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I smile at her assumption that I’d made good on my dreams. “Actually, I’m more into helping others build things these days.”
“How so?”
“My side gig is that I mentor up-and-coming tech entrepreneurs. They’re mostly young kids in high school or early university, and they have big ideas, but they need someone to guide them through getting started in the business side of things.” Even just talking about it gets me jazzed. “I help them obtain funding and investments, navigate government grants, figure out how to set up a company. That kind of stuff.”
“That’s amazing.” She leans forward, her eyes sparkling. “What a great gift you’re giving them.”
“It’s very rewarding. In fact, the first guy I mentored sold an app to Microsoft this past year.” I can’t help but puff my chest out. “His tech teacher was a friend of a friend, and I went into his school for a career day thing. He approached me after and told me about his idea. That was seven years ago. Now he’s twenty-two and a millionaire.”
Presley’s mouth popped open. “That’sincredible.”
“Itisincredible. I still remember when he was fifteen and could barely make eye contact while speaking to an adult. Now he does a bunch of speaking gigs and he teaches others, as well.” The pride is a warm burn in my stomach. “He’s paying it forward.”
A waiter arrives at the table to take our orders, but I can barely think about food. We decide to let the chef choose for us. Everything is swirling in my head—the issue with my grandfather’s company, everything I left behind in Sydney, the beautiful woman sitting in front of me. My brain feels like it’s about to explode.
“I bet you can’t wait to get back to it all,” she says.
Her comment abruptly stops the swirling. “I’m not planning to go back.”
“To Sydney?”
“To any of it.” Something is compelling me to fess up to Presley about why I’m really here. But I have to ease into it. “My dad is going to retire and I want to take over his position.”
“How come you don’t work for the company now?”
Ah, that million-dollar question. I rake a hand through my hair. “You know how people tend to be pigheaded and stubborn when they’re young?”
She laughs and it lights her whole face. “Uh, yeah.”
“Well, I thought I needed to go and make it on my own steam. My dad and I had very different ideas about business, and my working for him was killing our relationship. So, about ten years ago, I left the company and moved to Sydney.” I reach for my drink. It’s almost instinctive now whenever I think about that time—about the hurtful insults my father and I hurled at one another. About the words I can never take back. “My dad had a heart attack—his first one—right after I left. My stepmother blamed me for causing all the stress that made him sick, told me never to come back. She said I wasn’t welcome in their house anymore.”
Mike had backed her up. I’d called to see if he was okay but neither of them would put my father on the phone. I regret letting them keep me from him. I should never have stayed away when he was ill, because it only poisoned our relationship further. But I was only twenty-two. I was young, hurt, and I let it eat away at me.
“Families are so complicated, aren’t they?” Presley shakes her head.
“Not easy being a twin?”
We pause as our food arrives—delicate little morsels of goodness designed to share. I reach for a croquette and place it on my plate, along with some smoked meat and roasted potato covered in a fragrant sauce. There’s something intimate about this—sharing food and stories about our lives. Talking about important things.
These days most of my conversations revolve around business. It’s been alongtime since I told anyone about my family. For all my friends and business acquaintances in Sydney know about me, I could be an orphan.
“People like to compare, and twins are very easy to compare,” she says, spearing a piece of potato with her fork. She brings it to her mouth and wraps those full red lips around the fork, sliding it back out while making a noise that’s going to haunt me forever. “My God, that’s good.”
There’s a little streak of lipstick left on her cutlery. I have this pounding desire to be marked by her—to wear those smears of red like battle scars. I want to find those smudges everywhere on my chest and chin and on my cock.
“So, are you the good twin or the bad twin?” I tease, trying to maintain some levity through the sexual desire burning through my veins.
“The good twin, unfortunately. Not that Drew is bad, mind you. She’s just...” Presley sighs. “She’s always been the cool one, you know? She’s got this rocker-chick vibe and men basically fall at her feet. She could have any guy when we were in school, and I was the dorky one with my cardigan buttoned up to my chin and a stack of books in my hands.”
“You lookanythingbut buttoned up right now.”
A pretty pink flush spreads across her cheeks. “I borrowed this dress from Drew,” she confesses.
“And the lipstick?”God, that lipstick.
“Dior Dolce Vita Red.” She grins as though I might have a clue what those words mean. “Apparently it’s what Dita Von Teese wears.”
“Well, it looks phenomenal. I would have mistaken you for the bad twin.”
