“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“You realize that basically makes me a gigolo.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It just makes you the same guy you were last time you had sex with her. It wasn’t an issue then, so why is it now?”
Unable to stop myself, I shoved him back into the counter. “Fuck you, asshole. You know I’ve wanted to tell her. I just… I can’t…” I yanked my hair as I growled my frustration. “I never meant to lie or to keep lying. I’m not that guy.”
“Because you’re clearly super fucking emo right now, I’m going to let that shove slide.” His face softened. “And I know you’re not that guy. Your heart’s a damn good size bigger than your brain, that’s for sure.”
I rolled my eyes, which made him smile.
“For real though, I get that this whole situation has been FUBAR from the beginning, but walking away now could not only fuck things up for Dad but also…”
“But also what?”
He took a deep breath and locked his eyes—same shade of green as mine—on me. “But also for you. I don’t think you want to walk away. Be honest with yourself. It wasn’t that you didn’t have the time or opportunity to tell her. You didn’t want to tell her. Maybe mostly because you like banging her, but I don’t doubt there’s more to it than that. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong. We fucked. That’s it. We barely even talk.”
“Then why did you look like I set your puppy on fire and dry-humped its corpse when you said you weren’t going to see her anymore?”
My brow furrowed. “You have a really messed-up imagination.” But his words gave me pause. Had I looked like that? I hadn’t meant to. There wasn’t more to my feelings for Zara than I’d said. Was there?
No, I resolutely decided. Even if she was someone I could like, I didn’t know enough about her to actually have those feelings. And besides, relationships weren’t my thing. Casual hookups, no problem. But the thought of more made me break out in a sweat. “I like her as a human being. She’s a good person. But I don’t want to date her or anything.”
Corey eyed me dubiously, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he said, “Listen, Dad never asks us for anything. I’m not telling you to keep sleeping with her, but I am telling you not to do anything that will cost Dad the sale.”
“That’s basically telling me to sleep with her.”
“I’ve told you no such thing. But she clearly likes the D. As long as you give her some solid orgasms, she makes out on the deal.”
“You’re very cavalier about whoring me out.”
He brought his hand up to grip my neck and gave it a squeeze—a gentler one this time. “I’m cavalier about a lot of things, but not about our family. You and Dad are all I have. So if you can’t see Zara anymore, then we’ll find another way to help Dad out.”
Silence stretched between us for a minute, both of us running through our absolute truths and letting those things pass between us. We always put our family first. We always had each other’s back. And we always were honest with each other. The moment spread until we both took deep breaths and soaked up the fact that we were back on solid ground.
“You’re trying to use reverse psychology on me, aren’t you?”
“Is it working?”
“Yeah, it’s working.”
He gave my neck a pat before pulling back. “What do you want for dinner?”
It was his version of a peace offering, and I’d take it. Especially since I had my own atoning to do. I was pretty sure I was lying to him and myself, even if I hadn’t said the lie out loud.
Was my unwillingness to keep deceiving Zara because it was fundamentally wrong? Or was it because I wanted her to want the real me?
Chapter Ten
Colton
I’d spent most of the next two weeks at the bike shop and hadn’t seen Zara since the restaurant. Tonight that was supposed to change. She’d texted a few times to meet up, and though my dick wanted to say hell yes, my brain—in some strange stroke of adulthood—interfered. And my conscience, that bastard, was even worse. Because no matter how hard I tried to convince myself that Corey’s logic was sound and the right decision for our family, keeping up the charade was wearing on me.
Especially when Zara had texted to ask me to come to her house after I finished up at the shop. But Corey was right. I couldn’t tell Zara the truth yet, and I couldn’t break things off with her either.
And as much as I hated to admit it, I didn’t want to.
We were behind on both bikes we were building, and I hated the possibility that I might not meet a deadline I’d been the one to make. It was a promise just like any other that I felt I needed to fulfill. It didn’t matter if I had to work until one in the morning, as I had the past two nights. I had no plans of letting one of our customers down.
When Saturday rolled around and we still weren’t done, I offered Wes overtime if he wanted to work for a few hours with me. The guy was never one to pass up an opportunity for overtime, but more than that, he wasn’t one to leave a friend when that friend needed him.
“You need me tomorrow too?” Wes asked. “I can come by for a few hours, finish things up if you want.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past seven. I tossed the wrench on a nearby table and pulled my phone out.
Have to work late tonight, but I’ll make it up to you tomorrow morning. Pancakes?
Is pancakes code for sex? Because covering you in syrup sounds delicious in sooo many ways.
Uh…I was legitimately talking about breakfast, but I’d be lying if I said your version didn’t sound good too.
So you’re planning to cook for me? I could get on board with that. ;)
I was actually thinking diner food might be a better option than my cooking. I’m not sure my culinary expertise is up to your professional standards.
I was also worried that being in the house with Zara might lead to more sex. And while that wasn’t a negative—not really—it didn’t do anything to help the guilt I felt either.
Sunday mornings are for being lazy around the house. No matter how horrible your cooking skills are.
In that case, pancakes it is.
Well, SEX and pancakes. Gotta work off those carbs ;)
That had me laughing.
LOL. Sex and Pancakes… Sounds like the title of a song.
“Who are you texting?” Wes asked, and I realized he’d probably been staring at me for the better part of my conversation with Zara. “You look like someone just promposed to you.”
“I don’t even think that can be used as a verb” was all I could come up with, but Wes’s comment got me thinking. Despite the fact that I felt horrible about lying to Zara, interacting with her in any way made me stupidly happy—emphasis on the “stupid” part.
He leaned back in the stool he was sitting on and looked up at me from across the bike. “Avoiding the question, I see.” He raised an eyebrow at me as he waited for an answer. But this fucker wasn’t getting one. He might be a friend, but I wasn’t about to talk to him about my…whatever it was with Zara.
“Stop staring at me like that creepy fuck from that stalker show, and get back to work.”
“Or what?” Wes said, more amused than he should be by his boss.
“Or you’re fired,” I threatened, though I knew he knew better than to believe me.
He smiled and then lowered his gaze back to the task at hand. “We both know you’re too damn happy to fire me,” he said.
And as I walked toward the office to finish my conversation with Zara in private, I hated how right he was.
ZARA
I hadn’t seen CJ in two weeks, and it was nearly killing me. We hadn’t talked much since the restaurant incident, and my anxiety about it had reached a new level the past few days. I didn’t know if he was avoiding me intentionally or just really busy with work. Or maybe both.
He’d seemed friendly, even flirty, when we’d tex
ted earlier, and I hoped that meant his shock—or anger—about my purchasing the restaurant had dissipated enough that we could find our way back to how we’d been.
Which was hot-as-hell encounters that had me practically begging for more. It occurred to me that I’d pretty much done that exact thing through text earlier when I’d interpreted pancakes as sex, but I was too horny to care. CJ would be here soon, and my body thrummed with anticipation. Two weeks does not a dry spell make, but my vagina had been arguing that fact recently.
When the doorbell rang, I practically sprinted out of the kitchen to the front door, flinging it open to reveal the sexiness I’d missed over the past few weeks. In worn jeans stained with grease and a tight black T-shirt with their company’s logo on it.
“Hi,” I said. My voice sounded more timid than I would’ve liked for it to, as if my next move was contingent on his response.
“Hey,” he replied, and he wiped a hand across his forehead, smudging a speck of black that was there. I stepped away from the door so he could enter, and he kicked off his work boots before going any farther into the house. “Sorry. I came straight from work. I was worried if I stopped home for a shower, you might already be asleep when I got here.”
I didn’t bother telling him there was no way I could have fallen asleep. I was too ramped up, like I’d been shot full of adrenaline and other hormones that resulted in me feeling like a sex-crazed teenager after a night of Red Bulls and cocaine.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I have a shower.”
His smile formed the beginnings of a laugh before he said, “I may have to take you up on that.” Moving closer to me, he extended a hand and reached around my hip to pull me against him. “As long as you don’t leave me in there alone,” he added against my neck as he ran kisses down toward my chest.
“God, I missed you—missed this,” I corrected myself.
His “Me too” came out as a moan, and I wondered if he’d picked up on my slip but simply chose to ignore it.
But my brain couldn’t concentrate too long on that because my body was currently using every ounce of my energy. I pressed into him, feeling his cock harden against me, and ran my fingers down the cords of muscle on his back and shoulders. This was what a man felt like, and I needed to feel more of him. “Shower,” I breathed out as he tugged at my nipple.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, helping me pull my shirt over my head.
The rest of our clothes came off quickly, like a discarded trail of breadcrumbs that led to the bathroom. But we never actually made it into the shower. It was as if our nudity brought out some sort of animalistic impulse in us that we couldn't ignore. This was how I always felt around CJ—primal and unrestrained. And as he hoisted me up against the wall and drove into me, I may have let out one of the loudest screams in my sexual memory.
He thrust deep and hard, and every push inside me brought both of us closer to an explosion that had been building for two weeks. Even the thought of CJ had my entire body feeling like a bomb, ready to go off at the most innocent touch. And this definitely wasn’t innocent. It was uninhibited and passionate and dirty. It was sweaty and loud, and when I couldn’t hold back anymore, I came with a scream, grabbing for anything nearby, which happened to be the shower curtain.
I didn’t care that I’d pulled it down—tugged it so hard that the tension pole came with it, nearly hitting CJ in the head as he chased his own orgasm. Both of us laughed for a few seconds before composing ourselves enough to finish what we’d started. He was frantic now, pumping into me quickly with shallow drives that let me know he was close. “Come for me,” I said, feeling another orgasm building inside me.
“Almost there,” he warned, and it was then I realized he hadn’t put on a condom. “Fuucck.”
“Not yet,” I begged, hoping he could hold off a few more seconds now so I could come again.
“What? Seriously? I can’t…”
“I’m right there. A little longer.”
His face strained, the veins in his neck thickening, his eyes clenched shut as his rhythm stuttered. “Shit,” he said. “Please.”
And I was coming again—warm waves washing through my body as CJ gave me everything he had. The second I finished, he pulled out, put me down, and then grabbed his cock in his hand to jerk himself. He tugged a few times before come jetted from him and onto my stomach, down my hips. His hand found the wall next to my head when he was done, and within a few seconds, both of us were heaps on the bathroom floor, our backs against the wall.
My head fell onto CJ’s shoulder. “I think it’s time for that shower now.”
Hours later, I was waking up with CJ’s warm, hard body—emphasis on hard—wrapped around me. “When did you get here?” I asked. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”
He tensed at my comment and pulled back from me a little. “Um, Zara,” he said, sounding concerned. “What do you mean you didn’t hear me come in? You opened the door for me. And then we had sex.”
“We did?”
Now he was hovering above my body, his weight propped on his forearms beside me. It made him seem even larger than he was.
“It must not have been that good, or I’d remember it.”
“That’s not even funny,” he said. He plopped down next to me and stared up at the ceiling, the blanket hitting just below his hip bones.
“It is a little bit.” I traced the lines of his abs with my nails, feeling the short, soft hairs under my fingertips. Then my mouth found his neck, and I felt the vibration of his laugh and some of the tension he’d been holding release as I kissed him. I could see his erection through the blanket, and I put my hand lightly over it.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said, grasping my hips and squeezing just enough to make me squeal. He held me there, pinned below him as he tickled me until I had tears running down my cheeks.
He relented to let me catch my breath and then hopped off. Then his eyes grew wide, and he smiled broadly. “Pancake time.”
Twenty minutes and one cup of coffee later, we were sitting at my kitchen bar eating the blueberry pancakes CJ had made. “You’re a liar,” I said, stabbing another pancake with my fork before dropping it onto my plate and drenching it with butter and syrup.
CJ’s mouth was full, so he didn’t talk. Instead he just looked at me, his mouth ceasing to chew for a moment before he seemed to remember what it was supposed to be doing. A few seconds later, he swallowed hard, forcing his gigantic bite of food down in a way that made me wonder if I’d have to perform the Heimlich maneuver or risk losing him right here in my house.
“You okay?” I asked when he began gulping down hot coffee.
He put the mug down, his face flushed. “Fine, why?” And then before I could answer, “Um, so why am I a liar?”
He took a bite of bacon and then dropped the remainder of the slice on the plate. He didn’t look at me, and it made me wonder if I’d done something wrong, though I couldn’t imagine what.
“Because you acted like you couldn’t cook pancakes, and these are pretty awesome.”
He glanced up at me and finished the bite he was chewing before wiping his mouth. “That doesn’t make me a liar.”
“What would you call it?” I teased.
He thought hard for a second before saying, “It’s more like…not telling the truth.”
I laughed. “I’m pretty sure that’s the dictionary definition of lying.”
“Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best explanation,” he said. “But there is definitely a difference here.”
I raised my eyebrows, prompting him to continue. “Am I getting a philosophical CJ?” I had trouble imagining that. “Go on.”
“Leading you to believe that I might not be a good cook and saying I’m not a good cook are completely different.”
“No way.” I pulled out my phone. “Let’s have a look at the evidence. When I suggested you cook pancakes for me, you wrote, I’m not sure my culinary expertise is up to your professiona
l standards. You implied you aren’t a good cook.”
“I didn’t imply anything. You inferred it.”
“Semantics,” I argued. “That matters zero.” I made a circle with my hand and put it up to his face, but it didn’t make him laugh like I thought it would.
“It matters completely. Just because I didn’t correct your misunderstanding doesn’t mean I’m a liar. Maybe I didn’t want you to feel bad about your mistake. You know, then it would be all awkward when I saw you again. You’d be embarrassed that you assumed the wrong thing, and I’d feel guilty.”
“About pancakes?”
“Yes. About pancakes,” he repeated, like saying the words out loud made his argument more valid.
I stood from the counter where we’d been eating and grabbed my plate to put in the sink. When I walked back over to him, I gave him a kiss on his forehead. “We’re not fighting about pancakes, are we?” I joked.
“No, we’re not fighting about anything.”
“Good.” I smiled. “I’m going to take a shower. Then I’ll clean up, and we can figure out what to do today.”
“Sounds good,” he said.
“And, CJ?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. It’s just pancakes.”
“Right,” he said, and as I headed up the stairs, I heard him mutter to himself, “Just pancakes.”
COLTON
While Zara was in the shower, I cleaned up the kitchen, searching her cabinets for where the pans, plates, and spatula went. I figured she’d be pleasantly surprised when she came back down. I also needed to distract myself from the whole lying-by-omission thing.
There was obviously no way Zara knew I was really Colton—the brother she thought she couldn’t stand but clearly wanted more of. Because if she did, my ass wouldn’t still be standing in her kitchen.
Misadventures with a Twin Page 7