Page 33 of Hot Mess
When I arrived at work on Wednesday morning, just before nine o’clock, the office door was unlocked and the reception area smelled of freshly-brewed coffee. That Cake song “Short Skirt/Long Jacket” was playing. Which meant my cousin, Jolie, was in.
I could hear her running water in the kitchen up the hall, probably watering the plants. She always watered the plants on Wednesday.
I deposited the fresh bouquet of pink Gerbera daisies I’d bought for her in the empty vase on her reception desk. This was kinda one of my things: gifting people flowers. I called it “random acts of flowers.”
“Good morning!” I called out, and I heard Jolie call out some answering greeting as I headed for my office. It was the smallest one, but at least I had walls. And a window that looked into reception, if not a window that looked outside. The reception area was flooded with light from the big front windows, so I got some indirect sunlight.
When Voilà Interiors moved into this space three years ago, decorating it was a family affair. The office was sparse, modern, and now mostly white, which my aunt Madeleine preferred, with pops of soft color, which I preferred. And like my apartment, it was furnished with carefully curated antiques.
My office featured a gorgeous French desk and two Queen Anne chairs upholstered in butter-yellow. Every time I walked in the door, this room made me smile. I’d turn on the light and prop the door open, put on some music if Jolie didn’t already have some on. Then I’d unpack my laptop and set it up to start organizing my day.
Not today.
Today, I shut the door behind myself, and when I sat down and opened my laptop, I went straight online—and image searched Ashley Player.
Like some addict in need of a hit.
Damn.Still gorgeous.
I scrolled guiltily through the images. So far, I wasn’t doing so well with the whole forgetting-about-him thing.
Kinda hard to do, when the grocery store where I’d met him was right across the street from my office. Every time I went in there—like I’d done just now to buy Jolie’s flowers—or even just walked by, it reminded me of him. And before I knew it, I’d tripped into another daydream featuring thatlookhe’d given me on Saturday night.
Technically, he was giving that look to my sister, since he thought I was her.
But still.
I’dfeltthat look, all the way to my bones.
I could still see him standing there, right in front of me…
He was wet, and I could smell the leather of his black jacket. His hands were in his pockets and he had no umbrella, no hat. Rain was dripping off his short black hair. His angsty black if-James-Dean-were-a-rock-star eyebrows were drawn together over his blue, blue eyes, and holy hell, were theyintenseon me.
I knew his father was Italian—because I had an internet connection, and yes, I’d Wikipedia’d him—and you could guess it, maybe, if not for those extreme blue eyes and his sharp nose. He had a lot of sharp angles to his face, and those killer cheekbones… but his lips were all soft and flushed.
He had a small earring in each ear with a black stone in it, a piercing in his left eyebrow, and one, according to the internet, in his tongue. I’d glimpsed it when he licked his lip while we spoke… and spent the rest of the night wondering what it would feel like in my mouth.
I realized he thought I was my sister. And I knew she’d ghosted him.
So I did the same.
I gave him the slip, because in the moment, I really didn’t know what else to do.
I should’ve stayed, maybe. Explained who I was?
That I wasn’t her.
But he was so… drunk.
And I was soembarrassed.
That he thought I was her.
That she was such abitchto him.
I just wanted him to stop looking at me and thinking I was someone I wasn’t.
I’d never felt more…uneasy… about that look in someone’s eyes—the one that told me they’d mistaken me for my twin sister.
