself to look away so that I’m not staring.
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  “And you are?” Philip asks, touching the edge of his mustache. He’s been doing that all night, as though he thinks it’s going to crawl away like the caterpillar it resembles.

  “Abby. I’m helping with the neural networks and sorting the data structures for maximum efficiency. That way, when millions of users download the app the first day, it’s not going to crash.”

  I don’t even know what all the words mean since I’m not the tech person, but there’s something sexy about the way Abby’s dropping lingo.

  Rick smiles. “I’d like to think of myself as dabbling in development. Forgive me for asking, but are you handling the website as well? I’m curious about the adaptive development, and how you’re balancing the UI versus the UX.”

  I get the impression that Rick is just dropping terms for things that are over his head. The back of my neck begins sweating, and Jack gives me a tiny panicked look that I might have missed if I didn’t know him so well.

  Abby scoots her chair back. “Would you like to take a peek at the wireframe? If it’s okay with Jack and Zane, of course.”

  She looks to me, not Jack, for approval, which makes pride spread through my chest. I’m not crazy about letting people see more than they need to see, but when Abby winks at me, I nod. She thinks it’s safe, and I trust her.

  Moments later, Abby has a small tablet in hand and has positioned herself between Rick and Philip, scrolling through the mockup of our website, and then what looks to be a whole lot of code. It’s immediately obvious that Rick had no idea what he was talking about but is just agreeing with whatever Abby says.

  When she says something about a gorilla hammock, I wonder if she’s playing around with him too. Her face is dead serious, but there’s a brightness in her eyes. Kind of like the one she had when she was messing with me that first day.

  Jack meets my eyes, smiling and a few minutes later, Rick shakes his head, giving me a wry grin.

  “Well, you had me pretty convinced until now.”

  Until now? I swear for a few seconds, it feels like every organ in my body vaporized. Poof. Gone.

  “After hearing all that? I’m sold.” He half stands and holds out his hand to shake mine, then Jack’s.

  I know I’m grinning like an idiot, but I’m so relieved that I don’t even care. Philip follows suit, shaking our hands and giving Abby a gentle pat on the back.

  “With someone as knowledgeable as Abby on your team, I feel much more secure.”

  Neither Jack nor I bother to correct him, explaining that she just started this week as a contractor. If they’re on board because of her, better to let them think Abby is full time.

  Abby meets my eyes, and I see the glow of pride in her smug grin and the pretty pink flush in her cheeks.

  I swallow around a growing thickness in my throat.

  Twice today, Abby has rescued me in some way. First, with the whole scar thing. I knew she told her story just to take the pressure off me when she struck a nerve. I hadn’t been prepared for her to ask, and my emotions shot up to the surface before I could cage them.

  It wasn’t her fault, but I saw how badly she felt. Now, she just made the final move to seal the deal and secure these investors.

  All without toning back her Abby-ness a single ounce. As evidenced when she turns to Philip and asks, “How many programmers does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

  Jokes? She’s telling jokes now? I want to send her some kind of signal, one that says: Abort! Abort! Abort!

  We’ve got things locked down. Now is when we should walk away from the table.

  Please don’t let it be a dirty joke. Please don’t let it be a dirty joke.

  Philip smiles—at least, I think he’s smiling under that terrible mustache—and says, “How many?”

  “None,” Abby says. “That’s a hardware problem.”

  Rick barks out a laugh, and both Philip and Jack join in. I sort of get the joke, but I’m still panicking slightly. Jack gives me a hard look, telling me to relax as Philip orders a round of after-dinner drinks.

  And for the next forty-five minutes, I sip my port, watching Abby keep Rick, Philip, and Jack entertained with developer jokes and stories from coding nightmares. There’s a tiny part of me that’s still nervous, but a bigger part feels proud watching Abby work the table. Unlike Jack’s slick and polished exterior, Abby is charming, but utterly herself.

  Hilarious, a little irreverent, and completely alluring.

  By the end of the night, I’ve all but forgotten Charla, who joins me as we all stand from the table. It’s then that I notice Jack has tucked Abby under his arm. A wave of jealousy hits me, as palpable and overwhelming as the heat when you walk out of an air-conditioned building in Texas during the summer.

  I can’t feel this way about my sister’s best friend. I can’t.

  And why not? that annoying Zoey voice asks.

  But as I’m watching Jack with Abby, still tucked under his stupid arm, all my reasons have flown straight out of my head.

  Rick beams at Abby, then Jack. “You’re a lucky man,” he says. “Better keep this one close.”

  “I plan to,” Jack says, looking down at Abby.

  But she’s staring right at me, not him. I swear she looks ready to bolt. That fuels my ego, and my drive.

  Plans change, buddy. I think, looking at Jack. Plans change.

  Chapter Nine

  Abby

  “And then I told a coding joke, and they all pretended to get it. Oh my gosh, you should have seen them laughing,” I say, trying but failing to keep my voice down.

  I’m in a stairwell in the resort, the only quiet place I could find once Charla went to bed. I’ve got my laptop to work but had to call Zoey first and brag.

  “Zane fake laughed at your coding joke?” Zoey’s voice is full of disbelief.

  “No. He was the only one who didn’t.”

  He just stared at me, actually. With a look I couldn’t quite read but that made me want to climb over into his lap and kiss him.

  The look on his face when he was pleased with me made my whole body go hot. Tonight, when I had the investors eating out of my hand, his face had gone from shock to something like pride and admiration. And then shifted into something even more intense, like a raw longing, or a promise.

  Now that I’m talking to Zoey, thinking about Zane like that makes me feel all kinds of awful. I mean, realistically, if I liked Zane and Zane liked me, Zoey wouldn’t stand in our way. Would she?

  It’s just that she has warned me away from him so many times, talking about how he’s never serious. How he doesn’t do commitment, but instead has dated half of Austin.

  Zane dates women like Charla. Not women like you.

  That’s a sobering thought. One that helps me banish my wayward Zane-chasing thoughts.

  “I’m proud of you, Abs. But I knew you’d be amazing,” Zoey says, yawning.

  It’s only nine thirty, but that’s at least thirty minutes past her bedtime. And I need to work on the latest anomaly I’ve found in the code. I’m finally one hundred percent sure of two things: someone is absolutely sabotaging the code, and that person has on-site access to the servers. As in, they work at Eck0.

  “I’ll let you go, but I’ve got something to run by you first.”

  “Go ahead,” Zoey says, yawning again.

  “Say I found something while digging around that makes it look like someone is intentionally messing with the app.”

  Zoey gasps. “Are you serious? How sure are you?”

  “Almost positive. I haven’t told Zane yet because I wanted to be totally sure.”

  “I know he’d want to know if someone is hacking in. You should go tell him right now.”

  I bite my lip before answering. “That’s the thing. It’s not a hacker. It’s someone on the inside, who works at Eck0.”

  One of those people is Jack, despite the fact that he professes not to know much about programming or development. There’s just something about h
im I don’t trust.

  But after seeing him tonight wooing the investors, I can’t believe it’s him. No one would work that hard at getting financial backing and then tank it.

  “I can’t believe it.” Zoey sounds stunned. “I mean, I can. I’ve seen a whole world of corporate sabotage in the past two years. But still. I hate that it’s happening to my brother. He’s worked so hard.”

  “I know.”

  She sighs. “I would wait until you’re one hundred percent sure. I know Zane. First, he’ll freak out. Then, he’ll want every shred of evidence to go over it himself.”

  “That’s what I figured. Thanks, Zo.”

  “Anytime, Abs.”

  We say our good nights and I settle into my little nook at the top of the deserted stairwell to do a job that’s less and less about the money and more and more about the man who hired me.

  Somewhere, an alarm is going off. Not my phone alarm, I realize as sleep starts to scatter and fade. Normally, I wake up to The Black Keys, the volume starting low and then getting louder, coaxing me gently from sleep.

  The beep-beep-beep I’m hearing yanks me from my sleep with a jolt. I stand and start walking, to where I’m not sure, but immediately trip over something and crash to the floor.

  Why am I on a fake cowskin rug? Wait. That’s not fake. Why am I on a real cowskin rug?

  My eyes crack open finally as a semi-familiar voice reaches my ears.

  “Ohmygosh, I am so so sorry! I forgot to hit snooze on my alarm.”

  It all rushes back to me like an instant download. The resort. Charla. The dinner. Checking code until well past three in the morning.

  “Coffee,” I groan, pulling myself up. Great. Now I have rug burn on both knees from this cowhide. It’s probably payback for wearing the baby elephant concealer.

  “You’re bleeding!” Charla says, as I sink back onto my bed.

  “Hazards of hotel living,” I mutter. “What time is it?”

  I blink up at Charla, realizing for the first time that she’s wrapped in a tiny hotel towel, hair soaked and droplets of water glistening on her skin. I’m bleeding and have hair that I can tell is like a bird’s nest and my eyes are so puffy I can hardly see. And she looks like the centerfold in a freaking swimsuit issue.