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“I’m pretty sure this is you.”
“Nope. I have a twin sister. That’s her. You’ll want to go to her place. This is just a big mistake, really…”
“I’m also sure that you’re an only child.”
“How the hell would you know that?” Sydney thought briefly about running, locking herself in the bathroom, and calling the cops, but something about the way the guy was looking at her, with burning deep green eyes and a kindly, far too amused smile, kept her rooted to the spot.
There was also the fact that she couldn’t move faster than the pace of a snail without wanting to bend over double and retch up everything she’d eaten for a week.
God, I am never drinking again.
“I have a very specific set of instructions.”
The man stuck out one of those weathered hands. It looked non-threatening, with the blunt fingers and the square nails. The guy was shorter than she was, around five foot eight probably, and likely weighed no more than a buck forty. She figured she could take him down, if things ended up getting dicey.
Her hand slowly closed around his. Her curiosity had always been her downfall. Years ago, she’d made the fatal mistake of wondering what it would be like to sleep with a guy who was pretty much her best friend since childhood. That went to hell in a damn handbasket in like, two and a half seconds. She’d moved to San Francisco because she wanted to see if she could make it on her own. Her sense of adventure drove her from home, drove her to try and make something of herself. Which she’d failed pretty miserably at too.
Every single guy she’d ever dated was all wrong. They were mysterious though, handsome. They’d find her at the grocery store, in the park, jogging, when she was out with her friends, when she was volunteering, on public transit. They’d corner her with that mischievous glint in their eye and a wicked smile on their face and she was done. Hook line and sinker because she couldn’t help herself. She just kept thinking that she couldn’t pass up the chance at finding out if it could work, if there was still a single decent guy left in the world.
Unfortunately, she’d found out the hard way there wasn’t and after her latest dating disaster, she’d drunk herself under the table in the most epic of ways. Okay, pretty much the only way one could do that. Likely literally, though she couldn’t remember if her friends had literally fished her out from under the grimy, gum infested underside of a table off sticky floor tiles, thank god.
She arched a brow as her hand curled over his. He had a surprisingly strong grip, for a guy that was likely pushing sixty.
“Francis, right?”
“Excuse me?” He pumped her hand once, then let his fall back to his side. “Your name. It’s Francis.”
“Martin, actually.”
“Okay, Francis.”
The guy’s bushy grey eyebrows knit together. “Why do you keep calling me Francis? That’s not my name.”
“Because you keep calling me Miss Underhill and that’s not my name.”
“Twin sister or not, your name would still be Underhill.”
“Ahhh…” she stalled for time, searching her sloshy brain for a way out of the hole she was digging herself in deeper and deeper by the second.
She still had no idea what she had done and thinking about it only amped her anxiety in a big way. It did nothing for her poor stomach, which twisted violently, threatening to upchuck some of the contents of drinks she couldn’t remember drinking. Maybe there had been a late-night poutine too? She and Jasmine had been known to go out and get some greasy, gravy smothered fries after a night out.
“Well… you see, I’m afraid that used to be my name, but I’m actually married now. My husband is going to be down here any second and I’m afraid he’s pretty crazy protective of me and having guys show up on our doorstep won’t be appreciated. You get it. Uh- you should probably go. If you don’t want him to come down here and chase you back to your car.”
The guy, Francis, Martin- whatever… crossed his arms over his chest. A chest that was still surprisingly fit for an older dude. He actually made that black suit uniform looking thing look pretty good. All that he was missing was one of those conductor chauffer style cap things.
“You’re not married.”
“No? How the heck would you know?” This time it was her turn to cross her arms. She wished she could slam the door in his face, but his foot was still there.
She was growing steadily annoyed, and more positive by the second, that this guy didn’t have underworld ties. He wasn’t an undercover cop either, so she couldn’t have done anything illegal the night before. Which left the fact that he was some creepy dude looking for her for unknown reasons. That both infuriated and terrified her, and all she could do was produce a mental count in her hung-over, cotton thick brain and focus on breathing like a calm, rational person who had nothing to fear would do.
