I’m thankful when I hear Zane settle down on the table. I silently count to sixty I tilt my head and peek over.
And what do you know? He’s looking at me.
“Hi,” I say. Abby Gates, brilliant conversationalist.
Zane grins, and I’m melting into a puddle on the floor.
“Hey.”
“How was golf?” Nice, safe subject. One that’s just as boring as baseball. Maybe more boring.
“I hate golf,” Zane says, making a face. “I also hate schmoozing people. So, basically, it was horrible.”
I’m laughing, and then he’s grinning. Whatever tension and awkwardness I feel lifts like a morning fog, and we’re back to being just me and Zane. The me and Zane we’ve become this week.
Friends … ish.
“How was the spa?”
I smile, echoing his answer. “I hate spas. I also hate girl talk. So, basically, it was horrible.”
Zane laughs, the sound filling up the room the same way it fills something inside of me. He doesn’t laugh much, rarely smiles, and so this feels like winning one of those rigged contests at the fair, the ones with the giant stuffed dog as a prize.
“It was actually better than I expected,” I tell him, totally skipping the part where they hosed me down like an inmate.
His brows shoot up. “What were you expecting?”
“I’m just not into all this pampering,” I say. “I’m pretty simple. Plus, I really do hate all the girl talk. I’d rather stab myself with a fork than have to talk about what bags are hot this season.”
“What would you rather talk about?”
Zane’s voice is genuinely curious, and the question feels like new territory. It’s innocent enough. But this week, Zane has mostly asked things like what I want to order from the takeout menu or if I’ve made progress on fixing their code.
This question is like Zane taking my hand and tugging me outside the fence surrounding the casual friendship we’ve built. It’s exciting, but it’s also new territory, and I’m not exactly sure what to do with it.
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. I guess I like talking about movies and TV shows. Books. Programmer stuff, but that’s usually with co-workers, not friends.”
“What do you and my sister talk about? I’ve always wondered.”
He’s wondered? Always? About me and Zoey?
About me?
My heart is an Olympic gymnast, doing some kind of complicated spinny-flip thing on the parallel bars.
“Zoey and I talk about everything, I guess. Work. Life.” I pause. “Guys.”
His facial expression doesn’t change, but his voice seems lower when he asks, “Do you ever talk about me?”
I swallow hard. There are a few ways I could play this, and I don’t know which is the right choice now. I’m not sure where the property lines are or if the top of the fences are electrified.
I’d like to say that we do talk about him, that I ask Zoey about him. I would love to drop hints about my interest in him, even in some small way.
But the truth is that I always tried not to think about Zane the way I’m thinking about him now. He was objectively attractive, a good guy aside from his whole playboy reputation. I didn’t see him a person of interest because he was off-limits. You don’t date your BFF’s brother. Definitely not her twin. Too many things to screw up there. So, no. I didn’t talk to Zoey about Zane. But I don’t want to say that.
I stick with humor, always my default and my shield.
With an exaggerated eye roll, I say, “All the time. I mean, we basically wouldn’t have a friendship if we didn’t have you to talk about.”
He laughs again, and I think that I need to secretly record the sound. I could probably play it for plants and make flowers bloom, even on non-flowering varieties. It’s that magical.
The massage therapists choose that moment to come in, and disappointment crashes over me like a rogue wave. There’s a very tall man who looks like a Swedish assassin, and the petite woman who told me to strip when I walked in.
Oh, please, let me have the tiny woman. I think that the Swedish assassin might permanently damage my muscles with his giant hands.
And so of course, he walks over to me with a smile, cracking his massive, deadly assassin knuckles.
“Hello,” he says, in a lilting, airy voice that doesn’t seem to fit his hulking frame. No trace of an accent either. Not Swedish. Not an assassin. “I’m Nathan, and I’ll be performing your deep tissue massage today.”
I try to prop myself awkwardly up to shake his hand, realizing as I do so that I can’t actually get my hand out. Nathan eyes the burrito-sheet thing I have going on.
“Let’s get you situated,” he says, and begins tugging at one end.
Nathan obviously didn’t realize how tightly I’d wound myself up or else he’s unaware of his own strength. Because when he tugs, two things happen.
First, it throws off my balance from the precarious position I was in.
Second, his strong tug doesn’t just pull the sheet loose; it starts to unravel me.
Before I can react, the sheet is going one way, spinning me in the other.
It’s like when you yank on a piece of paper towel, but instead of the perforated edge yielding, the whole thing unrolls, falling off the counter and leaving a trail of paper towels behind.
Only, in my case, there’s not that much sheet, and I roll right off the edge of the table.
The cold air hits my skin just before I hit the floor, continuing to roll because of the strength in Nathan’s tug.
I’m naked and rolling across the expensive wood floor, aware of all the air on my exposed skin and also the pain in my hip and ribs from my landing. I’m pretty sure my knees are bleeding again too. My elbow must have jammed into my side because I’ve managed to knock the wind out of myself, so I can’t even get my breath to speak or to scream.
All thoughts of my bodily pain fade as I come to a stop just under Zane’s face. His blue eyes are wide and fixed on mine.
Oh, please, let them be fixed just on my eyes.
Just.
My.
Eyes.
He blinks, and that’s when enough air comes back into my lungs to scream.
I’m still screaming when Nathan throws the sheet over me, like he’s tossing a blanket on a fire.
That’s what I am: on fire.
I am burning with embarrassment, turning to ash. I stop screaming, trying to catch my breath. And then Zane’s familiar voice is right next to me, his strong hand squeezing my shoulder through the sheet.
“Abs? Are you okay? Abby?”
I can't find words to answer him. He gives me a little shake, then gently pulls the sheet down from my face.
The two massage therapists have gone. It’s just me and Zane. Wearing nothing but sheets. And I’m still lying on the floor like a crazy person.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The concern in his face makes tears spring into my eyes.
“Hey,” he says, that deep voice like velvet wrapping around my heart. “You don’t need to be sorry. Are you okay? That was quite a fall.”
“Did you … see it?”
As if he knows I’m not just asking if he saw me fall, the tips of his ears turn pink. He shakes his head, giving me a tiny smile.
“No.”
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding whooshes from my chest. “Okay.”
“Okay. Want me to help you up?”
“No! No. I’m fine.”
Zane nods. “I’ll settle in and close my eyes, so you can get back on the table.” He pauses, and I can see him trying not to laugh. “It’s probably easiest to lie down, then just place the sheet on top of your body. As opposed to wrapping yourself up like a mummy.”
“Shut up.”
Zane grins as he stands, revealing miles of tanned, muscled flesh. His abs have abs. And it’s all topped by a broad chest with the finest dusting of pale blond hair.
It’s a good th
ing that I’m not in any position to move, because I don’t think I could keep myself from attaching to him like a vine.
“My eyes are closed,” he says, once he’s back up on the table.
Clutching the sheet tightly to my body, I make my way back up to the table, feeling all the places where I’m going to be bruised later. But deeper than the superficial injuries, I can feel the deep, deep impact of Zane colliding with my heart.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Dr. Love,
For our fiftieth wedding anniversary, I got my wife something she’d always wanted—a parrot.
I don’t mind the bird, except for one quirk. There’s no polite way to say this, so I’ll just say it—the parrot stayed in our bedroom at first, and he has a habit of mimicking bedroom sounds. If you get my drift.
We’ve since moved the thing out of our bedroom, but now he’s performing in the main area of the house. He seems to especially like doing so when we have guests.
It’s really impacting our relationship. I’d like to get rid of our avian friend, but my wife thinks we can train him. So far, her efforts aren’t working.
Any advice?
-Parroted in Poughkeepsie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Parroted,
Honestly, while I’m sorry you’re having this embarrassing problem and that it’s causing conflict, good for you! I hope I’m still making bedroom sounds when I’ve been married fifty years. Congrats on a happy, healthy (and loud) relationship!
About the parrot … I might suggest leaving him in a room with the television on one of those church channels. Maybe he’ll pick up some hymns or Bible verses.
Or go in the opposite direction. Let him watch an R-rated movie on repeat for a while. Then you can just blame whatever comes out of his mouth on the previous owners, bedroom sounds included.
Best of luck!
Dr. Love
Chapter Eleven
Zane
Medusa.
Sodom and Gomorrah.
My father when he’s disappointed with me or Zoey.
Thinking about things that might turn me into stone or a pillar of salt or might simply vaporize me on contact was the only way I kept my eyes glued to Abby’s when she rolled under my massage table a few minutes ago. Naked.
It was desperate thinking. Not my finest plan.
But it worked. As the tiny woman digs her skilled hands into my back, I congratulate myself on a successful display of discipline and self-control under immense pressure.
I did not peek, not even a little, despite all the creamy skin visible just out of my periphery. I might not have been turned to stone if I just glanced for a second, but I couldn’t do that to Abby. No way would I exploit the moment. I could see just how panicked, how scared, how vulnerable she was as I locked my gaze on her eyes.
Her gorgeous, ever-changing hazel eyes had been more brown than green in that moment, with a little ring of gold around the pupil. That’s what I was thinking about when she started to scream.
Now, things have calmed down and we’re adequately covered while our massage therapists are getting started.
Except there is no way I can relax and unwind. My heart is still beating in my throat thinking about Abby.
I knew that switching was a bad idea when Jack proposed it. I didn’t particularly want a couples date with Charla, but there was nothing tempting to me about her, so doing a couples massage or any other number of half-dressed activities wouldn’t have been so difficult. Abby is a different story.
As I’m thinking this and trying to keep the rest of my thoughts in a respectful, gentlemanly place, Abby giggles.
“I’m sorry,” she says immediately, still half laughing.
“Are you ticklish?” asks the big meathead with his hands on her back.
I am not jealous. I am not jealous.
“No,” she says and then giggles again. “Sorry.”
I find myself grinning. Her giggles are like uncorking a bottle loaded with happy. One that’s been shaken up and is now fizzing and spilling out of the top. It’s little things like this, things that would never make it on to a list of what you’re looking for in a significant other, that have me so caught up in Abby.
Plenty of other things about her would make a more traditional list. She’s beautiful, and not in the airbrushed, made-up kind of way. She’s smart, definitely smarter than me. About some things, anyway. She’s funny. I don’t remember the last time I laughed with anyone like I have with her this week. After that first night at Eck0, she didn’t seem to be trying to get a rise out of me anymore. Instead, we fell into an easy companionship. One I could really get used to.
Abby is also brave. Not a coward like me, who hides behind work and busyness. She lays all the cards on the table, challenging people to take her or leave her.
I know which choice I want to make.
Now she laughs, a loud burst of sound, and I hear the massage therapist sigh.
“You okay over there?” I ask, still smiling.
“It’s just—” She breaks off, laughing again. “I can’t …” More giggles.
Her massage therapist is starting to sound irritated. “What areas are ticklish? I can try to avoid them.”
Do not think of areas. Do not think of areas.
“Um, kind of everything.”
“You’re ticklish everywhere?”
She clears her throat. “Not usually. Just with you, right now.”
“I’ll try your legs.”
Do not think about her legs. Do not think about her legs.
My mother would be proud of how hard I’m working to be the gentleman she always impressed upon me to be. I can still remember one conversation in particular, just before she died, when she said, “Women are a treasure. A gift. What do you do with treasure?”
“Hoard it?” I’d asked, being a snarky fifteen-year-old.
Mom had smacked me on the arm, but she was smiling. “No, Smaug. You protect it. You guard it. You always remember its value.”
I don’t know if Zoey got similar talks but for girls. Maybe Mom taught her to value herself or to watch out for greedy dragons trying to hoard women.
Abby is a treasure, and she grows more valuable in my eyes every moment I’m with her.
The room grows hotter as I do my very best not to think about how very naked we both are right now. This is torture.
“You’re tense,” my massage therapist murmurs, digging her elbows into my back.
You have no idea.
Abby laughs again, and the massage therapist groans. “Your calves too?” he asks.
She’s laughing so hard that she can hardly speak. “I’m sorry.” Giggle. “Ow.” Gasp. “And my knees hurt. That’s not funny. It’s not funny,” she says, and then loses it completely in laughter that doesn’t stop.
I can’t help laughing too, and I tilt my head toward the woman doing her best to loosen my stiff muscles.
“Maybe we’ll just call it a day,” I tell my masseuse. “Sound good, Abby?”
“Yes!” she practically shouts.
“Next is your private spa,” the woman says. “Hot tub and shower are through that door.”
Hot tub, okay. Shower? No.
“My bathing suit is in the changing room,” Abby says, still breathing heavy after all the laughter.
“It’s a private room,” her massage therapist says. “Usually the bathing suits aren’t necessary.”
And after dropping that bomb, the door closes behind them both. I want to look at Abby, to read her face, but am so paranoid after the earlier incident that I have my head stuffed into the hole on the massage table.
“Abs? You decent?”
“Enough,” she says.
We sit up at the same time, and I grin when I see how she’s clutching the sheet to her body.
“What now? Clearly, the
Adam and Eve-style hot tub and shower portion of the day is not on the table.”
“Agreed.” I pause. “What is on the table?”
She chews her lip for a moment. “I could go get our bathing suits? I never say no to a hot tub.”
I nod, filing away the hot tub comment for later. “Great. Except I came straight from golf. No bathing suit.”
“I’m sure your boxers or whatever cover about as much, right? Unless you’re a tighty-whitey kind of guy.”
“Not since I was seven.”
“Good to know.”
Abby has me close my eyes while she puts on her robe, then she disappears to find her things. I slip on my boxer briefs when she’s gone, which are definitely much shorter and tighter than my normal swim trunks, but I hop in the hot tub that’s in the adjoining room. The bubbling water does a great job covering things up.
As I wait for Abby to come back, I think about how much Mom would have loved her. There is not one woman I would have wanted to date seriously since Mom died, not one who would have been introduced at home if Mom were still around. I really hadn’t thought about it.
But I’m thinking about it now. With Abby.
I go still sitting in the middle of the bubbling warm water, realizing that the reason I’m thinking about this now is because, for once, finally, I actually want something more.
And I want it with Abby.
Chapter Twelve
Abby
I feel like a battle-weary soldier when I stumble into the room at the end of spa day. It should really be Spa Day, capital letters to commemorate the struggle. The sheer battle of wills it took me to drag myself to the end. And the effort it took not to ogle Zane the whole time we were in the hot tub together. Maybe it was just me, but the tension in that room was thicker than the fog. I practically bolted after twenty minutes, claiming that I was too hot.
And I was. Just not because of the water temperature.
I need someone to talk to about today, and there is no way that could be Zoey. I dial Sam, groaning into the phone. “Is it possible for a spa day to make someone more stressed?”
Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Romantic Comedy Series Book 1) Page 9
