7
I could deny it. I should deny it.
I know I should, especially when he studies me more closely, clears his throat, and says it again as a question rather than a statement of fact.
“Hermione?”
A glimmer of doubt is buried somewhere in the startling blue depths of his eyes, and I get the definite feeling that if I pretend I don’t understand what he’s talking about, he’ll drop it. He’ll realize I’m not me, and we can move on and proceed with the interview.
Except I am me.
My hair isn’t mine, and neither are my lashes, my nails, my clothes, or these godforsaken shoes, but beneath all the sparkle, I’m still me.
Charlotte.
This awareness is more disappointing than it should be. Crushing, actually.
I’ve had no trouble at all impersonating my twin for the past half hour. Pretending has been ridiculously easy. But suddenly, passing myself off as Ginny seems impossible.
It’s as if I’ve told so many lies that I can’t force another one out of my mouth.
I swallow. Hard. This will be the lie that breaks me. “Um . . .”
My hesitation is the only answer he needs. His smile is full wattage this time. “I knew it was you.”
My insides do a bouncy little dance. How did he know? How could he have possibly seen the real me? I’m desperate for the answer, but I can’t ask. Obviously.
“My real name is Ginny Gorman.” I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’d almost said Charlotte. “Miss Texas.”
“Of course.” He nods, and his smile dies a little on his lips.
I wait for him to officially introduce himself, but he doesn’t. He seems almost as thrown as I am by my sudden appearance at his judge’s table.
An uncomfortable, excruciating silence stretches between us. I glance at his name tag.
Gray Beckham.
My stomach does a little tumble.
The book-quoting charmer has an actual name, and it’s not Fitzwilliam Darcy. My literary heart should probably be disappointed, but it’s not. Gray Beckham is an undeniably sexy name. Very manly. Very 007.
The heat in my face intensifies.
Say something.
This is officially the longest three minutes of my life. A million things I should be saying right now are spinning in my head, but I can’t seem to articulate any of them. I just want to ask him questions.
Tell me about yourself, Mr. Beckham.
Ginny is going to murder me.
“So.” He shifts his gaze to the binder open in front of him. “It says here that you’re . . .”
I take a deep breath. Thank God for the questionnaire. At least it will give us some talking points.
“ . . . an Instagram ‘spokesperson.’ ” His brow furrows ever so slightly.
I can hear his air quotes dangling around the word spokesperson. We both know that’s code for model. He probably thinks there are a million bikini pics of me all over the internet.
There wouldn’t be anything wrong with that, obviously. What a woman does with her body is her own choice. Go, feminism!
It’s just very much not me, and I can tell he’s struggling to reconcile this image with the one of me speaking to him in book quotes, wearing a Hogwarts T-shirt, and blushing furiously at the nickname Hermione.
Not that I can blame him. I’m trying to figure out how to wrap my own mind around it long enough to make him believe it makes sense.
“Yes.” I nod. “But it’s only temporary.”
What am I saying?
“I’d like to be a librarian someday.” I’m treading on thin ice, skating between an identity that’s neither mine nor Ginny’s. What’s worse is I don’t even know why I’m straying from the script.
Yes, you do, a tiny voice whispers from somewhere deep inside.
I don’t want to feel invisible again. Not now. Not with him. I want him to see me. The real me.
I like him. So much so that I decide to overlook the fact that he’s a pageant judge.
God knows why. I barely know the man. I just know that the few encounters we’ve had have left me breathless. And I haven’t met a man who I’ve found interesting in a long, long time. I slammed the door on romance the day I shoved my wedding gown to the back of my closet. But somehow our quirky conversations have cracked that door open. Just a smidge. Barely enough to let the light in . . .
But that’s something, isn’t it?
“A librarian. I can see that.” He lets out a laugh, and for a moment I’m back in that stairwell with my heart in my throat as he winks at me. Later, Hermione. “So what’s your favorite book?”
“Wow, that question is almost impossible. I love the Harry Potter series. And Austen.” I flash a smile. “As you know.”
Oh my God, I’m flirting. This has to be against the rules.
Right, like you haven’t already broken every pageant rule in existence by now?
My palms are sweating. And I know I need to reel it in, to get things back on track, but I can’t.
“But if I had to choose just one, I’d probably say Jane Eyre. I read it when I was eleven—my first classic—and I’ve been in love with it ever since. It’s my comfort read. I always pick it up when I’m feeling down.” I swallow. “Or lonely.”
I’ve said too much. All notions of sticking to the script are out the window. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s like I’ve been given some sort of truth serum.
But he seems intrigued. He leans in close, and I go a little breathless. Who is he, and what’s he doing here? Chiseled good looks aside, he seems almost as out of place as I do.
I steal a glance at his binder, just in case his bio is in it somewhere. It’s not.
When I look back up, I realize he’s followed my gaze and is now inspecting the papers in front of him—the dreaded questionnaire, which all my previous judges ignored, for the most part.
He meets my gaze again, but this time, there’s not a trace of warmth in his expression. “It says here your favorite book is Fifty Shades of Grey.”
Oh. My. God.
Seriously, Ginny?
“Oh, well, that . . .” How can I possibly make sense of that answer after all I’ve just said?
He interrupts before I can give it a try. “It also says that your platform is animal rescue and that part of your volunteerism in that regard has been adopting a French bulldog mix.”
He’s changed the subject. Thank God. Nevertheless, something about the tense set of his jaw sends a trickle of dread coursing through me. What else has Ginny written on those pages?
The problem isn’t with Ginny’s answers, though.
“Would this be the same French bulldog mix that I’ve seen you walking around the premises?” He lifts an accusatory brow. “The one you said doesn’t actually belong to you?”
Great. Now he thinks I’m a liar.
My face goes hot. I’m no longer a beauty queen with aspirations of being a librarian. I’m a lying liar who lies and also has horrible taste in literature. “Not really.”
His gaze narrows. “So you’ve got another Frenchie mix tucked away somewhere?”
“No, just the one. The situation is a bit complicated.” My smile freezes in place. I’ve heard better excuses from elementary school kids who lost their library books.
“Is it?” He angles his head, and an angry knot forms in his perfect, square jaw.
He’s giving me the full Mr. Darcy treatment now. Not the evolved Darcy who meditates on fine eyes and takes a sexy plunge in the pond at Pemberley, but the haughty, judgmental Darcy from the first half of Pride and Prejudice. Any minute now I expect him to declare that I’m tolerable, but not pretty enough to tempt him.
Scratch that. I probably don’t even rank as tolerable since nothing on the questionnaire rings true.
“The dog is mine. I was joking earlier. It’s a little game Buttercup and I play. We pretend not to know each other,” I say in an attempt to salvage any small shred of this interaction.
But it’s a ridiculous assertion, and now I sound crazy in addition to deceitful. I cast a desperate glance at the timekeeper. How has she not called time yet? This is officially the longest three minutes of my life.
“This is really too bad.” He closes the binder. It feels fatal somehow, as if Ginny’s lifelong dream has just died. Because I killed it.
Tears pool in my eyes. Why was I ever foolish enough to believe I could do this? The pageant . . . the flirting . . . all of it has been such a foolish mistake.
“I thought you were something special.” His gaze bores into mine, and I know without a doubt that we’re no longer talking about the crown. Nor Ginny.
We’re talking about me.
My lips part, and I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to say. I just know I can’t leave things like this. “I . . .”
But I’m too late.
“Time.”
“How did it go?”
Miss Nevada is hot on my heels the minute our group exits the ballroom. She obviously doesn’t realize I’m dying inside, because she’s giving me a blow-by-blow of her answers and nodding excitedly.
“I think I did really well,” she gushes. “How about you? I noticed a few of your judges reaching for the Kleenex. Crying is a sure sign that you nailed it.”
Right. Except at the moment, I’m the one on the verge of tears. My eyes brim with humiliation, but at the same time, a swell of anger is rising up inside me.
“I need to go.” I turn on a wobbly heel and walk away before Miss Nevada can ask me what’s wrong.
The hotel is packed wall to wall with contestants, and I can’t stomach the sight of any of them right now. I push past them as quickly as I can, but it’s not fast enough, so I commit the cardinal sin of removing my shoes once I get to the lobby. Miss New York, Miss New Jersey, and Miss Rhode Island are gathered in a glamorous little trio just inside the elevator bank, and all three of them freeze in alarm at the sight of my nude patent leather stilettos dangling from my hand. I might as well be walking through the hotel stark naked.
Taking my usual route, I head for the stairwell. Alone at last inside the sterile concrete chamber, I break down. I’m shaking with rage. I realize what just happened is 100 percent my fault. I lied, plain and simple.
What kind of person pretends to adopt a dog? Not one who wants to be a role model, that’s for sure.
But did he have to be so haughty in his assessment of me? It’s a beauty pageant. Or a scholarship competition. Whatever. It’s not like this is actually important.
Except it is. To my sister, at least.
And now I have to go back to our room and tell her that judge number six thinks she’s faking the whole animal-rescue thing. Or that I’m faking it . . . whatever. I’m not sure which one of us is actually competing anymore. I just know that it’s been less than an hour since I started walking in my twin’s beauty queen shoes and I’ve already made a mess of things.
It’s over.
I’m not doing this anymore. I can’t. There’s no way I can face that man again. I’m done.
Ginny will be disappointed, but she’ll get over it. It’s not like she can be a beauty queen forever. She’s going to have to move on eventually.
Besides, I tried. I really did.
By the time I trudge up the final flights of steps, I’ve made up my mind. Now I just have to break the news to my sister, which I’m going to do immediately. Quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Or in this case, double-sided wardrobe tape.
“You’re back!” Ginny is wrapped in one of the hotel’s plush robes and tucked into her bed when I walk into the room. Buttercup is curled against her hip, and the television is blaring. Kylie Jenner’s lips take up half the screen.
Before the door has a chance to click shut behind me, Ginny sits up, aims the remote at the flat screen, and the television goes blank. “How did it go? Tell me everything.”
I take a deep breath and climb onto the bed, beside her. Soon we’re propped up on pillows with our heads resting against the headboard, side by side. Just like when we were kids.
“Well? Don’t keep me in suspense,” she prompts, swiveling her face toward mine.
She’s putting on a good show, pretending to be excited about the interview. But at such close range, I can see her red-rimmed eyes. Her puffy face is tear-streaked, and there’s a pile of wadded up Kleenex on her nightstand.
She’s been crying.
“It was . . .” I swallow. Hard. “It was okay, I guess.”
Good job, Charlotte. Way to rip off the Band-Aid.
Ginny deflates a little bit, and I try not to notice how tiny she looks in that big, fluffy robe. So sad and vulnerable.
I’m not going to lie. Seeing her this way gets to me. I can’t remember the last time I saw Ginny cry.
“Just okay?” She blinks, and her eyes go shiny.
I look away, but my gaze flits automatically to the television screen, where I can see our reflection. Two sisters, shoulder to shoulder. Only it’s as if we’ve switched bodies. I’m undeniably pretty and polished, and Ginny is a mess. She’s in even worse shape than when I left her here a couple of hours ago.
I drop my gaze to my perfectly manicured hands, folded neatly in my lap. “Actually, the first five interviews were pretty great. I brought a couple of the judges to tears.”
“What?” Ginny squeals. “That’s amazing!”
I have to remind myself that none of this matters. I’m quitting. But my heart gives a joyful little tug. It was pretty amazing. Until the last three minutes, anyway.
“But I totally blew it on the last one,” I say.
“That’s okay.” Ginny shrugs. “A bad score from one judge won’t keep you out of the finals. If five out of six liked you, you’re still in this.”
I correct her at once. “You mean you’re still in it.”
“I think I meant we.” She gives me a conspiratorial grin. “We’re still in this.”
She has a point. He’s only one judge out of six. And I know I crushed it on the first five interviews.
Do I really need to throw it all away? Do I really want to?
I let out a weary sigh. “What if he talks to the other judges and tells them I’m a train wreck?”
She shakes her head. “He can’t. The judges aren’t allowed to share their scores with each other. They can’t discuss the contestants’ performance at all until the pageant is over and the winner has been crowned.”
Okay, this is important information. Total game changer.
“What went wrong, anyway?” Ginny asks. “With judge number six?”
“Everything.” There’s only so much I can say, since I never told her that I’ve been flirting with a total stranger while I’ve been walking her dog. “You didn’t tell me about the questionnaire. He asked me about my favorite book.”
I slide my gaze over to Ginny and smirk. “Fifty Shades? Seriously?”
She gives me a blank look. “Everyone loves that book. It sold something like a million copies.”
Well, 125 million, actually. My librarian soul weeps every time I think about that statistic.
“I know, but why on earth would you choose something so . . . so”—I want to say embarrassing, but I also don’t want to sound like a Puritan, because I have a feeling that would lead to a discussion of my dating life, or lack thereof. And I can’t have that conversation. Not now, not when I’ve just been so thoroughly rejected by the only man I’ve been remotely interested in since Adam—“controversial?”
“That’s precisely why I chose it. Miss American Treasure should be a strong woman with a strong opinion. I would have defended that book by talking about how empowering it was for a lot of women.”
It’s an interesting take. It’s also one I never would have come up with on the fly. “A heads-up would have been nice.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think to go over the questionnaire. Anyway, I figured your answers wouldn’t be a problem.” She shrugs. “You’ve always been the smart one.”
The smart one.
I’ve never thought of myself that way. All this time, I’ve been so painfully aware of Ginny’s reputation as the pretty one that I haven’t for a moment considered how I fit into the equation.
Maybe I haven’t been as invisible as I’d thought.
The smart one. It sounds like a compliment, but I know better. If I’m the smart one, that means Ginny is the opposite—the dumb one. I know this as surely as I know what not being the pretty one means.
I reach for my twin’s hand and squeeze it tight.
She squeezes mine back, and I know without a doubt that I can’t quit the pageant. Switching places might not be such a bad thing. It might even be the best thing that’s ever happened to us.
Like it or not, I’m in this for the long haul.