Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin: a Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Clichés Sweet RomCom Series Book 1)

by Emma St Clair

  Though I roll my eyes, I’m secretly so excited to finally have a guy I like enough to talk about, even if I know Sam’s going to put the whole thing in print.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Zane

  Abby is coming for dinner. Abby is coming for dinner.

  Which means I’m scrambling around like a remote-control car being driven by a four-year-old, all jerky and out of control, zooming around in circles. The only thing I haven’t done is run into walls.

  The door to the bathroom does not count.

  My house is, like most things in my life, neat and orderly. But when it comes to my home, that tendency toward neatness translates to cold and uninviting.

  That’s a great metaphor for my life, really. At least, my life up until Abby. Things have their place and their purpose. But it’s been pretty dull, and not somewhere you want to stay.

  I don’t even have a dining room table. Just a few barstools at the kitchen island. Two of the bedrooms have no furniture. What was I thinking, buying a house? And why am I working so hard at my job if what I really want is to build this life, the one within these walls?

  Just before having the woman you really, really like over for dinner is not the time for an existential crisis. That’s what I’m thinking as I hammer in a nail to hang the framed picture of me, Zoey, and my mom. It’s been sitting on the table in my entryway for months, needing only a nail.

  It took five minutes to actually hang it up, but months for me to make the time. Maybe right now is not the time for me to freak out, but it is the time to think about the priorities in my life. Because if I want to date Abby for real (which I do), there has to be time.

  Not little slivers or an hour here or there. Real time that’s prioritized, earmarked as the most important, even over a launch. The timing for this couldn’t be worse. Or maybe this is exactly when I need to be considering my priorities and what I want for my future.

  I stare at the photo. Mom’s smile, which I’m reminded of every time Zoey smiles, is wide and bright, like she can’t manage to hold it back. Zoey and I were maybe ten in the photo, which was taken by Dad in our backyard. I don’t remember the moment, but I remember being that age. I was into video games and basketball and kept begging for a dog, even though Mom was allergic.

  Around then, Zoey and I waged a secret war, one where we would punch each other on the arm or leg as hard as we could when our parents weren’t looking. The goal was to not react when getting punched, so as not to alert our mom and dad. That, and land the biggest bruise.

  I kind of miss those days. Not that I’d hit my sister now, but the simplicity of the game, the camaraderie of doing something all on our own—that, I miss.

  I move back into cleaning mode so that the ache of missing Mom doesn’t grow, shoving me into some weird, dark mood before Abby gets here. Even the thought of seeing Abby lifts the worry and sadness. One thing I know for sure: Mom would have loved her.

  My phone rings as I’m looking over takeout menus. I hesitate because it’s Zoey, but then I figure she might be the best person to talk to before my first date with her best friend. Did Abby already tell her? Based on how close they are, I have to assume that’s a yes.

  “Hey, Zo.”

  “Hey, brother. What’s cooking?” she asks.

  “You know I don’t cook. But I am having Abby over for dinner. Chinese, Thai, or pizza? Or Mexican? Indian? Italian? Oh, and by the way, I didn’t listen to your advice about keeping things professional with Abby. I hope that’s okay.” My tone is casual, but I’m holding my breath waiting for her response.

  Zoey laughs. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “What day is that?”

  “The day where you’ve hopelessly fallen for someone. And that the someone is Abby.”

  I’m thankful she didn’t use the L-word, because I think it might have sent me into a tailspin, even if a little part of me suspects that the strength and depth of my feelings for Abby are headed in that direction, if not well on their way.

  “Me neither. Gloat or whatever you want to do later. Give me a hint on the food now.”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  I could. But I want to impress Abby. I have this idea in my head that she’ll show up and I’ll have the perfect meal by candlelight. We’ll enjoy a leisurely, laugh-filled dinner, and then later maybe enjoy a replay of that epic kiss we had in the closet at the resort. My house—or maybe the swing in the backyard—is definitely a better option for romance than in a dark closet next to bottles of bleach and hotel towels.

  Thinking of kissing helps me narrow things down. “Forget Mexican and Thai. Maybe American?”

  It’s important to consider what foods won’t leave us both with dragon breath. Maybe I should have asked her to have frozen yogurt instead of dinner.

  “Abby loves that burger place near your house. Avocados and muenster cheese with sweet potato fries.”

  Zoey sounds so amused by this, and any other time, I might be bothered or try to defend myself, but I simply do not care. I’m trying to write this down on a notepad I keep in the kitchen, just to be sure I don’t mess up the order.

  “You really like her, don’t you?” Zoey asks.

  I set down the pen and clear my throat. “I do. Is that … okay?”

  “I’m surprised but happy. I wouldn’t have put you two together. I mean, I guess it makes sense. She’s my opposite too, and she’s my best friend. I’ve never heard you sound like this about anyone.”

  That’s because I’ve never felt this way about anyone. It’s like I’ve gone through a black hole and come out of the other side to find an entirely new system of planets and stars. I’m still mapping them out.

  “You’re a good guy, Z. Mostly.”

  “Thanks?”

  “Anytime.” Zoey pauses. “Just know that if you hurt Abby, I’ll be the one taking a tire iron to your car.”

  I can’t help but smile. “Noted.”

  A few hours later, I realize that I’m in over my head. Way over my head.

  I stare around the living room and run my hands through my hair, staring at all the bags from World Market.

  What did I do?

  The only thing I needed to buy was candles. I planned to walk into World Market, pick up a few candles, and then grab our burgers and head home. Instead, I pictured my empty house, wondering what Abby would think, and I kept piling items into my cart.

  A few hundred dollars later and now I have throw pillows, art for the walls, and a three-foot-tall wooden giraffe that I can’t quite explain. You know what I forgot? Candles. I also didn’t have time to put anything away.

  There’s a knock at the door, and I panic. Should I hide the bags in one of the spare bedrooms? What if Abby wants a tour?

  I take a deep breath and give the photo of me, Mom, and Zoey another look. I’m being idiotic and overthinking everything. The smile in my mom’s eyes tells me to just let go—something that has never come easily for me—and enjoy.

  I open the door, my pulse quickening at the sight of Abby in jeans and an electric blue top that really highlights the pink in her hair. I’ve seen her made up, in pajamas, and in casual attire. She’s beautiful in them all.

  Abby’s brow furrows. “Who kicked your puppy?” she asks.

  I sigh. “Come in. I’ll show you.”

  When Abby sees the bags in the living room, she gives me a confused look. “You … went shopping? Is this a case of buyer’s remorse or something?”

  “Or something.” I sit down on the couch, pleased when she sits down next to me. I don’t pull her into my lap, even though I want to.

  “No one ever comes over, and I’m never here. My house is empty, and … I wanted to impress you.”

  “I share a house with four other women. It’s like a glorified dorm room, or a small commune. I’m impressed that you own a house. And that you like World Market. Can I take a look?” she asks.

  I nod, and Abby begins rummaging through the b
ags. “I like your taste,” she says after a moment, sitting back on her heels and looking up at me with a smile.

  “You do?”

  “I do. And I have an idea. I smell something greasy and delicious. How about you feed me, and I help you find places to put all this stuff?”

  The idea of Abby helping me decorate my house fills me with something I can’t quite name. An emotion that feels both solid and also has things in my stomach jumping around.

  “I’d love that,” I tell her, standing and reaching my hand out for hers.

  I pull her to her feet, not letting her go right away. For a few beats, we simply make eye contact, studying each other, until she smiles. It makes me smile right back.

  “Come on,” I say, finally tugging her into the kitchen, loving the feel of her small, cool hand in mine. “I know I need to feed the Abby if I want her to function properly.”

  “Ha ha,” she says, then sniffs. “Is that a hamburger I smell?”

  From: Dongled_in_Detroit@drlove.advice

  To: DrLove@drlove.advice

  Dear Dr. Love,

  I really love my boyfriend. Like, totally. The only problem? I’m a Mac girl and he uses PC.

  Every time we take a step forward, we take a double click back. I’m tired of his hands all over my touch screen, and don’t get me started on the dongle problem.

  I think our software needs to be updated and we might be hardwired for failure.

  Any words of advice?

  Sincerely,

  Dongled in Detroit

  From: DrLove@drlove.advice

  To: AbbyGrabby@me.mail

  Dear Abby,

  Nice one. You owe me dinner since I sniffed out another one of your fake emails.

  -S

  From: AbbyGrabby@me.mail

  To: DrLove@drlove.advice

  Ha! Great email. But not it.

  -Abs

  From: Zoey.F.Abramson@me.mail

  To: DrLove@drlove.advice

  Dear Dr. Love,

  Ha! This was Zoey, pretending to be Abby. You owe me dinner. I don’t even know what a dongle is.

  -Zoey

  From: DrLove@drlove.advice

  To: Zoey.F.Abramson@me.mail

  Fine. But I’m not going to that crepes place again. Crepes are not a meal.

  -S

  Chapter Seventeen

  Abby

  I’ve got a case of the Mondays as I roll into my hated day job. Big-time.

  “Long weekend?” Micah asks.

  I groan and drop my head onto my desk. “Great weekend. Being here? Not so much.”

  I stayed at Zane’s until almost eleven the night before. We ate burgers from my favorite place (thanks, Zoey), and then I helped him decorate his house. All but the wooden giraffe, which I couldn’t stop laughing about, and he agreed to return. He didn’t even seem sure why he’d bought it.

  And after that, we made out like we were teenagers, about to be caught by our parents walking in any minute. Every kiss was as good or better than the first. I kept thinking Zane might push for more the way so many guys have, even on first dates, but instead, he seemed perfectly content to simply explore kissing. The man was like a kiss cartographer, intent on mapping out and claiming everything—at least everything above my collarbone.

  When I got home, I couldn’t sleep because I kept replaying it in my mind.

  Micah drags me back from thinking about it again. “Are you feeling okay? You’re flushed.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How’s the side gig going at Eck0? Figure out their issue?”

  I haven’t said much to Micah about it, considering the whole non-disclosure agreement I signed. “Working on it.”

  “Any chance for a full-time position? Maybe for two people?” Micah gives me prayer hands.

  “I wish.”

  Honestly, I do. Sort of. I’d love to work with Zane. Seeing him daily has been great, and I already know I’ll miss it when I finish up.

  But the startup life? After the last week, I’m not sure. Zane is the last one to leave the office, many nights after ten. I’m not there in the mornings, but I’d wager that he’s the first one there. Meetings, calls, emergencies—everything is high priority, all the time. And I know it won’t slow down with the launch, at least not for a few months.

  This weekend was an anomaly. Spending time with him at the resort, then having the leisurely dinner—I know that won’t be reality with him. Not for a while. Startups are brutal. He seems to love it though, and since I know what it’s like to hate your job, I’d never ask him to change.

  Our boss appears suddenly in our doorway, reminding me so much of the boss from the movie Office Space that I have to stifle a giggle.

  “Hey, my two favorite IT people.”

  “Your only two IT people,” I say. He ignores me.

  “We’ve got a fun one for you this morning.”

  “Define fun,” Micah says.

  “Someone opened an attachment”—Micah and I both groan—“and now there’s a video playing of, uh, let’s just say inappropriate content. We can’t even shut the computer down. You two can fight over who gets to fix it.”

  “Not it!” Micah and I say at the same time as soon as our boss has gone.

  We end up having to rock-paper-scissors for it, and as his paper covers my rock, Micah says, “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

  I think that train has already left the station.

  I practically skip into Zane’s office that night. Partly because I really hate my job. And attachments. And viruses.

  But mostly because I want to see Zane.

  As if he knew exactly when I arrived, Zane strides out of his office to greet me, looking practically edible in his dark blue suit.

  Abby, remember what we talked about. That’s Gibbs again. Usually that does the trick, but even Gibbs can’t force the air in my lungs to not feel so thin and the blood in my veins to slow.

  When Zane smiles, I freeze, right there in the middle of the still-busy office, like I’m a butterfly, pinned into place by his blue eyes.

  “Abs,” he says. “Why does it feel like so long since I’ve seen you?”

  “Maybe I’m just that addictive,” I say. Hopefully, I’m that addictive. To him, anyway.

  Zane’s smile widens. “Yes, you are,” he murmurs. “Now follow me. I have a few questions for you. And a fresh bag of Twizzlers.”

  When I get to the workspace I’ve been using, he not only has a new package of my favorite candy, but a piping hot flat white, a small framed photo of the Stranger Things season one poster, and a small potted succulent.

  My eyes zero in on that. He got me a plant. A living thing. In a cute little ceramic pot painted turquoise and silver, two of my favorite colors.

  “I’m going to kill that,” I say, pointing. “I know succulents are the easiest plants to own, but I had this cactus once and—”

  His warm fingers land on my shoulder, squeezing so that my voice trails off into a quiet squeak. Gently, he encourages me to sit down.

  “It’s plastic,” Zane whispers, leaning so close to my ear that his breath skates over my skin.

  What’s plastic? My head is a carousel, spinning wildly out of control. Right. The succulent.

  “Perfect,” I say, trying to get the various systems in my body to behave.

  Hey, circulatory system: slow it down!

  Respiratory system: in and out, nice and steady. That’s it. There we go. Breathe.

  Reproductive system: you have not been called to active duty. Stand down, soldier. I’m talking to you, ovaries.

  Nervous system: stop being so … nervous.

  Skeletal system: way to be solid. Carry on.

  I realize that Zane is still standing close to my chair—much too close to my chair. And he’s apparently asked me a question that I missed while trying to get myself under some semblance of control. I tip my head back, looking at him upside down.

  “What? I’m sorry, I zoned o
ut a bit.”

  Zane from a week ago—has so much really changed in a week?— would have gotten that furrowed brow and pinched look about his mouth. The new and improved Zane only chuckles.

  “I just said that I have a few meetings tonight, so I’ll be in the conference room. Feel free to use my office if you need more space.”

  “After you’ve made my space so feng shui? No way. I just need to water my succulent.”

  Zane touches my shoulder again, somewhere between a squeeze and a pat. This gets me all riled up again. Shoulders were never a part of my body I considered at any length. They’re just there, being all shouldery, keeping my bra straps in place. I think that they’ve been vastly underrated.

  “It’s plastic,” Zane calls as he saunters off to the conference room.

  I watch him go, blushing when he turns to look back at me, like he knew I’d be watching him. And then he winks—winks!

  I have to fan my hot cheeks with a piece of cardstock before I pull out my computer and start working.

  “You’re a pretty plant,” I say, dragging the potted succulent over. I know it’s fake, but if talking to real plants helps them grow, it certainly can’t hurt a plastic one. “Good succulent. Sit. Stay.”

  The frenetic energy in the office gets me hyped, which is good. Launch is coming, but it can’t if I don’t figure out what’s going on and who’s trying to hijack the system.

  A few hours later, I’ve installed a trap. A lovely, lovely trap that is practically invisible and definitely unavoidable. I can only hope that it’s not Jack. He may not be my favorite person, but he’s Zane’s friend and partner. I don’t know enough people around here to have any other guesses. In the next two days, I should know who.