Maybe I don’t want them to be gone. Maybe I want to stay in this closet for the rest of my life.
And because this moment is so intense, like an overloaded system, my server crashes.
“This closet really should have been locked,” I say. “Having access to all these chemicals is dangerous.”
“Is it?” Zane’s voice is low, making my toes curl. He sounds … amused. But there is nothing funny about it.
“Do you know how many children a year die from ingesting simple cleaning supplies?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
Zane lifts one hand from my hip, and I’m disappointed until he brushes back my hair, tucking it over one shoulder. His fingers caress the sensitive skin there, barely grazing my clavicle before curling around bare side of my neck.
“Over one hundred thousand children a year are hospitalized.”
Stop talking, Abby.
That’s Gibbs in my head, and it’s just the reminder I need to clamp my mouth shut.
I’m trembling, hopefully just on the inside, as two of Zane’s fingertips find the pulse at my neck.
“Are you nervous, Abs?”
Heck, yeah, I’m nervous. You’re dismantling my world.
I’m living in the Upside Down from Stranger Things, a world that looks very much like my own, except for the man behind me. The one who looks like the stick-in-the-mud twin brother of my best friend.
But in this world, Zane is sweet and kind and even funny. He makes my insides turn molten and has me twisted into a complicated knot that I fear may never come undone.
Without warning, his lips replace his fingertips on my neck in the most tender, electric kiss of my whole life.
Soft, yet firm, his mouth pauses there at my pulse, as though testing my reaction, and when I don’t move—because I cannot move—he presses another tiny kiss to the side of my throat. Then another.
He’s following the vein in my neck right on down, blazing a path of heat that I can feel everywhere. Everywhere. Even that place on my elbow where the body doesn’t have a lot of nerve endings, even that place stands up and says, HEL-lo.
My eyelids flutter closed, and I’m still Alice, but falling right down the rabbit hole, tumbling head over feet into Wonderland.
In a move that I did not see coming, Zane spins me around, and then his lips are on mine. I completely freeze. My knees lock up. My elbows straighten. My spine is like a metal rod, holding me perfectly still.
Then, Zane’s lips begin to move, coaxing me to do the same. It doesn’t take much convincing. My hands slide around the back of his neck. I tilt my head, inviting him deeper, and Zane obliges.
The kiss is a beautifully choreographed dance, one I don’t know, but that’s okay, because Zane is completely in the lead. He has control over every part of me. If he told my pinky toe to wiggle right now, it would.
He kisses me and kisses me, until the danger of chemicals seems silly compared to the danger of Zane’s mouth on mine.
A familiar voice sounds right outside the door. “Why are there shoes in the middle of the hallway?”
The landing is abrupt as Zane pulls back, our lips making a little noise as they separate. We stand there, listening.
Charla the CPA must be right outside this closet, looking at our shoes. Zane’s mouth doesn’t go far, hovering, his quick, panting breaths puffing out over my skin.
“I think those are Zane’s shoes,” Jack says.
There is a pause. And then the closet door flies open. Zane and I blink at Charla and Jack, who are standing just outside the doorway.
I don’t know what to say, or how to move. We should move, right?
Zane still has both hands on my hips. I’m not sure if I look as thoroughly kissed as I feel, but based on their expressions, I suspect that I do.
Zane clears his throat, pats my hip, and urges me toward the doorway.
“Good morning,” he says, stepping past me to grab our shoes.
“Why are you in a closet?” Charla asks, her head swinging between us.
“Yes, why?” Jack asks, looking so smug, so amused, that I want to shove him into the closet and leave him there. Instead, I walk into the hallway, closing the door.
Zane bends down in front of me, nudging my foot. I realize he’s trying to put my flip-flops back on for me. I’ve never had a man put a shoe on my foot before. That seems like a weird thing to even want.
And yet, as Zane carefully slides one flip-flop into place and then the other, I think that this is an underrated gesture, the kind that could make a woman fall in love. He pats the top of my foot before working on his own shoes. I barely resist the urge to run my fingers through his hair, clasping my hands instead.
“We were just testing out all the amenities,” Zane says. “Right, Abs?”
“Yeah,” I say. “What he said.”
Jack rocks back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “Oh? And how were the amenities?”
Zane looks at me, his blue eyes practically searing hole straight through me.
“Incredible. Perfect. But there’s still a lot of testing to be done. A lot of amenities to explore.”
Just when I think he’s hypnotized me, dragging me into the blue of his eyes, Zane winks, and it’s like someone has attached jumper cables to my heart.
Chapter Fifteen
Abby
People associate hangovers with alcohol, but there are actually many kinds of hangovers. Too-much-ice-cream hangovers and junk-food hangovers. Once, Sam and I went to an all-you-can-eat salad bar, and we had salad hangovers. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.
I discover a new kind of hangover Sunday when I return home from the resort, dragging my bags: a Zane hangover.
I drop my bags and sit cross-legged on my bed, wondering why the house is so quiet. I hold my phone in my palm, itching to text Zane. I said goodbye to him an hour ago, an awkward, pregnant goodbye where it felt like we should embrace or kiss or something, but instead just grinned awkwardly at each other like we were twelve-year-olds, until I climbed into my car.
One hour, and I miss him. I want to text him. Call him. Drive to his house, wherever it is. I’ve totally passed the point of no return when it comes to Zane.
Maybe texting him is exactly what I need to do. People talk about the hair of the dog, drinking a bit of alcohol the next morning to ease the pain of the hangover. I can’t imagine that actually works. Even so, I want—no, need—more of Zane to take the edge off. Just a tiny sip. One text. No biggie.
I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a long drink of Zane.
The analogy is a little muddy, but the point is: one weekend was not enough.
And I’m really torn about where to go from here. There are two equally terrifying options, heading in opposite directions.
The first option is that I finish this job for Zane and go back to seeing him occasionally, casually. I’ll go cold turkey on him. He reverts back to Zoey’s brother. A casual acquaintance at best.
This choice is wholly disappointing, but safe. Easy. It takes no work. No guts. No risk. Zane would be like every other guy I’ve dated. Well. Without the date part, since we haven’t been on a date. Just … had a partial couples massage, spent the night together in separate beds, and made out in a hotel closet.
The other option is the one where I dive right into what’s been building between us. The amazing kisses. The flirting the rest of this morning over breakfast and as we checked out. The way he entwined our fingers for most of the car ride home.
Holding hands had never felt so … life-altering. They’re just hands. Used for doing dishes and typing and opening car doors and a hundred other mundane things. But there was nothing mundane about Zane holding my hand, tracing patterns on the back of my hand with his thumb.
This option is clearly the winner. Even thinking about Zane has me feeling hot and cold, weak and woozy. It’s like I have the flu. The love flu. Is that a thing?
The problem, though, with this, is t
he sheer terror of the unknown that comes along with it. I haven’t had any serious relationships. I wasn’t interested in more with the guys I dated. And strangely enough, guys don’t seem to want to keep dating me when I’m not sleeping with them. And physical intimacy is in no way something I would enter into without knowing someone really well, being really committed.
Yeah, okay, maybe I even like the idea of waiting until I’ve married someone and have that whole safety net of trust before I leap. This creates a chicken-and-egg problem: I won’t sleep with a guy I haven’t committed to, and guys don’t want to commit without sleeping with someone.
I’m realizing that this seems less like a chicken-and-egg problem, and more like a bad-egg problem.
Zane? He’s a golden egg. But that makes it no less terrifying to consider what happens next.
I’m still holding the phone in my hands, biting my lip, trying to think of something clever, witty, flirty. But not too over the top. So much pressure! My fingers hover over the keys.
I could tell him how much I enjoyed staying up late with him, sharing stories. He gave me dirt on Zoey, and then we talked about ourselves. He told me how hard it is to please his dad, how disapproving his father is of the startup. I even told him about being bullied in high school, even if I didn’t give him the details about what happened, and why I graduated from an online school. Maybe one day, depending on how things go between us.
As I’m staring at my phone, still debating, it buzzes with a text from Zane.
Zane: I have a question for you.
Abby: And I have an answer for you: seventeen.
Zane: Incorrect. Maybe you should wait for the question?
Abby: Maybe you should ask it instead of sending me other, random questions that aren’t the one question you want to ask?
Zane: Fair point. My question is …
I wait. And wait. And wait. The dots showing that he’s typing come and go. I get the feeling that he’s not unsure of what to ask but trying to make me suffer.
Abby: My offer to answer your question expires in three …
Abby: Two …
Zane: Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?
I’m thirteen years old, and my mom just bought me tickets to go see Finger Eleven in concert. That’s what Zane’s question makes me feel like. Or, what I imagine it would have been like, since my mom never approved of my taste in rock music.
Zane wants to have dinner with me. I drop the phone for a moment, put my pillow over my face and scream.
“Everything okay in here?”
I drop the pillow and scream for real, scaring Sam, who jerks a little, grabbing on to the doorframe.
“Sam! You scared me! I didn’t think anyone was home.”
Smiling, she walks in and sits down next to me on the bed. I’m suddenly very aware of the open text thread on my phone and snatch it out of view. Her smile turns wicked.
“What’s going on in here?”
“Nothing.”
“Whose texts are you hiding?”
I don’t answer, holding the phone to my chest. Sam scoots farther back on the bed, leaning against the wall and pretending to examine her nails, which are all bitten to the quick. That’s one thing about Sam. She’s usually totally put together, wearing some kind of cute, trendy outfit, but her nails are trashed. The more stressed she is, the shorter they are. I’m guessing the pressure of this book deal is really getting to her.
Which is probably why she’s here: to get the details of my love cliché. I’ve fallen for my BFF’s brother. Her twin, no less.
“Don’t mind me. Just pretend I’m not here,” she says.
“Ugh! Sam. I can’t do this with you sitting there.”
“Do what?” she asks, blinking her wide brown eyes at me. “What kinds of texts are you sending that you can’t write them in front of one of your best friends?”
“Fine. Here.” Because I know she’s going to pester me until I tell her everything, I hand Sam my phone.
Greedily, she snatches it up and reads, her grin growing as she does. She shoves the phone back at me.
“Answer the man! He’s probably going nuts over there since he just asked you out, and you stopped responding.”
“Right.” I shouldn’t be nervous. I mean, I can’t say anything but yes to his invitation. I want to ask if I can leave right this second. But I’m hesitating. I set the phone back in my lap, and Sam groans. “What if this is a mistake?”
“How can it be a mistake?” Sam asks. “Zane is a great guy, right?”
“Right.”
“And Zoey would murder him if he ever hurt you, correct?”
“Yes. She would murder him with glee.”
“So?” Sam lifts a shoulder. “What’s the deal?”
I bite my lip. The deal is that this is all new territory for me. At least, that’s how it feels. It’s a blank computer screen when you’re about to start writing a program. There is so much ahead you don’t know yet, so many mistakes to make, so much blank space for error. We kissed, but made no promises or declarations. No commitments.
“It feels like a lot of pressure,” I say. “I mean, what if we mess things up and then it’s all awkward with Zoey forever?”
And what if I get my heart broken?
“What if you don’t? What if it’s awesome? What if you and Zane are the perfect match and then you get to marry him and have the best sister-in-law ever, with no drama because you’re already friends?”
“I guess so …”
“Worst case scenario: it doesn’t work out. You and Zoey stay friends. Other than this job with him, how often did you see Zane?”
I think about this. Sadly, I have categorized each and every time I saw Zane for the past few years. I had dinner with Zoey and her dad around Christmas and Zane stopped by, wearing that charcoal gray suit I love. Last October I ran into him in a bar while he was on a date. He smiled from afar and lifted his glass to me.
“Probably once a year. Maybe twice?”
“No big deal,” Sam says.
I’m quiet for a minute, thinking back over my last few miserable years of dating. “What about my first-date curse? I can count on my hand the number of guys who have asked for a second date. The last time I went on more than two dates with the same guy was in college.”
Sam doesn’t tell me I’m stupid even though I know how it sounds. There’s no such thing as a curse. But I wish there were. Because saying I’m cursed is better than the alternative, which is that I crash and burn before I ever get to a third date.
With a soft smile, Sam scoots over to lean her head on my shoulder. “Permission to speak freely about your so-called first-date curse?”
“Is this Sam advice, or Dr. Love advice?”
She rolls her eyes. “Both. First, I think you didn’t click with any of those guys. They weren’t the guy. Or even a guy good enough for you. You dated some duds, Abs. Were you really disappointed about any of them?”
Most of their faces are a blur in my mind. “No.”
“Second, I think that you have a tendency to self-sabotage. You’re scared. While you are one of the bravest people I know on the one hand, on the other I think you have some deep-seated insecurities. Which is normal,” she says quickly. “I think that it’s safer for you to cut and run early. Or scare guys off.”
Sam’s words feel like a burr on my heart. Prickly. Uncomfortable. Painful, if I think about them too long. Which, of course, means that she’s right.
I’m grateful when she continues, because I can’t find my way around any words. “Love is terrifying. But if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be so amazing when it works. I think you need to be brave with Zane, Abby. Don’t make excuses. And don’t sabotage it.” She pokes me in the arm.
“Ow. You know I bruise easily.”
Sam pokes me again. “Text the man. He’s probably over there dying.”
More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time, I want to believe Sam. I want to try thin
gs with Zane, despite the risks.
Another poke. “Yes. Send the text. Three letters. Y-E-S.”
“You’re such a bully,” I say, but I send the text. More than three letters.
Abby: I should stay home and work.
It’s true. Zane staying with me last night kept me from doing a whole lot of the work I should have been doing for him.
“You foul temptress,” Sam says, a note of awe in her voice. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
Zane: I’m sure your boss will be accommodating.
Abby: You might not say that if you met him.
Zane: I’m sure he’s an upstanding, respectable fellow.
Abby: He's kind of uptight.
Zane: Maybe he just needs someone to help him relax.
“Girl,” Sam says. “Your text game is strong. You know this is how I won Matt over?”
I manage to hold back an eye roll. We have all, for at least a year now, been made aware of every detail of Sam’s perfect relationship with her probably soon-to-be fiancé.
“Yes, yes. I know.”
Zane: Abby.
Abby: Zane.
Zane: Come to dinner.
Abby: You’re so bossy.
Zane: Your boss and I have that in common. Don’t make me come get you. I know where you live.
Abby: I’ll be there at 7.
Zane: See you at 7:15. -Z
That makes me grin. He knows I’ll be late, and he doesn’t care. At least, I’m assuming that means he doesn’t care. He’ll probably be like Zoey, where he knows I’ll be late, but he’ll still give me a hard time.
Sam squeals and practically mauls me with a hug when I set the phone down. “That, my friend, was some serious flirting. Now. Spill the details. All of them.”
“Is this going in your book?”
“Probably. But I’m asking because I care,” she says.
I shove her off. “Sure, you do.” When she flutters her lashes at me, I continue. “Fine. I’ll tell you everything. But move over so a girl can breathe her own air.”
Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Romantic Comedy Series Book 1) Page 12