Misadventures with a Twin

by Elizabeth Hayley

  “Nice try,” I said to Zara’s father. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Fine, fine,” he replied, and again I couldn’t help but think the reason we were all here was a result of me banging his daughter. I hoped the thought hadn’t crossed his mind as often as it had crossed mine. It’d made things awkward as hell.

  “Let’s cut the cake now,” Meemaw called from across the room. She was approaching us holding two gifts that she struggled to see over.

  “Grandma, you didn’t have to bring us anything. I’ll have a shower when it gets closer.”

  “Nonsense,” she said as she let go of the presents and allowed me to take them. “And they aren’t for you. They’re for the baby. Don’t tell me I can’t get my great-grandchild something when I want to. That baby’ll be spoiled if I have a say in it.”

  Zara rolled her eyes and said a genuine thank-you to Meemaw before giving her a kiss on her wrinkled cheek. “Is it okay if we open them a little later?”

  “Did you not hear me just tell you they aren’t yours? When the baby comes, she can open them.”

  “I doubt a newborn will be able to open these,” I said. “And how do you know the baby’s a girl?”

  Meemaw laughed like the question was a ridiculous one before excusing herself to get some food, which we insisted everyone else do as well before it was time to cut the cake. The suspense was killing everyone as they helped themselves to roast beef, meatballs, salad, and some sides prepared by the chef at Maggie’s. People nibbled on cookies, including Zara, who’d developed a sweet tooth she’d never had before the pregnancy.

  “Who’s hungry for some cake?” my dad said, already holding the box he’d picked up from the bakery for us. Zara had ordered the cake and knew the owner, who had sworn to keep the secret just that. My dad set the box down on the table in the middle of the room and looked to the two of us. “Can we open it?” he asked, looking like a kid at his birthday party.

  I looked to Zara.

  “I’m okay with it if you are,” she said.

  Hoping my smile answered for me, I put my arm around her and gave her a kiss on her forehead. Then I lifted the lid of the box and handed Zara the knife.

  “Wait, where’s Brielle?” she asked, standing on her toes to see over the surrounding people.

  Devon brought a beer to his lips and said, “I think one of the girls spilled something on herself, and Brielle’s changing her.”

  We waited a few more minutes for Brielle, which meant we had to listen to Zara’s cousin Joel tell us that gender reveals were becoming less popular due to people’s hesitance to assign their child a gender before birth. At a loss for any words that wouldn’t further his explanation, I managed to provide a “Huh, interesting.”

  Meemaw looked confused, but luckily Brielle appeared with their youngest daughter before the older woman had a chance to ask Joel to elaborate.

  Zara made a show out of letting the knife cut through the white icing slowly before she pulled out the first piece to reveal the pink cake inside. The room filled with laughter, screams, and some excited cursing from my brother.

  Once things quieted down a bit, Joel asked, “So is it a girl or a boy?”

  “A girl,” pretty much everyone answered.

  Becca and Trinity nearly squealed with delight. “I can’t wait to buy her a bunch of cute pink outfits,” Trinity said.

  “I asked because in the eighteen hundreds, pink was a masculine color,” Joel added. “Many boys wore pink because the men wore red and boys are just little men. Girls were actually the ones who wore blue much of the time.”

  “Shut up, Joel,” Meemaw said. “So do you have a name picked out yet, or are you keeping that one a secret too?”

  Zara and I looked at each other before I said, “No, that we’ll share. She’s gonna be Maggie.”

  My dad came over immediately and hugged us both, and the tears in his eyes were the first ones I’d ever seen there. “I’m so happy for you guys,” he said. “You’ll be amazing parents.” He’d told me so many times I’d make a wonderful father, and it was difficult to agree because I’d never pictured myself as one. The only thing that made me believe him was that he was a great father, so I figured he might be a good judge. “Oh, before I forget, your friend at the bakery gave me another box, Zara. He didn’t charge you for that one. Said it’s his gift to you two.”

  “That’s nice. We should’ve put it out earlier,” I said. “It’s probably cookies or something.”

  “No, he told me to wait to open it until you opened the cake box.”

  “I’ll grab it.” I headed to the kitchen and brought it out, cutting the tape with my fingers. When I lifted the lid, I was surprised by the contents. “Why would he give us another cake?” I asked. “There aren’t that many people here.”

  Zara pressed her lips together before letting them slide into a smile. “Because it’s for the second baby,” she said slowly, quietly, like she was scared for my well-being.

  My eyes widened, and I found myself getting light-headed. “I think I need to sit down.” How the hell had I not known there were two babies? I’d missed one appointment when I’d come down with a stomach bug, but Zara hadn’t mentioned anything to me when she’d gotten home. “Are you serious? Two? We’re having two babies? At once?”

  She nodded, and the rest of the room was silent. Or at least it felt that way. “Maybe this wasn’t the best way for me to tell you, but when I found out, you were sick, and I didn’t think the news would make you feel any better. Then I thought it would be a fun surprise.” She shrugged like she’d been withholding a small gift from me instead of life-changing news.

  “It’s a surprise, all right. The fun part is yet to be determined.”

  “Ha!” My dad laughed loudly. “Twins. Who would’ve guessed? I always thought they skipped a generation.”

  “I always thought that too,” Zara said. “But apparently the egg can split at any time, which is what happened in my case, which also means—”

  “It’s a girl,” I said so softly I wasn’t even sure if I’d actually vocalized it.

  “It’s a girl,” Zara repeated.

  The room was still silent. Whether they were waiting to see if they needed to call 9-1-1 or they were just unsure of how to react, I wasn’t sure.

  “So I’m gonna have twin girls,” I said more to myself than anyone else. And then I imagined it. Holding two little babies, both in pink, my fingers in their tiny, fragile hands as I rocked them; dropping two small girls off at kindergarten and hoping no boys chased them on the playground; walking each one down the aisle on their wedding day. And suddenly I couldn’t picture my life without them.

  And as I looked at my wife gazing lovingly at me, I realized that if it was my destiny to be surrounded by beautiful, kind women, then my life turned out pretty much perfect. But our daughters better not try to date twin boys. That shit was definitely not happening.

  * * *

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  Acknowledgments

  We of course have to thank Meredith Wild for liking our writing enough to bring us onto the Misadventures team. You’ve been a friend to us since the beginning, and we’re eternally grateful for that.

  To Scott, Robyn, and the editing team, thank you for all of your hard work and kind words. You’re so great at what you do, and you’re a pleasure to work with.

  To the rest of the Waterhouse Press team, thank you for your continued support and for designing all of the kickass covers and graphics.

  The Padded Room, thank you for supporting our craziness. From posting links, teasers, and helping get our name out there, you are a vital part of our dreams. We love you ladies!

  To our families, we’re not sure how all of you put up with us so we can keep riding along on this journey, but we love you for that and a million other reasons. Thank you :)

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  Misadventures with a Time Traveler

  November 26, 2019

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  Excerpt from Misadventures with a Time Traveler

  Where’s a stud like Christophe when I need him? And how long has it been since I’ve relaxed enough to think about straddling a hunk like him? A French one, at that. Not that my life gives me time to be a hussy, but my one experience with a French lover was one to remember. Filthy words. Filthier moves. Worked for my multiple orgasms like an Eagle Scout going for a merit badge.

  I laugh at that only because sobbing is the alternative. Which is stupid because the last year of my life has been one of its best. In the fashion-influencer arena, I’m no longer in the grandstands. While I’m not center stage yet, I’m headed toward it.

  But sacrifices have been made for that.

  Like being alone some nights. Hornier than hell. Ready to hump the bedpost for some relief.

  But I’m not sorry about any decisions I’ve made to get here.

  No. Not sorry.

  Just maybe a little of something else.

  “Damn it.”

  The echo feels justified. Perhaps even necessary. I don’t allow myself to visit these feelings often. But right now, in this place and on this occasion, maybe the emotional expedition is necessary.

  I cross to the window as if the decision itself draws me. I grab the window latch and twist, pushing the pane open.

  It’s a chilly but clear March night, with a light wind skittering small leaves across the gardens. Moonlight turns everything silver. The effect is heightened as the sprinklers come on, their spray turning into stars on the breeze before landing on the garden’s Grecian statues. The water courses down all the inert, elegant faces. They’re shedding the tears that I can’t.

  That I won’t.

  Displaying vulnerability won’t change a thing. I’ll still be standing at a window in the middle of the night, identifying with garden statues to distract from the shit that’s really gnawing at me.

  That sometimes, during the nights in which it’s too quiet to ignore the thrum of my heart, I have to let it speak to the rest of me.

  To tell me it’s alone.

  No. Not just alone.

  Lonely.

  My sugar rush vanishes. My head starts to throb. So does the triangle between my thighs.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Buzzed,” I mumble. “You’re buzzed, honey. And tired. Ohhh, so tired.” I swing my head around, focusing on the grand production that is my bed. “Yeah. Time for sleep, wenchie Allie.”

  With the hope that Christophe will stop by to fulfill a birthday fantasy, I decide to go commando under my long sleep tee. A blissful groan breaks free as I free my chest from my bra. Nothing beats that bliss.

  Well…one thing might.

  The recognition is only a few seconds old before I wrap one hand around a carved bedpost and let the other drift to the cleft between my thighs. A sigh spills out as my pussy comes alive. Ohhh, shit. This feels so damn good. When was the last time I did even this for myself? Weeks, at least.

  Weeks.

  No wonder my body all but screams at me to keep up the fun. No wonder I answer with higher gasps and quickening rubs.

  I fall back onto the bed and let my legs dangle over the side of the plush mattress. I spread my thighs, exposing more for my fingers to touch…and arouse. I emit a longer moan while palming my breasts through my T-shirt. Squeezing them. Pinching them. Hardening them.

  Vaguely, I realize that I actually remembered pack my vibrator on this trip—like it did me any good until now. But I’m too far gone to go looking for the thing. With tight, fast circles, I work my frantic fingertips over my tingling clit. Faster still. Faster. I sigh. I hum. I mewl.

  Yes.

  I’m almost there.

  So close.

  Almost…there.

  Damn it. Yesssss…

  Wait.

  What the hell?

  I sit up. Hold my breath. I’m not the only one generating sound in this room.

  What on earth is going on?

  Who’s making all those strange, soft hums? And where are they making them?

  I swallow hard, forcing myself to look at the towering wardrobe in the corner. The pachyderm of a cabinet is stunning but daunting. Its front panels are testaments to the craftsmen of centuries past, inlaid with mother-of-pearl pictures. Naked angels are dancing with moonbeams in different shades of the shiny nacre. But that’s the extent of my observation about the handiwork of the thing for now. I’m mesmerized—hypnotized—by the wardrobe for a different reason.

  Because…

  “Holy. Shit.”

  Is the damn thing…calling to me? Singing to me?

  The sound, a blend of electrical resonance and a harpsichord melody, is like no music I’ve ever heard. The song has no structure or rhythm but compels me like a symphony written solely for my cells, my soul, my spirit. No part of me can ignore it.

  “What…the…”

  I can’t finish because the chest starts to shake.

  No more midnight roses.

  My heart thunders with primal terror.

  Still, I scoot to my feet and walk toward the damn thing.

  Pulled by the golden light that glows from behind the eight-foot doors…

  Light?

  “Oh, my God,” I rasp. “Okay, Allie. You are either seriously drunk or damn deranged.” I hope for the former but suspect the latter. With every step I take, the suspicion intensifies.

  I reach for the one of the wrought-iron handles. I’m dazzled by the sunlight still effusing from beyond, consuming the silhouettes of my fingers.

  I pull the door open.

  And at once am tackled by the sun.

  All right, the human version of it.

  But before I can scream, he grabs both sides of my face. He locks my stare with the amber force of his. I gasp as he holds me tight. Tighter. But I still don’t scream. Why? Holy shit, why am I not shrieking like the horror-movie girl dumb enough to take a midnight swim in the lake?

  He’s two thoughts ahead. He stretches his thumbs in, pressing them over my mouth, trapping me from bursting with sound. Once more, he drenches me in his melted-sun gaze. There’s a wild, desperate expression across his chiseled features. He doesn’t relent the ferocity, as if he’s been chained inside that armoire since the century it was made.

  Beautiful.

  The syllables are an aria in my mind, exquisite and unending.

  He’s so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

  Thick, chestnut-colored hair tumbles around his bold but elegant face, some of it covering an inch-long scar over his left eye. But most of the mane is secured at his nape with a crafted leather thong. He’s wearing a fitted brocade vest over a white linen shirt that has ties and ruffles instead of seams and buttons. His V-shaped torso and long, braced legs are as commanding as his linebacker-wide shoulders.

  Wow.

  No wonder I keep questioning the reality of all this.

  Because with this reality, who the hell needs fantasy?

  And isn’t that the perfect tagline of the hour?

  I even wonder if it was part of his agency’s marketing materials. Drue and Raegan must have had a blast choosing this guy as my naughty birthday gift. I wouldn’t think there’d be many male dancers around these parts, but I’m not asking questions or complaining. He makes Christophe look like a five or six to his solid ten on the Gods of Loire scale.

  “Mon Dieu. Mon Dieu, c’est un miracle.”

  And holy crap…his voice.

  If possible, his husk is sexier than its physical container. It’s liquid velvet infused with the strength of the earth. It harmonizes perfectly with the soft song in my head.

  Happy birthday to me…

  Happy birthday to me…

  “Okay.” I smile to
let him know screaming isn’t on my immediate agenda. “I’ll go with miracle if that’s your jam, gorgeous.”

  When he tucks his eyebrows together, I notice other awesome things about his face. A couple of rugged nicks, besides the larger gouge, in his forehead. The luxurious length of his lashes. The stunning imbalance of his mouth, with the lower lip bigger than the top.

  I wonder what his story is. He’s probably some local kid working the family vineyard during the day and taking gigs like this for some extra cash at night. Who am I to fault him? Rough times call for strange measures.

  Finally, he murmurs, “You…are British.”

  “Close.” I play with his shirt ruffles, just to sneak my fingers against a little of the chest beneath. Chiseled. Hard. Beautiful. There’s real power beneath his strength. “I’m American. Your people didn’t tell you that?”

  “No.” He sounds like he’s choking as I trail my fingers along his collarbones. “There was little time. My God, that feels magnificent.”

  He pushes closer, gliding his hands down my sides and over my hips. He caresses me with reverence, as if trying to memorize me.

  Wow.

  “That’s what this is all about, right?” I slip my hands to the back of his neck, giving in to the moment with subtle sways of my hips. “Feeling good?” I jog my head toward the wardrobe. “Getting the hell out of there?” I refrain from asking why he took so long to pop out, since he’s clearly been staged for this entrance since we finished dessert. Probably longer. But with that in mind, who am I to call the guy out for catching a catnap? Now that he’s rested, I don’t have to worry about wearing him out.

  “Hell.” Shadows take over his face as he echoes the word. “An apt description.” Just as quickly, he violently shakes his head. “But it no longer matters.” His eyes are sunrise-gold again. “You are what matters.”