Page 19 of Patrick

She blows out a breathy whistle because she doesn’t really know how to whistle properly. “Definitely give me a call after that encounter.”

I laugh, but a chill runs through me, a scary-excited trill of nerves. “I will. Wish me luck.”

“Seriously, Sof, you don’t need luck. Just do you and try not to lose your head, not completely anyway.”

I nod and then thank her for being her as we end the call. It’s hard to believe we’re twins. We’re clearly not identical. About the only two things we have in common one hundred percent are that we’re both smart and we’re both hopeless romantics.

Staring at the phone as I drop it on my bed, I let out a shuddering sigh. There’s no time like the present. One of Dad’s favorite sayings, except he usually says it in Italian, Chi ha tempo non aspetti tempo.

I pick up the phone and tap in Trick’s number. It’s not something I’d ever save on my phone, but it’s been imprinted in my memory ever since I got it in high school.

He picks up after two rings, and my heart booms in my chest for a beat.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Fifi. I… I’m glad you called.”

“You were worried I wouldn’t call?”

“Nah. But I thought you might make me wait.”

I laugh, and my tension snaps, and the hesitation that always haunts me when it comes to Patrick Jennings melts away under the heat of his charm.

“I’m not playing games, Trick. That’s your thing.”

“It takes two to play, Fifi.”

“In that case, why don’t you come over and play with me tonight?”

Silence. The call goes so quiet for two, three, four beats, and I wonder if my call dropped or if I hit the phone wrong⁠—

“Tonight? What do you have in mind?”

“Nothing special, really. I thought you could come over, and we could hang out together, maybe share a glass of wine.” Why do I suddenly sound so unsure? I know what I’m doing, and we need to spend time together to see how strong our connection is, don’t we?

“Share a glass of wine? Did your old man put you on a budget? Can’t we each have our own glass?”

I laugh, feeling a wash of warmth at his easy humor, but I also recognize an evasion when I hear it.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

There’s another silent pause, but only for a beat this time.

His voice is quiet. “I live at home, Fifi, remember? My parents are expecting me.”

“You may live at home, but you’re not in high school anymore. I thought you were an independent adult.”

“I am, but I happen to respect my parents.”

“So that means you don’t want to spend the night with me?”

“Spend the night? You mean all night?” The way he says the words, partly with disbelief and partly with longing so acute that I squirm and a flush of heat rushes straight up from my toes to my face. I touch my cheeks to feel the scorching warmth there.

“Yes.” The word comes out hoarse, and I gulp down my excitement, but there’s no stopping my heart palpitations. I haven’t felt like this since we last kissed.

“You move fast.” His voice is lower, with an intimate quality that sends a shiver through me.