I can’t decide: what does a person wear to break up with their sister’s boyfriend? A sweatshirt and jeans? A flirty top? Something dressier, because technically this could be considered a business meeting?

Khakis?

I stand in front of my closet, mid-panic, discarding one unsuitable shirt after another onto my bed, when what I should have done was force Lucy to choose a breakup outfit for me, like how she dressed me for the concert, since theoretically, I’m posing as her again.

Floral blouse? Way too fun.

Hot pink sweater? No—I’d die from heat stroke before I died from mortification.

No, no, and no—three more shirts join the others then out of the corner of my eye, I spot a dressy black turtleneck and impulsively yank it off its hanger.

Hold it up, inspecting it.

Prim. Proper.

Black.

Serious.

The perfect shit to wear if I was attending a funeral.

I slide it over my frame. It’s fitted, hugging all my curves, and yet, the perfect metaphor: my attendance at the death of my sister’s relationship with Dash Amado.

Don’t get me wrong, I might be on my way to give the guy his marching orders, but I don’t want to look like a complete frump.

Still.

I need to look and feel businesslike, and this onyx turtleneck is textbook professional. I’ll appear efficient, organized, and…

Now I sound like a lunatic.

With a sigh befitting my twin, I shimmy and stumble into a pair of dark wash jeans, feet sliding into black half boots, give my hair a quick tussle, swipe on some gloss, and—oh my God, I’m primping. I’m trying to look nice.

Which is so not the point!

“Stop it, Amelia, this is not a date,” I chastise myself, glaring into the mirror, angry. Rest my hands on either side of my dresser, looking my reflection in the eye. “Why are you doing this? You like him. You cannot pull this off.”

I rise to my full height, puffing out my chest. “Yes you can. You can do this. You’ve broken up with guys before. Hell, you’ve broken up with Lucy’s boyfriends before.”

Twice, in high school.

I felt braver back then than I do now.

What’s done is done; Lucy is out with Hudson tonight, and I’m on my way to meet Dash. There’s no turning back.

I can only move forward.

* * *

He’s late.

At seven o’clock sharp, I watch, engrossed as a large figure emerges through the door of Zin. I’m waiting with baited breath, watching when he tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes.

Everything about Dash Amado is dark: his black quilted jacket, his jet-black hair, his complexion.

He flashes a friendly grin to the bartenders when he walks past, toward me, his pearly whites a stark contrast against his skin. Dark. Smooth. Handsome.

Through the dim lighting in the wine bar, I watch him peel off his jacket, sauntering his way over, surveying the crowd. There aren’t many people here tonight so it’s not long before our gazes connect.

In a few strides he’s at my side, sliding onto the barstool next to mine, kissing the top of my head. “Hey. Sorry I’m late. I had to see the trainer—he was showing me a new way to wrap my wrists.”

I can’t stop my eyes from glancing down. I raise my brows, curious.

“They’re not wrapped right now, just for practice.” He cuffs his wrist with one hand, rubbing it. “Have you been here long?”

“I walked in just a few minutes early, so no. It’s no big deal, the bartenders were keeping me company.” Totally something Lucy would say, only she’d add a flirtatious smile, maybe touch his sleeve.

“Speaking of which, I’m thirsty.” His lean torso leans across the bar, long arm snatching a drink menu before flagging down one of the bartenders. His eyes flicker to the water glass in front of me. “Do you want anything else or are you sticking with water?”

“Water is good.” I’m here to do a job and need a clear mind. Drinking would be a horrible idea, though I may need a drink at the end of the night, maybe a shot or two, or three.

Dash nods down at my beverage, speaking to the guy behind the bar as he strolls over, drying a glass. “I’ll have what she’s having, and an iced tea if you have it? Thanks.”

Whatever words I’m about to say get caught in my throat when he spins in his seat to face me, chugging down almost all of his glass of ice water, Adam’s apple bobbing. Shaved neck, dark sideburns.

Dear Lord he’s good-looking.

His eyes slide up and down the front of my shirt, landing briefly on my breasts. Lips quirk. “Nice turtleneck.”

I can’t decide if he’s being sarcastic.

“I like turtlenecks. They’re warm,” I croak out, body blazing like an inferno, wanting to hook my index finger in the collar of my shirt and give it a tug. Yank it off, up over my head. Get it off my body, hating it.

His black brows go up. “I said I liked it. I wasn’t being a dick.”

“Oh. Well…thanks, I guess.”

I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life, not even when I took my sister’s college entrance exam.

He regards me over the top of his iced tea, the lemon wedge moving up and down like a jellyfish in the ocean.

“You look good though. Muy bueno. I think I like this shirt better than the one you wore on Friday night.”

“Really?” I run a hand over my stick-straight hair, which I let air-dry after my shower. I’m hardly wearing any makeup, just some lip gloss—basically, my attempt at looking serious.

“You can’t even see my neck.” You can’t see anything. This shirt is a protective layer between us; I don’t want to feel sexy or attractive or pretty when I’m here to complete a task.

And yet…the goof likes it.

“Sí.”

I like the way he’s staring, taking my measure. I love the way he talks, the sound of his voice, even if he’s not really talking to me.

The thought is sobering, and I gaze down at the shiny bar top despondently, picking at the corner of the white cocktail napkin under my glass of water. Zin, a wine bar in downtown Iowa City – drink old wine, date young men.

I study the slogan, running my fingers over the burgundy embossed writing, the texture of the paper feeling coarse under my fingertips.

Over and over it, around the cursive lettering.

He’s still watching me when I look up.

“Should we have them seat us somewhere? I’m starving.”

Hesitantly I nod, hopping down off the barstool, aware of just how big he is, how imposing.

Chest like a wall of steel, I bump into it inadvertently when I stand, apprehensively gathering my purse and coat from the stool, nerves making my palms sweaty.

I’m about to break up with my sister’s boyfriend.

I already feel terrible for what I’m about to do—not because I think they’d make such a great couple, but because I like spending time with him, and once I tell him it’s over between him and Lucy…

I’ll probably never see him again.

Nonetheless, I trail along after him toward the hostess stand, idly waiting as he requests a table.

For two.

In the back corner.

When we’re seated, Dash leans in, setting his hands on the table, moving aside his fork and knife and the rest of the utensils. “Can I be brutally honest with you?”

Please don’t. “Sure.”

“The first few times we went out, I wasn’t feeling it at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know I only went out with you because you’re the one who asked, right? I never would have asked you out.”

This surprises me, and I rear back in my seat, slightly affronted—and embarrassed—on my sister’s behalf.

What do I even say to that?

“Before you get offended, let me finish what I was going to say.”

Because I have nothing to say, I nod. “Okay.”

“I haven’t dated much. Since you’re familiar with the Latino culture, you’ve probably guessed I come from a really traditional family. Mis padres raised me to be in a monogamous relationship, not sleep around, ¿sabes lo que digo?” Know what I mean? he asks, tan, masculine hands picking apart a napkin, the tiny white pieces like snow on the black tabletop. “Anyway, I figured we’d go out a few times and that would be it.”

“But?” I prod, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

“Listen, you don’t exactly scream ‘relationship type’.” His use of air quotes makes me blush, though I shouldn’t take it personally since he’s not actually speaking about me. “But I had a really great fucking time with you on Friday, Lucy. I thought about you all weekend.”

At the use of my twin’s name, I manage a wobbly smile. “Me too.”

It’s the truth; I did. I had such a great time with my sister’s boyfriend, I actually lay in bed after that date, unable to sleep, seeing Dash’s dark eyes every time I closed my eyes.

“Don’t you want to see where this goes?”

Oh my God, he’s asking if I want a relationship. He wants to date me—I mean, he wants to date Lucy.

This is my chance to break up with him. I won’t have a better opportunity.

I swallow, gathering my courage.

“Date me exclusively?”

“Sí.” Yes. He laughs, my eyes drawn to his throat. “Figured I might as well bring it up now before we waste any more of our time.”

Shit. He must really like my sister or he wouldn’t have brought up the relationship talk before there was an actual relationship.

I’ve never met a guy like this before. Never.

And I’m not likely to again.

He tips his head back and laughs, the column of his thick, masculine throat contracting with the effort. I peel my eyes away, swallowing hard, squirming in the wooden chair.

God his throat is sexy.

“You want to talk about dating me? Now?”

I’m fascinated.

“Can you think of a better time?” His wide shoulders lift into a shrug. “I have no idea what normal guys do in these situations, but I think playing games is a waste of time. I also have no problem telling you what I want.”

“Uh huh.” I scan the perimeter, searching for the closest exit. A bathroom. A place where I can covertly text my sister.

He leans in farther, large body half across the table, only inches from my face. “Te ves preciosa cuando estás nerviosa, do you know that?”

He thinks I’m cute when I’m nervous?

“Am I?” I’m practically whispering.

“So fucking cute.”

He is too sweet. “Gracias.”

Suddenly, breaking up with him feels terribly wrong; all I want right now is to get up from the table and climb into his big lap and kiss his gorgeous face. That beautiful nose.

Those full, sculpted lips.

What the hell is wrong with my sister?

What the hell is wrong with me?

I want him for myself, that’s what’s wrong with me! I might not believe in Insta-love or fairy tales or sparks flying when you first meet someone, but if I did, I’m adult enough to admit that I’m feeling them now.

That I felt them as soon as I laid eyes on him standing on my twin sister’s porch.

“You need some time to think about it?”

“Huh?”

“About what you want to eat, and whether we’re going to keep seeing each other. Be honest.” He shrugs again. Shoots me a gorgeous, brilliant smile.

“Honest…right, for sure.”

“Are you worried I won’t have enough time for you?” He reaches across the table for my hand, but I pull mine back, resting it in my lap, where it’s safe. “My friends fight with their girlfriends about that all the time. I’d say it’s a huge problem for most of them. What are you afraid of, Lucy?”

For one, he can stop calling me Lucy. It’s making my skin crawl, makes me feel guilty. Makes me jealous. Resentful.

Depressed.

What if I’d seen him at the party first? What if I was the type of girl who had the courage to ask someone like Dash Amado on a date? Would things be different? Would it be me he’s looking at the way he’s looking at Lucy?

Lucy.

She’s not just my friend; she’s my sister. We’re blood, and she will always come first.

Always.

* * *

Something isn’t right with Lucy.

I can fucking feel it.

Since our date on Friday, nothing is making any freaking sense.

For one, she’s wearing a goddamn turtleneck.

Why is this strange? Because her boobs are always on full display. She’s one of those girls who’s constantly at the baseball house, desperate for attention, letting it all hang out.

I’m a guy, one with a fully functioning set of eyes, and from what Lucy has shown me, she has a fantastic rack—which is why it’s so fucking odd that tonight she’s buried in black cotton up to her chin.

Tonight, her long hair seems longer, windblown and natural. Messy, like she rolled out of bed to come meet me and didn’t spend an hour in the bathroom curling it.

Her perfume, which used to smell like pure gold digger, now has traces of citrus and flowers and vanilla, hitting my nose when she flips that mass of hair over her shoulder.

She looks different tonight, conservative.

She’s barely wearing makeup, just some mascara.

And—obviously—the whole turtleneck thing is confusing as shit.

The black color is stark against her pale skin. That’s another thing throwing me off—the few times I’ve been out with Lucy, her skin has been a warm hue of…well, orange.

This Lucy? She looks like someone I could actually bring home to mi madre.

I shoot a quick glance at the front of her sweater; it might be covering the entire column of her neck, but it’s tight, outlining ample curves I don’t remember her having. Large silver hoops catch the light from the modern chandelier above, her one vanity.

“We can talk more after dinner,” I tell her.

Her chin tips, lips say, “Okay.”

A tentative smile.

We’re quiet while I look at the dinner selections and steal glances at her over my menu. Lucy is staring at hers, biting down on her bottom lip, undecided.

“Need help deciding?”

“I, uh, didn’t realize they had food, so I wasn’t prepared for dinner.”

Annnnd there it is. I swear to God, if she’s one of those girls who eats like a fucking bird—salad with no dressing and a side of water—I’m going to seriously reconsider dating her.

“Did you already eat?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

Her head lifts. Our eyes meet. “I didn’t really come here to eat, but yeah, I am hungry.”

My lip curls. “Let me guess, you’re going to have a salad.”

“Well, let me see.” She lifts the menu and disappears from sight as the waitress approaches and glances between us.

“Are you all set to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

Lucy reappears from over the giant folded menu. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Ladies first.”

“Okay.” Her index finger trails along the first page’s entrées. “Can I get the filet please, medium rare, with a wedge salad—ranch dressing—and a baked potato with sour cream? And bacon.”

She closes the menu and hands it to the waitress, clasping her hands serenely. Lifts her brows my direction.

Damn, I’m impressed.

“I’ll have the same.” I hand my waitress the menu, mimic Lucy’s pose. “So.”

“So.”

My head tilts and I relax into the hard back of the wooden chair. Across the table, my date does an inventory of me that has nothing to do with physical attraction; oddly, she hasn’t flirted or giggled at me once, another thing that seems…off.

Her eyes scan my broad shoulders—the width earned through hours of busting my ass on the diamond—up my thick neck, landing on my lips. My high cheekbones, the left one with a stitch holding it closed. My expressionless eyes and tired brow.

Her lips part. “Where did the bruises come from?”

“Someone’s bat.”

“I thought catchers wore face masks!”

“We do.”

Those blue eyes go wide. “Have you ever lost a tooth?”

“Yes.” I tap on my teeth. “This front one is fake.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it hurt to get jacked in the face with a baseball bat?”

That’s an odd way for a girl to put it, but the answer is easy: “Fifteen.”

“What are your plans after college?”

I pause.

We’ve already discussed this, on our first date when she peppered me with questions about my odds of playing professional ball, how soon that was going to be, and if I had an agent.

“The pros.” I drag the words out in a duh tone of voice.

She cringes. “Oh yeah, right. Sorry, I forgot.” But then, “But you have a major, right? What are you falling back on, just in case? What happens if you get hurt?”

No girl has ever asked me that. “If I don’t get drafted, I’ll…” I shift in my chair uncomfortably. Discussing what would happen if I weren’t eligible for the draft isn’t something I normally talk about, not with girls like Lucy, girls who have no real investment in my future other than a meal ticket. “DNR.”

“Department of Natural Resources?”

I blink. “You actually know what that is?”

She shrugs. “My dad likes to fish.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you doing when you graduate?”

“I’ve never told you my major? That is so unlike me.”

Did she just admit she likes talking about herself? I chuckle.

“You’ve told me you’re a fashion major, but never said what you plan on doing with your degree. We didn’t exactly do a lot of chatting on our first few dates.” I shoot her a lazy smile.

“Oh. Right.” Again, she tucks those long locks of hair behind her ear, causing her earrings to shine in the light. “My major is, uh, fashion design.”

Now she’s repeating herself. “You told me that already.”

“Right, sorry.” She avoids my eyes, taking a drink, suddenly fascinated by the heavy burgundy draperies covering the walls. “So, Dash, what’s your real name?”

“Don’t you think you should know if we’re going to give this thing a shot?”

Lucy cringes. “Yes?”

“The fact that you’re asking means you haven’t adequately done your research. Haven’t you tried looking me up at all?”

“I haven’t had time?”

“It’s Dante.”

“Dante,” she repeats quietly to herself with Spanish enunciation. Bites back a smile. “Dante Amado,” she says, articulating my entire name. “Huh.”

“What about Lucy, that short for anything?”

“She’s—I’m, uh, named after our grandmother—my grandmother.” Her head shakes. “Lucille. Lucy is short for Lucille.”

Lucille does sound like someone’s abuelita. The name is unsexy and unfuckable.

We’re interrupted by the busboy refilling our water glasses. “Thank you,” she says with a smile.

I recognize the dude from my environmental law class and give him a nod. “Yeah, thanks.”

For a few moments, we sit in silence, and I feel Lucy sneaking glances. Then, “If you could live in any city, which one would it be?”

This one is a no-brainer. “I’d play for the Rockies.”

My date rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I asked if you could live in any city, which one would it be. I didn’t ask where you would play.”

“Oh. Well…” I set down my fork. “No lo sé.” I don’t know.

Lucy tilts her head and studies me, eyes softening. “That much of your future hinges on you getting drafted, huh?”

I raise my head, meeting her eyes. “Yeah.”

Her clear gaze bores into me. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“The pressure.”

For a second, I want to tell her that’s a strange fucking statement to make, but then I go quiet and think about it, really sit and think.

She’s right.

It is a lot of pressure, especially since mi familia is depending on me to make something of myself.

All the money my parents sank into a lifelong baseball career that isn’t even an official career yet, that’s nothing but a goddamn hobby if I don’t get drafted.

No one but mi mamá has ever asked me how the pressure makes me feel.

And now Lucy.

This—this right here is why I found myself really fucking liking her last weekend on our date. I think she might actually give a shit.

“It’s heavy.”

I don’t mind saying it, admitting with two words that I have a world of weight crushing down on my shoulders, broad as they may be. It feels…

Whatever.

It hardly matters; my life is mapped out for me, and there’s no getting off the path I’m already treading on.

“So where would you want to live?” Lucy prods again, still wanting an answer. “If you could choose.”

“I don’t know. I’m never thought about it.”

“Well I have—I love the Midwest. I love the change of seasons. I’ve always wanted to live where I could ski in the winter and enjoy the sun in the summer, you know?”

“You love the Midwest? Are you nuts?” I hate everything about it—the rain, the hot, muggy summers. The cold—every damn winter I come close to freezing my balls off.

“You just said you wanted to move to Colorado to play for the Rockies!”

I laugh. “For work!”

Lucy shrugs. “No take-backs.”

The server chooses that moment to appear with our appetizer salads: two plates of fussy lettuce, one tomato, and two cucumbers each. Rabbit food. Irritated at the small portion, I poke at the plate with the tines of my fork.

A soft chuckle has my ears twitching.

“¿Qué es tan gracioso?” What’s so funny? I want to know.

Another laugh. “You. You’re pouting because the salad is so small.”

“So?” I grunt, stabbing some lettuce with my fork and shoving it in my gullet—and just like that, half of it is gone.

“Are you mad because there’s nothing on the plate?”

My answer is a scoff.

“How about I give you whatever I don’t finish?”

This perks me up considerably. “Are you planning on not finishing the salad?”

“No, but I figured the offer would cheer you up.”

It does.

I’m starving, ravenous, and her offer to let me finish her plate? Fucking adorable.

“Hey Lucy?”

“Hmm?”

“Know what I’m going to do?”

“What?”

“I’m going to date the shit out of you.”