Page 165 of Law Maker
She shook her head. “No. I’ll wait for yours so we can open them together. Like one of those videos where besties take pregnancy tests at the same time and squeal because they’re both pregnant.”
“That’s not even the weirdest part.” My hand hovered over her laptop’s touchpad, and she swatted me away as if I’d actually click. I wouldn’t, but I loved teasing her.
“Not the weirdest?”
“No.” I stretched across the comforter. “The weird part is screwing your boyfriend on the same days so you and your best friend can get pregnant together.”
Alba narrowed her eyes. “So, you’re saying we’re not doing that? Rude.”
I burst out laughing. “No, Albita, we are not doing that.”
She shut the laptop, set it on the nightstand, and flopped beside me.
“Open the email, chicken.” I nudged her. “You know you got in.”
“Since we’re not banging twin brothers on schedule to have identical twin kids, let me at least open my acceptance email with my best friend.”
I turned my head on the pillow. “Okay, but no filming. I mean it. Also, twin brothers? That’s next-level weird.”
“They say twins are more likely to date twins.”
“I must’ve missed the part where your Spanish ass and my American one could pass as siblings.”
“Yeah.” She scrunched her nose. “Your odds are better with Asher—or should I say, the hot young racer who just signed with Vortex and who you’re gonna see in a couple hours?”
I flipped her off, and she giggled. “Kidding. There’s way too much sexual tension between you two for me to suggest family ties.”
She wasn’t wrong. About the tension—or the hot racer part.
A knot tightened in my stomach. Asher was here, in Argentina, racing for Vortex. His first official race of the season with the new team. The second I found out, I blew a chunk of my savings on tickets and this hotel room for Alba and me. Like the amazing friend she was, she came without a single question.
Vortex wasn’t just better than my father’s team—it was better than any superbike team in the States. I wanted Asher to succeed, even if thinking about him still felt like walking barefoot on shards of glass.
Marta said it wasn’t unusual for people with my family history to develop anxious attachment. Years of scarce affection made it logical I’d cling to the one person who gave it to me in spades.
I was better now. I could read articles about him, scroll through our pictures without crying. I had friends. I had dancing.
But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t have latched onto just anyone. The trust and kinship I’d had with Asher—that had been rare. Special.
Which didn’t mean his abandonment hadn’t hurt. It sure as hell didn’t mean I’d forget he left after promising he wouldn’t. But I still cared. Because of everything we went through—and despite it.
“Hey.” Alba’s expression softened. “I was kidding. I know you’re nervous to see him.”
“Not to see him. To be recognized by him. Which is why I’ve got this.”
I grabbed a bag from the floor and pulled out two wigs—a blond one for me, an auburn one for Alba.
She snatched hers, fighting laughter until the tip of her nose turned red.
I slid mine on. “Say it.”
“You should’ve gotten me a blond one too. Then we’d double our chances of dating identical twins.”
***
My shirt clung to my back as Alba and I waited in the stands. Almost fall in Santiago del Estero, but it didn’t feel like it in eighty-five degrees.
I ignored the blazing sun and the sweat trickling down my spine, eyes locked on the starting grid.
