Claire

2012

“Seven... eight... nine... ten—ready or not, here I come!” I shout before uncovering my eyes and turning around. The living room is deceptively quiet, considering I happen to babysit for the most rambunctious five-year-old on the planet. “Where could Simon be?” I say it loud, waiting for the telltale giggle that usually answers the question.

No giggle.

I creep around the couch and check behind it before going for his favorite spot. Whipping the living room curtains aside, I stir up a flurry of dust bunnies but no Simon.

“Hmmm…” I call out, heading for the tiny dining room off the kitchen. “I wonder if he has invisible superpowers?” There’s the giggle. Under the dining room table.

I tip-toe around the table, suppressing a laugh when I see that the king-sized bed sheet we used to build a pillow fort is hopelessly askew and showing Simon perfectly. He’s sitting under the table with his eyes squeezed shut in an if-I-can’t-see-her-she-can’t-see-me sort of way. Hunkering down, I boop him on the nose with my finger. “I see you.”

As soon as I touch the tip of my finger to his nose, Simon dissolves into another fit of giggles. “You found me,” he says, his eyes popping open.

“You’re my best friend,” I tell him, ruffling his mop of dark brown hair. “I’ll always find you... ready to help me start dinner?”

It’s not really my job. Simon’s older brother should’ve been home an hour ago, but he sent me a text saying, Got caught up. Can you start dinner? Makings for spaghetti are sitting out on the counter and Simon’s on a pretty tight schedule.

I might as well make myself useful.

Right. You just want to help. It has nothing to do with the fact that Simon’s brother is so scorching hot that you’d probably do just about anything he asked you to do.

Simon nods, crawling out from under the table before taking me by the hand to lead me into the kitchen. Boosting him up to the sink, I help him wash his hands before setting him at the table in his booster seat. “Ready to squish?” Ignoring the jar of store-bought sauce on the counter, I scrounge up a few cans of stewed tomatoes. Opening them, I pour them into a large bowl.

Simon wiggles his fingers at me. “Ready Freddy.”

I set the bowl in front of him, and he digs in, using his small, chubby fingers to break up the tomatoes for the sauce. Every time he pops a tomato in his fist, he cackles like a maniac.

Damn, I love this kid.

I put a pot of water on to boil before chopping garlic and onions, adding them to the pan with a drizzle of olive oil and some dried basil I found in the spice cabinet. Digging around for oregano, my phone starts to ring.

“Jax!” Simon calls out, automatically assuming it’s his older brother calling me. Just hearing his name makes my stomach flip, leaving me nauseous and giddy, all at the same time. I pick up my phone, hoping the kid is right, even though all he ever says to me when he calls is, hey, can you pick Simon from daycare or hey, do you know how to make meatloaf? or can you sit for Simon on Tuesday?

Which are stupid questions.

Of course, I’ll pick Simon up and of course, I know how to make meatloaf.

I’ve been head chef at Chez St. James for seven years now. Since my mother packed her bags and left us when I was eleven. And spending time with Simon is one of my all-time favorite things to do. I’d even offer to do it for free if I didn’t think my willingness to hang out with her five-year-old for free would make his mom question my mental health.

Still, a girl can hope that someday, the boy she’s marginally obsessed with will call her one day and say hey, do you want to go out sometime?

But it’s not Jaxon calling. It’s my sister, Brianna. My twin sister. We aren’t identical—as a matter of fact, if you didn’t know better, you’d swear we aren’t even related.

“Not Jax,” I say, flashing Simon the phone. She babysat for him once while I had the flu a few years ago. It didn’t go well. As soon as he sees my sister’s duck-lip selfie on the screen, he curls his lip up at my phone and pops a tomato in his fist.

Laughing, I answer the phone, putting it on speaker before propping it up on the counter. “What’s up?” I say, running my knife through a bell pepper I found wilting in the crisper.

“When are you coming home?” Bri says over the din of what sounds like a live deejay. We just graduated high school, and our father is out of town, so it’s an actual possibility.

“Are you having a party?” I toss the bell pepper into the pan before adding a pinch of salt to the pot of water simmering to a boil on the back of the stove.

“Party is a strong word—” In the background, someone shouts the keg is here! “—it’s just a few friends... so, when are you coming home?”

“I’m not sure.” To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to come home. Staying here and playing hide-and-seek with Simon is more my speed. Still, I look at the clock. It’s after six now. I should’ve been home an hour ago. “Mrs. Bennett doesn’t get off until eleven and Jaxon gets off—”

The backdoor opens behind me, and I feel my stomach do its tilt-a-whirl thing again because it’s him. It’s Jaxon, and even though I see him almost every day, I still get a little bit lightheaded when I do.

“Jaxon gets off when you finally open that bank vault you call a vagina and—”

Oh, my god.

It all happens at once. Jaxon walking through the door and Simon’s excited shout, all while Bri’s voice rings out loud and clear, the phone’s volume up high enough that it sounds like she’s standing in the kitchen with me. There’s no way he didn’t just hear what she said.

I drop the knife in my hand and it clatters to the floor while I jab my finger at the screen, knocking the phone over. I don’t succeed in turning off the speakerphone, but I do succeed in hanging up on my sister all together. Which is even better. If I could load her and her big mouth into a cannon and shoot her across Lake Michigan, I would.

Back still turned, I listen to Simon, yammering at his brother a mile-a-minute while I beg the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

I have a major thing for Jaxon Bennett. Have had a major thing for him since he and his family moved here when Simon was a baby. I was thirteen and Jaxon was fifteen. Five years is a long time to want something you know you’re never going to get. It was bad enough, suffering in silence. Now that he knows, I might have to fake my own death and join the French Foreign Legion.

My phone keeps ringing. I answer it because not answering feels like some sort of acknowledgment of what my sister just broadcasted. “What?” I mutter, while behind me, I hear the scrape of Simon’s kitchen chair and Jaxon telling him to go wash his hands.

“Was I on speaker phone?” It sounds like she’s moved to a more quiet part of the house. “Oh my god, is he there?”

“Yes and yes.” I turn the heat down on the veggies I have going in the pan. “What do you want?”

“Ice,” she says in a small voice. Bri isn’t the most sensitive person that ever lived, but she’s always been careful with my feelings. Benefit of being her twin, I guess. “I just wanted you to swing by the store on your way home and grab a couple bags of ice... Claire, I’m—”

“Ice. Got it.” Breath catches in my throat when I feel Jaxon move behind me, getting closer. The bowl of pulverized tomatoes appears in front of me. “Jaxon’s back so I’ll be home in a bit.” I hang up the phone, tossing it on the counter, in favor of the bowl of tomatoes he put in front of me. “Thanks,” I say, shooting him a brief smile that I hope like hell says, my sister is an idiot. Actually, I think she might be on drugs. I pour the bowl into the skillet in front of me and give it a good stir before lowering the heat to let the sauce thicken.

He’s still standing next to me, hip leaned against the counter, head lowered just a bit so he can see my face. He’s huge. At well over six-feet, he towers over me. Broad shoulders and chest. Thick, powerful arms. Long, muscular legs. Huge hands. There’s a lot about Jaxon Bennett that gets me hot and bothered but for some reason, thinking about his hands sends a flush of heat rushing over me, from head to toe. God, he smells good. Like sawdust and watermelon. Why does he always smell like watermelon?

“You know...” He turns, bracing his back against the counter beside me so that we’re facing each other. “When I asked if you could start dinner, I didn’t mean for you to go all Martha Stewart on me.” He reaches past me and drags the jar of store-bought sauce across the counter until it’s sitting in front of me.

We’re pretending my sister didn’t announce to the entire planet that I want to tear your clothes off? Okay. Good.

Looking up, I focus on one thing. One feature of his face because that’s the only way I can be present in this conversation. I know from experience that I can’t be this close to him and not hyperventilate without some sort of distraction.

Gaze settled on the bridge of his nose, I shake my head, making a disgusted noise in the back of my throat. “Pssft.” I look down at the jar, reaching out to push it back. “That stuff tastes like wallpaper paste.”

The second our hands connect, I stop breathing. His fingers slide over the back of my hand, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

I watch as his broad, callused hand, very deliberately, turns mine in its grip. “What would we do without you, Claire?” he says in a low tone while the pad of his thumb sweeps over the underside of my wrist. Slow, soft circles that shoot up my arm and down my spine. Lower and deeper until I can feel each stroke of his thumb against every place I want him to touch me.

Oh. I guess we’re not pretending...

I look up at him. The whole Jaxon. Deep brown eyes. Dark hair. Strong jaw. Full mouth. Slightly crooked nose that looks like it’s been broken once or twice, which instead of messing up the aesthetic, makes him even hotter for some reason.

He’s looking down at me, his gaze dark and unreadable and I get the feeling he’s thinking about kissing me, which is crazy.

Guys like Jaxon don’t kiss me.

Correction: guys don’t kiss me.

Period.

Guys kiss Bri. Want Bri. They don’t want me. Plain Jane, jeans and sneakers me. They just don’t.

The most I ever get is a random, I’ve never fucked twins before like that’s enough to get me all hot and bothered. Like I should be eager to give my virginity to some guy who’s just looking to check nailed twins off his pre-college checklist.

No thanks.

He’s leaning into me, his lips hovering, inches above mine, slightly open. “Claire...” My name sounds rough, uneven, his gaze nailed to my mouth.

Ohmygod, he is going to kiss me.

Don’tpassout

Don’tpassout

Don’tpas—

“I’m hungry,” Simon announces from the doorway, and I jerk my wrist out of his grip like we were caught doing something wrong. Which we weren’t. I’m eighteen. Old enough to be kissed. More than kissed. The fact that I haven’t been eats at me, almost shames me, even though I know the reason why. The reason why is standing right in front of me. I don’t want to be kissed—more than kissed—by just anyone.

I want to be more than kissed by Jaxon Bennett.

“Eight minutes,” I say, reaching for the box of pasta. My hands are shaking, and I fumble with the top for a second before I finally just rip it off. I drop dried noodles into boiling water before adding another generous pinch of salt.

I step back from the stove while wiping my hands on a dish towel. Jaxon is still looking at me. Watching me. “I’ve got to get home.” I’m not sure which brother I’m saying it to, but as soon as I do, Simon lets out a wail of protest that snags at my heart.

“I’ll be back—”

“Simon, should we ask Claire to stay?” Jaxon says, still looking at me.

“Yeah!” Simon runs at me, throwing his arms around my legs, digging his chin into my belly so he can look up at me. “Stay for dinner, plleease.”

I drop a hand on his head, running my fingers through his dark hair—the same, exact shade as his older brother’s—looking down into his pleading face.

Did I happen to mention how much I love this kid?

I sigh, my resolve to get myself out of here and away from Jaxon before I do or say something stupid, wobbling under the weight of his stare.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll stay.”