The Twin Switch

It was a splurging kind of a weekend, I reminded myself. You only got the perfect sister-in-law once in your life.

Two bellhops wheeled our luggage into the lobby and we followed.

“We could go see some male exotic dancers,” Nat said.

Brooklyn winced. “Pass.”

I smiled. I knew Nat was joking. If Sophie had suggested it, I might have taken her seriously.

“Don’t be too hasty,” Sophie said. “After all, what do you think James is doing with the guys right now?”

“You think James is watching male exotic dancers?” Brooklyn asked as we made our way past the fountain to the check-in desk.

“Female,” Sophie said.

There was no lineup. In fact, there were three attendants available. Nice.

Brooklyn swung her tote bag onto her shoulder. “The guys are watching a doubleheader.”

“Afterward,” Sophie said.

I couldn’t imagine James going to a strip show. He was absolutely not the type.

But Brooklyn got a funny expression on her face, like she thought maybe it was a possibility, even though the idea was ridiculous.

“Are you checking in today?” the woman behind the counter asked us in a chipper voice that said she was delighted to be here to help us.

“We’re the Christie party,” Nat answered, deftly pulling a copy of the reservation from her bag.

Hanging back, I spoke to Brooklyn in an undertone. “You’re not worried about James, are you?”

Brooklyn frowned and gave a noncommittal shrug. Then she moved toward the counter, digging into her bag. “Do you need my credit card?”

“I just need one for check-in,” the woman said. “When you check out, you can split the charges if you like.”

I repositioned myself so that I was beside Brooklyn.

“He’s not going to see a stripper,” I whispered, wondering how she could possibly be worried about James’s behavior.

James, with a master’s degree in economics, who’d landed a job at one of the most conservative consulting firms in Seattle, who only spoke in complete sentences and who guarded his social media accounts as if he had the nuclear launch codes, would not be hanging out at a strip club.

I couldn’t imagine him risking someone snapping his picture in a strip club—even if he did want to see naked women. Which he did not, because there wasn’t a woman in the country more beautiful than Brooklyn.

Brooklyn was a fashion buyer for a chain of Seattle boutiques. But she could have been a movie star or a supermodel. There was nowhere for James to go but down in the looks department.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

She turned her head and smiled. “What could possibly be wrong?”

There was something in her eyes. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Did James do something?” I asked her.

“No.”

“Are you mad at him?”

“No.”

“Then what…?”

“Nothing.” Brooklyn smiled again. “He’s perfect. James is perfect. And I’m going to book a spa appointment.” She reached for the brochure on the countertop.

“I can help with that,” the check-in woman said as she handed Nat’s credit card back to her.

“Something with aromatherapy,” Brooklyn said.

I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced by Brooklyn’s nonchalance, but I thought about hot stones pressed slowly across my oiled back and decided anything else could wait.

Massaged and steamed and showered and dressed, I spotted Sophie sitting at the bar in the lounge. A jazz trio was playing in the corner while candles flickered on the mottled glass tables. The chairs were white leather, and a glass mosaic decorated the wall behind the bar.

I was wearing three-inch heels with my silver cocktail dress, so I was happy to rest my feet by perching next to Sophie.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Vodka martini.”

The bartender arrived, another cute guy. “Can I get you something?”

His smile was friendly, definitely flirtatious. And he was classically handsome, probably thirty or so, with intelligent gray eyes.

I certainly had nothing against bartenders, except when you met them at their work. There they flirted with everybody. Like the valets out front, their shift was made or broken by their tips.

“I’ll take one of those,” I said, pointing to Sophie’s glass.

I smiled at him, but made it brief. I didn’t want to spend the evening chatting with the bartender. I wanted to spend it with my girlfriends.

Across the lounge, a very handsome profile came into my view, distracting me.

Okay, this guy wasn’t a bartender, or a valet, or a public school teacher of any kind—that was for sure.

His perfectly cut suit was draped over a perfectly sculpted body. His haircut was shaggy-neat, that kind where you paid the earth to look like you’d rolled out of bed and had every hair fall naturally into place.

Even as I mentally mocked the style, I liked it.

He turned, and I caught his handsome face full-on. He could have just walked off a magazine cover. He should have walked off a magazine cover with that chiseled chin and those startlingly bright blue eyes.

He caught me staring, but he didn’t smile. I felt heat hit my cheeks, anyway.