The Fake Engagement: Mistaken Identity, #2

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Chapter 1

Okay, let me preface this with: you know when you’re watching a scary movie with your friends, and everybody’s enjoying themselves, except there’s one girl who keeps yelling at the screen, like, "Idiot—do not go down into the basement alone!" as it unfolds on-screen? Yeah, that girl is me. Point being, I should have seen this coming. I should never have just blurted out a terrible truth on the mental count of three. There should have been no truth-telling or starlit confessions whatsoever.

Especially when it turned out the balcony door locked from the inside...

My profanities tended to go a bit askew when I was panicked. I wrapped my fingers once again around the gilded iron handle and pulled with all my might, but it was no use. Another two tugs and I was convinced the thing was laughing at me.

Behind me, I was keenly aware of the fact that Max hadn’t moved an inch in the last two minutes. I very much doubted he’d even blinked. But I was determined not to look at him. No, at this point in the evening, I had one goal and one goal only.

To get off this motherfucking balcony.

I tried pulling again. Oh, for the love of Xanax—

You’re not Emily?

I froze. Froze dead in my tracks. Then slowly, ever so slowly, I turned around.

I had never seen him look at me like that before. In fact, I don’t think anyone had ever looked at me like that before. It was such a strange expression, it was almost hard to describe it.

He was incredulous—sure. More accurately, he was straight-up dumbfounded. His lips were parted just far enough to slip in one’s finger, and there was a little crease running down the center of his forehead.

He was angry, too. Definitely angry. His stance was aggressive—if a little wilted—and it was somehow easy to tell that the last thing he’d said had been at a yell.

But there was something else there, too. Something that didn’t remotely fit in with the rest and was probably the last thing in the world I expected to see.

He looked relieved.

I finally released my chokehold on the door and turned around the rest of the way to face him. Our breath came out in short, frosted clouds between us, but other than that, we were two frozen statues, each of us waiting for the other to make a move.

When enough time had elapsed—time during which that better angel came back and started bashing me over the head with a well-intentioned spatula—I decided that the first move should be made by me.

No. It came out much smaller than I had intended. I’m not.

For a while, he just stared. And stared. And stared. He flexed his fingers periodically, which could have been anger toward me, or could have been an involuntary precaution against frostbite. Then he tilted his head to the side in a strange, jerking fashion.

"I don’t...you can’t...what does that mean?"

With a little nod of determination, I dug my pointy heels into the frosted cement and squared myself off to face him. I’d come here to tell the truth, hadn’t I? Well, it may not have come about exactly as I’d hoped, but here was my big moment.

In true Eve Waters fashion, I put Emily back on the shelf and decided to lay all my cards out on the table. The thing is...I’m—

Because your picture, he interrupted suddenly, your picture is on all the books.

His momentary calm abruptly shattered as my half-spun confession slowly began to sink in. The delicate layer of control that had been keeping him rational and controlled was unraveling at the speed of light—taking with it my last chance to get a word in edgewise.

Your picture is on all the books, he said again, more firmly this time. His arms crossed defiantly over his chest as he stared me down, daring me to disagree. "It’s on all your books."

Yes, I conceded gently, it is my picture. But that’s only because—

And everyone here knows you. Your editor. The press. Tara Norton. Even your fucking driver called you Miss Waters.

He was frowning now. And shaking his head at a speed I didn’t think he realized. The relief was gone, too, replaced by something panicked and not at all good. Although, to be honest, I had no idea what it had been doing there in the first place.

Max, I reasoned cautiously, you’ve got to listen to me. I’m not Emily, I’m her—

I know you.

Just as quickly as it had started, all his frantic movement vanished and he became suddenly still. Those gorgeous sky-blue eyes of his glowed silver in the flickering rays of moonlight, holding me temporarily frozen in their gaze.

I know you, he said again, his breath coming and going in short gasps. Without seeming to realize it, he walked forward and took me by the shoulders. I’ve known you for years, Emily. Every thought, every fear, every word. I’d know you anywhere. He took a deep breath to brace himself, eyes burning into mine. "I’d...I’d love you anywhere. Emily—"

Stop calling me that!

I yanked myself free of his grasp as my heart shattered into a million pieces.

He loves me?

It felt like someone had slapped me across the face. Dunked me in a cool vat of water. All the city lights seemed to dim suddenly on the horizon as I fell a step back.

No, he doesn’t love me. He loves Emily.

Stop calling me that, I said again, in a whisper this time.

A silent procession of tears slipped down my face, but at this point, I didn’t even try to stop them. What was the point? This was an ending. An ending deserved a good cry.

I’m not Emily...I’m her twin sister.

Chapter 2

Let it be said for future generations of men: when a girl is standing in front of you on a balcony, alone and shivering in a beautiful dress, a river of tears running down her face...there are certain things you are absolutely forbidden to do.

No one told Max.

The second I said the words, relieved myself of this awful burden and lost myself in the dark catharsis of it all, he threw back his head...and laughed.

Laughed.

My eyes narrowed as I watched him fall to hilarious little pieces right there in front of me. How could it be that I had ever liked that sound? Ever found it endearing? Right now, I wanted to rip the hemline off my perfect dress and stuff it down his obnoxious throat.

Her twin sister? he choked, when he was finally able to get a hold of himself. "You’re saying that you’re Emily’s twin sister? That’s what you’re going with? A slightly hysterical smile affixed itself to his face as he shook his head, eyes twinkling almost disapprovingly back at me. Honesty, Emily, for a writer—a writer of fiction, no less—I expected more."

My eyes dilated with automatic ‘Eve-temper,’ but I made my best concerted effort to rein it in. This wasn’t his fault, after all. It was an unbelievable thing to have happened, and I would have to ease into the transition from my sister to myself if I wanted to stand a chance here at making him believe me.

You fucking son of a bitch.

Okay...maybe my best concerted effort needed a little work.

He stopped laughing at once as his face turned to sudden stone. For a second, his eyes searched mine—trying to decipher the sudden anger there and latch on to any trace of sanity. When he didn’t find any, he too fell a step back.

You’re actually telling me that you’re Emily’s twin? He clearly didn’t think there was an ounce of credibility to my claim, but he was seriously asking the question. Perhaps he thought I’d had too much champagne.

Time to get to the facts.

You know that she’s always had crippling amounts of social anxiety. Why do you think she kept out of the public eye for so long? There’s no way she could ever come to something like this...so she asked me.

Max blinked. "She?"

"Yes, she."

"She, as in...Emily?"

This was going to be harder than I thought.

"Yes, Emily."

"Because you’re not Emily. You’re her—"

—her twin. Yeah, Max. I am.

Considering he was a writer, it was proving surprisingly difficult to get him past this one specific word.

For a moment, he was at a total loss. Then he broke eye contact and shook his head at the ground, looking almost disappointed.

If you didn’t want to be exclusive, you should have just told me, he said quietly. And of all the excuses for you to make... He shook his head again. Shit, Emily.

Well, he might have been a writer, but I was a painter. Time for a little visual aid.

You don’t believe me? Without stopping to think, I yanked my phone out of my purse and clicked on my gallery. In an instant, a hundred or more pictures popped up on the screen, pictures of my sister and me. I showed him and stood there defiantly. There. Proof.

In hindsight, I regretted the aggressive approach. Perhaps ‘easing in’ would have been a better strategy after all.

Max’s eyes grew impossibly wide as he took the phone from my hand and began scrolling through the pictures himself. His mouth opened several times like he was going to say something, but each time, he came up short. It wasn’t until I realized that there were probably a number of rather personal photographs I might not want him to see that I grabbed it back.

Too late. He’d already gotten to my college days...

My cheeks blushed as red as my dress, but when I forced myself to look up at him, it couldn’t have mattered less. His entire body was frozen in a state of absolute shock. Like someone had left a bewildered statue out on the balcony and dressed it in a tux.

Finally, when I began to feel as though I was going to pass out from either the anticipation or the cold, he managed to speak.

You’re...Emily’s twin sister.

Oh, thank the maker. There was only so long we could play this little game before we started losing appendages to hypothermia.

Yes, I said with a note of relief.

But the relief faded as quickly as his as I wondered what was going to come next. Was he going to yell? To curse? To throw me off the balcony? Or would it be even worse?! Was he going to say that I tricked him into bed with me? That I took advantage of his feelings for my sister just to get him in the sack?!

My heart started pounding so fast, I was genuinely surprised we couldn’t see it through my thin silk dress. A litany of conservative oaths hailed down on me, courtesy of that better angel still trying to bargain for my soul.

I’d never lie again. I’d never help my sister. I’d never even drink, as I was fairly sure I had been under the influence of about a bucket of champagne when Max had first asked me to get into the car with him. I’d join a convent. Stitch clothes for the poor. I’d even give up coffee for a full month if it meant atoning in some small way for my sins.

But then Max looked up at me with a truly baffling expression. An expression tinted with that same inexplicable relief.

So...you weren’t cheating on me?

I couldn’t believe my ears. That was his concern? Not that he’d been having an affair with a woman who turned out to be an imposter? Not that he was about to launch a promotional tour with a girl he didn’t know? He was worried I’d been cheating?!

Uh...no, I breathed, trying desperately to steady my trembling hands, I wasn’t cheating on you.

Why the hell had he thought that, anyway? I’d been so caught up in my Emily confession