Page 34 of Faking Cinderella
I’m not overly worried about being recognized here. My father loves the limelight, so while I’m known in some circles, I’m notfamousfamous the way some of my friends from childhood are because dear ol’ dad takes all of the attention from Aurora Gardens and the family for himself and rarely shines it on anyone else.
But I’d still prefer that an unexpected roommate had grown up somewhere much, much farther from New York.
Much farther from where I’m occasionally on local news channels.
An engine hums outside, saving me from having to come up with a quick follow-up question that I don’t want to know the answer to.
Like, were you living there before coming here? or how much do you pay attention to the New York scene?
“Jack’s here.” Rhys takes one last spoonful, finishing his bowl of soup, and rises, heading toward the front door.
My belly flutters.
The one thing I didn’t expect when I decided to come out here to meet my half brothers was how much I’d like them.
I hoped I would, but you never know what you’ll find on the other side of a DNA test. See also, my father is an asshole, and while my mother doesn’t like him much, she likes the life he provides enough that she does what he tells her.
Neither of which I appreciate having in my DNA.
But here, Lucky’s been so very kind.
Decker might be suspicious, but I respect that about him.
Listening to them talk at the coffee shop yesterday—it was like watching Daphne in action. I canseethe family resemblance, even if they likely don’t see it back in me.
No matter how hard I play at being Margie.
It doesn’t escape my notice that Rhys checks above the door before he opens it.
Like he has concerns that I’ve constructed more booby traps just for fun.
I hear a voice outside, but the door shuts before I can filter out the words.
After two more rushed bites of stew—seriously, you wouldn’t think beef and barley and some random vegetables could taste this good, but they do—I head outside too.
Jack doesn’t spot me immediately. He and Rhys are pulling tools out of the back of Jack’s truck, so I get a second to take stock of my third half brother while my heart speeds up and my eyes sting a little.
He’s real.
There truly are three of them.
And this third brother of mine has his hair military-short, with his face clean-shaven. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and there’s a mid-size black-and-brown mutt poking his head out of the truck with a happy grin.
All three of the triplets have distinctive styles.
If Daph and I shared a face, people still would’ve been able to tell us apart based on our haircuts and clothing choices, so that makes sense.
I’m almost to the car, debating pausing to meet the dog first, before Jack notices me and does a double take.
“Hi.” I extend a hand. “I’m Margie.”
“Jack.” He shakes, his grip warm and friendly without being weak, and I instantly like him too. His smile’s not as goldenretriever-ish as Lucky’s, but also nowhere near as skeptical as Decker’s. “So weird. You have my brother’s eyes.”
I blink at him as my eyes sting harder.
I havebrothers.
Family.
