CHAPTER NINETEEN
Violet
I hang up with Daisy and jump into the shower because if I’m going on a date I might as well primp. I think about what Daisy said as I towel-dry. She’s got some valid points. I’ve planned my entire life and where did it get me? Heartbroken and homeless, that’s where.
Meanwhile Daisy flies by the seat of her pants and always manages to land on her feet. More than land on her feet, really. She’s totally got her shit together. Dumping her job on me to meet up with some guy for a hate-fuck not withstanding.
The call today with the recruiter was a total bust—I’d been hoping she was calling with an opportunity. Turns out she was only calling to check if I’m certified in Revit. I’m not. My experience is entirely with AutoCAD design, which is fine because Revit is for dweebs who do nothing but yell at people when they use the wrong title block.
But it sucked getting my hopes up. For the hour or so until I was able to call the recruiter back hope swirled around in my stomach—hope that this could be the lead I’ve been waiting for. I even had a little fantasy that the job would require overseas trips to London and Jennings would invite me over to his place and we’d order takeout and have sex. Obviously that was a really specific and unlikely fantasy but fantasies are by definition improbable.
I pull the navy dress out of my suitcase because Daisy’s right about that too. It’s a great dress and it looks fantastic on Daisy, which by default means it’s going to look fantastic on me. One of the biggest benefits of being a twin is having a built-in fit model.
I am sort of surprised she lent it to me though, it’s one of her favorites. She packed a lot of great outfits for me this week, which was sweet of her. It’s not that I don’t have clothes of my own, it’s just that my wardrobe leans towards professional, whereas hers leans towards Pinterest board goals.
But it was nice of her because in sisterhood nothing says ‘I love you’ quite like lending your favorite dress.
I blow-dry my hair and use a wide-barreled curling iron to add a few casual tousled waves, the kind of casual that you put a lot of effort into. I keep my eye on the clock as I get ready because Jennings is picking me up. I told him I’d meet him in the lobby and he insisted that on a proper first date he’d pick me up at the door.
I told him that on a real first date I’d never let him pick me up at the door because he could be a serial killer. Or possibly just an annoying asshole who I wouldn’t want having my address. Or maybe the date would be so painfully bad that I’d have to bail early by secretly texting a friend to call me with a fake emergency and then I’d need my own car to get the hell out of there.
He stared at me without saying anything for a moment, his head tilted to the side and his fingers running across his jaw. Then we agreed that I’d overlook my normal first-date protocols this time, which is just as well because I don’t have sex on first dates either and I have no intention of sticking to that rule tonight.
I slide my feet into my favorite pair of sandals and am sliding earrings on when Jennings knocks at the door. I grin, suddenly stupid excited about tonight. It’s been forever since I went on a date with someone new and my stomach is filled with unexpected butterflies as I swing open the door. Butterflies that don’t settle when I see him. He’s showered as well, his hair clearly the slightest bit damp. He’s in another button-down shirt, which I haven’t seen him in since the first night. This one is white, the sleeves rolled back to mid-forearm, which I notice immediately because one arm is braced against the doorway and the other hand is holding flowers.
“Roses,” he says, holding them up. “I was going to get you daisies but then I figured every guy brings you daisies, but how many men can you possibly have given the alias Rose to?” He winks at me when he says it, confident that Rose is our thing, that I don’t go around giving out fake names to men. He’s correct.
“I’m glad they’re not daisies,” I tell him as I take them from his hand, almost laughing at the idea that every guy brings me flowers. My high-school boyfriend would buy me a single rose whenever there was a school fundraiser. Student council would deliver them to classrooms during second period and the girls would carry them from class to class for the remainder of the day. I’m sure if I opened an old yearbook I’d find one still pressed inside. One time I got a delivery at work from my ex. It was my birthday and I’m pretty sure he ordered them that morning for same-day delivery from a local florist because he’d forgotten, but it was still nice. But a parade of flowers? No.
He’s also correct about the daisies—Daisy has received them an unseemly number of times and she loves them, but they’re her, not me. Of course Jennings can’t know that, but I’m grateful that he thought of the roses. That he picked out something specific to the two of us. The last thing I’d have wanted was a bouquet of daisies staring me in the face reminding me of my big fat lie.
“They’re perfect, thank you,” I tell him as I grab the hotel-provided ice bucket and fill it with a few inches of water in the bathroom sink. I set it next to the television and stick the flowers inside. It’s not the right kind of container and they sort of slump to the side and yet it’s perfect. Perfectly imperfect.
“Ready?” he asks, but he’s directly behind me, running a fingertip down the exposed side of my neck. I shiver and turn to face him.
“I’m ready.”
“You look smashing, love.” He says it softly, his eyes dancing over my face, and I think he’s going to kiss me—he’s standing so close I can feel the heat of his body—but he simply takes my hand and leads me to the door. We hold hands all the way to the elevator, our fingers entwined and my pulse racing. I’m not entirely sure why. He’s not exactly new to me and this isn’t a real first date. It’s a third or fourth date at least, isn’t it? God, how many days ago was that first night? How is it that I already feel like I’ve known him forever? How have I forgotten a world before Jennings in less than a week? I’m tumbling head over heels like a foolish puppy tripping over its own feet.
Or a fool falling in love when this relationship has an expiration date shorter than the date on a carton of milk.
Is this real? Or an illusion brought on by close quarters and explosive chemistry? It’s so easy between us, but is it easy because it’s temporary? A trip to an amusement park is exhilarating for a day or two, but it would be a nightmare if you went every single day for an entire year, wouldn’t it? I bite my bottom lip and glance at him under my lashes. The elevator doors slide open and our hands part as we enter and he jabs the button for the lobby.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, love?” His head is tilted and one brow raised in question and I wonder how he knows to ask me this based on one quiet walk down a hallway.
“I was just wondering if you like amusement parks.” Close enough.
“Is that a hard limit for you? Whether or not your dates enjoy the Tilt-A-Whirl?” His response is light, but I caught the quick blink that tells me he didn’t buy my response to his question.
“I like them, but I tend to get motion-sick after a couple of rides,” I admit with a shrug. Is this a metaphor for my love life as well? Get in and out before anyone gets dizzy? “I never get sick of the arcade games or the cotton candy though.”
“If it’s not a deal-breaker, then I’ll admit theme parks aren’t my first choice of holiday. Of course, I’d never have picked a tour of American historic sites either and it’s turning out to be far more”—he pauses and eyes me slowly—”lively than I’d expected.”
I blush. He has a way of making a simple response sound indecent. I clear my throat before speaking. “What would your preference have been?”
“When I have the time? Skiing.”
“I’ve never been skiing.”
“No?” He glances at me and starts to say something then stops. I wonder if he’s stopping himself from making a throwaway comment about the future such as, We should go sometime.
We’ve exited the lobby of the hotel and I expect to get into a cab, but he guides me towards a waiting black SUV, so I assume he’s called an Uber. I guess this means we’re not going to the pancake house across the street, which makes me giggle.
Jennings slides into the back of the SUV after me and takes my hand, kissing the back of it. “Something funny?”
I tap my finger against the window in the direction of the International House of Pancakes across the street. “IHOP,” I tell him. “It’s a chain restaurant. When we were kids my sister called it ‘I Jump’ till we were like…” I stop. I can’t tell him we’re the same age, that’s way too much information. “Till she was like seven,” I finish. “That’s a stupid story. I don’t know why I told it to you.”
“It’s not a stupid story. I enjoyed hearing it. Are you close with your sister?”
You could say that, since we’re identical twins and I’m wearing her clothes and living in her apartment. “She’s my other half. Do you have any siblings?”
“Two half-sisters. I don’t really know them. We grew up in different households and they’re much younger than I am. They were raised in Scotland. I’ve only met them a handful of times actually.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? Scotland is lovely. It’s hardly a tragic situation.”
“No.” I laugh. “No offense to Scotland. I meant I was sorry you weren’t closer with your sisters. I can’t imagine life without my sister.”
“Yeah, well. It is what it is.” He runs a hand over his jaw but otherwise doesn’t give away if this is something that bothers him. “I’ve a cousin I’m close with. He’s like a brother to me. You’d like him, I think. He’s got your American sense of humor.”
“Your cousin is American?” I twist in my seat so I can see him. “How does that happen?”
He laughs as the car pulls onto Richmond and accelerates through a green light. “You need me to explain the basics to you, love? You seem a smart girl.”
“No.” I thump his chest with my palm. “I just meant my entire family lives in Illinois. My parents. My sister. Aunts, uncles, grandparents. One cousin moved to Pittsburgh and another moved to Orlando but everyone else is nearby. It’s not as though I have a random German cousin.”
“Wow. You let me pick you up at the door and disclosed which state you live in. I’m feeling quite chuffed.”
“Don’t get overconfident. I can still fake an emergency and take a cab back to the hotel.”
“Duly noted. I’ll do my best to entertain you well enough that you don’t need to pull a runner.”
“Naperville, Illinois,” I offer because there can’t be much harm in telling him that much. “I’m from a city called Naperville. It’s a suburb of Chicago and it’s very… suburban,” I offer for lack of a better description. I try to picture bumping into a guy like Jennings living in Naperville and find that I can’t. If I could find a guy like Jennings in Naperville he’d already have a wife and two kids. They’d have a Bugaboo stroller for the toddler and the baby would be strapped to his chest in a Tula and they’d have a nice house within walking distance of the riverwalk and I’d hate them a little.
“My aunt Poppy married an American. Their children were born and raised in the US,” he explains. “I’ve got relatives all over though. It’s fairly normal in our family, I suppose.”
“But you’re close with your cousin?” I question. “Growing up so far apart?”
“We spent summers together. Alternated between the UK and the US.”
“Huh,” I say, not attempting to be subtle. The car makes another turn and I wonder where it is we’re going. I squint out the window, trying to place us. I think the tour bus was on this road earlier.
“Dare I ask?” He sounds amused and I bring my eyes back to his.
“I was just imagining you visiting during your teenage years…” I trail off while resting a hand on his knee.
“And?”
“And I’m thinking about all those American girls who didn’t know what to do with it.” My voice is soft and neutral given we’re not alone in the car, but I slide my hand higher as I speak.
In retrospect it might have been more effective if I’d been bold enough to go farther than mid-thigh, because instead of being seduced Jennings laughs.
“Are you still thinking about that?” He places his hand on top of mine and runs the pad of his thumb softly over the back of my hand. I think he’s done more to seduce me with this one simple unthought move than I did with my intentional slide up his leg.
“No…” I draw the word out. Maybe. A little bit. Yes. The answer is yes.
“Are you jealous, love?”
“No!” I scoff. “Of course not.” I shake my head a little. “But I mean, how big is that number exactly? The number of women who didn’t know what to do with it? Because I assume the number of women who did know what to do with it is much larger than the women who didn’t know what to do with it. So the number of women who didn’t know what they were doing with it can’t be that large. Like as a statistical pool.”
“Wow.” His face is unreadable for a moment as he just stares at me. “So jealous,” he says slowly then starts laughing again.
“So where does your cousin live?” I ask to deflect my odd possessive moment. Also because I’m wondering how often he visits his cousin and if he might want to visit me too. What? I’m a thinker. And O’Hare is a major hub. I could meet him at the airport for a quick layover. At the Hilton.
“He grew up in Connecticut,” he begins and I almost groan out loud. I cannot catch a break. There cannot possibly be one flight pattern from London to Connecticut that routes through O’Hare. Not even the shitty cheap flights with crap layovers. “But he’s in Las Vegas now,” he adds. “Living there, for work.”
Praise Jesus.
“Do you visit often?” In my head I imagine I’m asking this super-casually, but Jennings smirks with a brow raised and I’m pretty sure he’s calling my bluff on this one.
“You’re a big fan of Vegas, are you? Big gambler? Blackjack? Poker? Roulette, maybe?”
“I’ve never actually been.” I pull my hand out from under his and pick nonchalantly at a piece of lint on my dress. “But I imagine myself to be fantastic at the slot machines.”
“You’re good at pushing buttons, that’s for certain.”
I flick my eyes back to his and place my hand on his leg again. Higher this time. I’m sitting near sideways on the seat so I can look at him while we talk and it gives me the leverage to slide my calf over his. Lightly. I inch my hand a bit higher and keep my eyes on his while holding his gaze for three seconds and smiling, because if it worked in a bar it most surely works in a backseat. I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to accomplish though since I’d bet real Vegas money that I’m not going to bed alone tonight and I’m way too old to go at it in a backseat with someone else driving the car, even if I’m pretending to be someone I’m not this week. A girl has her limits.
Jennings tips his head closer to mine and covers my lips with his own, one hand on the nape of my neck to hold me steady as his lips brush over mine. Softly. But his other hand drags the hand I’ve placed mid-thigh up to the juncture of his legs. He squeezes my hand underneath his, forcing me to feel him through the denim barrier separating us.
I whimper, a silly little mumble from the back of my throat, and he smiles into the kiss, his lips curving against mine before he breaks us apart and touches his forehead to mine.
“Later,” he promises with a wicked grin and one softly spoken word. Then he’s opening the car door because the car has stopped and we’ve arrived. I blow out a breath to calm myself because he’s just managed to work me up in the space of a nanosecond while I was attempting to seduce him. He threw that in my face, so to speak, didn’t he?
My door opens and Jennings is waiting with a hand extended to assist me. Such a gentleman. A filthy, dirty gentleman.