Nov 212019
 

Space (Laws of Physics #2; Hypothesis #2.2) by Penny Reid

One week.

Private cabin.

Famous physicist.

Still an unrepentant slacker.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Mona’s meticulously planned allotment of relaxation is thrown into chaos by the unscheduled appearance of her older brother’s band of friends, including the one person she’d hoped to never face again. Abram still makes her feel entirely too much, which is one of the reasons she disappeared after their one week together. But now, trapped on a mountain of snow and things unspoken, Mona will have to find a way to coexist with Abram, chaos and all.

Laws of Physics is the second trilogy in the Hypothesis series; Laws of Physics parts 1 (MOTION) & 2 (SPACE) end with a cliffhanger.

Excerpt Space (Laws of Physics #2; Hypothesis #2.2) by Penny Reid

“Hi—hello,” she said, stepping forward but not out of the way, drawing my attention.

She was still staring at me, her face still pale, but her eyes had turned searching instead of stunned.

“I—” She stopped herself, swallowing, her gaze dropping to the front of my coat, a cute little frown furrowing her eyebrows. In the next moment, she was pulling off the glove of her right hand. Abruptly, she shoved the ungloved fingers toward me, returning her eyes to mine. “I’m Mona.”

I suppressed my disbelief at her small action before it could break my outward mask of calm. I wasn’t calm. Just to be clear, I was the opposite of calm.

The fact that she was introducing herself to me now meant that she thought I was too stupid to figure out her lies over the last two-and-a-half-fucking years. She was arguably one of the smartest people in the world, after all. To her, people like me must seem like housebroken pets. So it shouldn’t have surprised me. But it did. The tension and tightness around my ribs reappeared, squeezing uncomfortably.

Dropping my attention to her bare hand, I pressed my lips into a tighter line, dismissing the way my pulse jumped at the sight of her wrist, the olive tone of her skin under the yellow string lights overhead. Glaring at her outstretched offering, I considered telling her to go to hell.

I considered it, but I wouldn’t.

I didn’t trust myself to speak, that was reason number one.

The other reason was harder to explain, or use as a justification, or admit to myself. Staring at her hand, I braced against a sudden flare of hunger. She might consider me a lower life-form, but that didn’t change the fact that I wanted to touch her. I wanted to touch her more than I wanted to tell her to go to hell, and that was fucking pitiful.

But there it was.

Acting on the compulsion, I lifted my right hand and tugged off the ski glove, sliding my warm palm against her much colder one. Her hand felt good in my hand, the right weight, the right size, the right texture, and I inhaled freezing air.

Mona also seemed to suck in a slow but expansive breath as our hands touched, held. This brought my eyes back to hers in time to see her lashes flutter. Pink colored her previously pale cheeks. The sound of the wailing wind, the sting of the air and frost momentarily melted away, leaving just her, her soft skin warming against mine, her beautiful face filling my vision.

So beautiful.

She really was. She was stunning. I hated that she was still so beautiful to me.

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Nov 192019
 

Outmatched by Kristen Callihan and Samantha Young

What happens when a boxer finds chemistry with a geek?

Parker Brown can’t believe she needs to hire a fake boyfriend. When she landed her dream job in renewable energy, she thought she’d be entering a world at the forefront of progressive thinking. But the head boss prefers to promote employees who are “settled.” Thankfully, she’s found the perfect candidate, a fellow intellectual looking for some quick cash. What Parker gets is his protective big brother—Rhys Morgan. The tall, muscled ex-boxer with a foul mouth shows up just as her boss does, and now she’s stuck with the manipulative jerk.

Responsibility weighs heavily on Rhys. Now permanently out of the ring, he’s trying to hold together his late father’s gym and keep his younger brother, Dean, on the straight and narrow. To save Dean from himself, Rhys takes his place, ready to give this society girl a piece of his mind. Instead, he finds an opportunity. Even though they can hardly stand each other, posing as Parker’s boyfriend is a win-win deal. She gets to keep her job, and he’ll charm her star-struck boss into sponsoring his gym.

Problem is, they can barely keep their hands off each other. And what started as an easy deal isn’t so easy anymore. Because what future can a rough ex-boxer, afraid to open his heart, and a polished society geek, who has sworn off real relationships, possibly have?

They say opposites attract. These opposites are about to combust on impact.

Title: Outmatched
Author: Kristen Callihan and Samantha Young
Publication Date: November 19th, 2019
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance;
Format: Kindle (334 pages)
Rating: 10/10

OMG, I loved Rhys and Parker. This book was a lot of fun and I enjoyed my time reading it.

Samantha Young is a go-to author for me so when I saw her new book I grabbed it in a heartbeat.

Rhys Morgan is a boxer who retired early after his life long friend was unfortunately killed in a matched, leaving a wife and a kid. The fact that he’s known as Rhys “The Widowmaker” Morgan, is no help at all.

After his dad passed away, Morgan found out his money were gone because they were gambled on Jake when he lost his life. Now he needs to find ways to save his gym.

Parker Brown needs to be in a fake relationship because she’s the only female at her company and being a new hire, her boss only keeps committed people. She hires Dean, Rhys baby brother takes the deal, but she gets Rhys instead.

He goes to confront her but sees the opportunity for sponsorship from her boss. It’s a win – win for both of them. That is until feelings are involved.

While reading this book, him – gigantic and her – petite I kept imagining Game of Thrones’ The Hound and his wife.

Anyway, fantastic read, I totally recommend it!


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Nov 192019
 

Top Secret by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

Bestselling authors Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy return with their first Male / Male romance in 3 years.

LobsterShorts, 21
Jock. Secretly a science geek. Hot AF.

LobsterShorts: So. Here goes. For her birthday, my girlfriend wants…a threesome.

SinnerThree: Then you’ve come to the right hookup app.

LobsterShorts: Have you done this sort of thing before? With another guy?

SinnerThree: All the time. I’m an equal opportunity player. You?

LobsterShorts: [crickets!]

SinnerThree, 21
Finance major. Secretly a male dancer. Hot AF.

SinnerThree: Well, I’m down if you are. My life is kind of a mess right now. School, work, family stress. Oh, and I live next door to the most annoying dude in the world. I need the distraction. Are you sure you want this?

LobsterShorts: I might want it a little more than I’m willing to admit.

SinnerThree: Hey, nothing wrong with pushing your boundaries…

LobsterShorts: Tell that to my control-freak father. Anyway. What if this threesome is awkward?

SinnerThree: Then it’s awkward. It’s not like we’ll ever have to see each other again. Right? Just promise you won’t fall in love with me.

LobsterShorts: Now wouldn’t that be life-changing…

Q&A about Top Secret:

Q: Have we met these characters before in another book?
A: No! These guys are brand new, and we can’t wait for you to meet them.

Q: Is this story MM? Or is it a MMF / MFM / menage?
A: This book is MM.

Q: Is this a love triangle story?
A: Not really. You’ll see.

Excerpt Top Secret by Sarina Bowen & Elle Kennedy

Chapter One

Keaton

“Look,” Annika whispers in my ear. Under the table, her small hand squeezes my thigh, while her cheek gently nudges my chin toward the doorway. “He’s cute.”

“Subtle,” I tease before giving the object of her attention a cursory glance. He’s just a tall guy with brown hair, nothing special as far as I can tell. “How about we save this conversation for later?”

She rolls her eyes. “We both know there won’t be a conversation, Keaton. You like playing along, but you won’t actually go through with it.” This time she forgets to lower her voice.

“Go through with what?” one of my frat brothers asks from across the table. Tanner, Judd, and I had popped into the campus Starbucks for a caffeine fix after practice. Annika’s next class is directly across the street, so she’d come to say hi before class.

“Nothing,” I tell Tanner.

If you can call your girlfriend wanting a threesome with another dude “nothing.”

Yup, my girlfriend wants a threesome. And here I’d thought that, after six years together, Annika couldn’t surprise me anymore.

She and I have been inseparable since junior year of high school. I know every last detail about her, from her food preferences to her pet peeves. I know she gets anxiety in long lines, that she sneezes any time she gets a whiff of cinnamon, that she loves the beach but hates skiing.

What I didn’t know was that my girlfriend fantasizes about threesomes. The first time she brought it up, I thought she was kidding around. Annika Schiffer, heiress to a home-furnishings fortune, wants to bang two guys at the same time? Yeah right.

My girl is the president of her sorority, wears a pearl necklace (and not the fun kind) on a daily basis, and made me wait until we were eighteen to lose our virginities to each other. Don’t get me wrong—she’s not some uptight rich bitch with a stick up her butt. She’s fun and warm and fierce when someone tries to mess with her or her loved ones.

But she’s also… I’ll just say it: vanilla.

I didn’t think she was serious about the threesome thing until last week, when I’d asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she brought up the idea again.

I move my lips to her ear so Tanner and Judd can’t overhear. “Don’t you worry, babe, there’ll be more than just a conversation,” I rasp.

She shivers, and then flashes me a dazzling smile. Her face is flawless. Classic features, pouty lips, and smooth skin that’s just the right amount of dewy. She works hard and spends a lot of money for that skin. I’ve been in her bathroom at the sorority house, so I’ve seen all the products she puts on her face to keep it looking so perfect. Not to mention the monthly facials, which require her to fly to New York every month because this little college town we live in doesn’t have a “competent aesthetician”—her words, not mine.

It helps that her father owns a helicopter that can accommodate her monthly treks. I’m not one to judge, though. My dad has his own jet.

“I can’t wait,” she says before hopping off my lap. “Come over tonight after practice, okay, baby? I have to go to class now.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, boys.” Annika’s hand flutters in a wave on her way to the door.

“Later!” Tanner calls after her. And if I’m not mistaken, he takes a longing look at her ass.

“Dude,” I say. “If you’re going to eye-fuck my girlfriend, you could at least be subtle about it.”

“Why?” Tanner argues. “She’d be flattered. And you should know how good you’ve got it. Besides, I’m harmless.” He flashes me a big smile. “What are we doing this weekend, anyway?” Tanner asks. “The Presidential Dance-off, right?”

I shake my head. “That’s, like, in two weeks, man.”

“Really? Why did I think it was sooner?”

“Because you’re stupid,” Judd offers helpfully.

Tanner gives him the finger, before turning back to me. “Do you know what you’re doing for yours yet?”

I have no clue. And no, dancing isn’t an actual requirement for our fraternity’s presidential race. But it used to be. A few decades ago, the candidates running for frat president decided a dance-off was the only way to decide who was more fit to lead. Hence, the Presidential Dance-off was born. On our living room walls, there are old photos of well-dressed men with slicked-back hair and girls in poodle skirts on their arms.

My fraternity has long-held traditions that began well before the invention of the red Solo cup. But these days, Alpha Delta has evolved. Or devolved, depending who you ask. Instead of perfecting his twist and his mashed potato, the presidential candidate is expected to dazzle the other members by planning a kickass event. I’m talking epic. Monumental. The kind of party that will be remembered for years to come.

Although, like dance moves, I’m not entirely sure that party planning is a solid indicator of what makes a good president. Sure, frats throw a lot of parties, but there’s a social committee for that.

The role of president is actually pretty lame, according to Reedsy, our current prez. He pulled me aside after I threw my name in the race and admitted that it’s a boring gig and that I should reconsider. “So much fucking responsibility on your shoulders, dude,” he’d bemoaned.

For a moment, I’d almost bailed. To be honest, I’m only running because my dad was president of Alpha Delt in his heyday, and my granddad before him. But that’s also the reason I couldn’t bail. My father would lose his shit if the Hayworth legacy ended with me.

So I have ten days to plan a legendary party.

“Maybe I can just hire an event planner?” I suggest.

“No way.” Judd’s response is immediate. “If that fuckhead Bailey finds out, he’ll have you impeached.”

“You can’t impeach someone until he’s elected,” Tanner points out.

Still, I don’t want to be accused of cheating. What a pain in the ass this whole thing is. “We can brainstorm about this on Sunday night. We have a game to win on Saturday.”

“Oh, we’re going to win,” Tanner promises.

But I’m not so sure. Not only am I worried about the Northern Mass offense, I think my father is driving up for the game. So winning isn’t even enough. If the Northern Mass players aren’t crying into their helmets after the fourth quarter, my father will still give me hell at brunch the next day.

And here I thought weekends were meant to be relaxing.

“Fine,” Judd says. “We’ll talk about your campaign after the other meeting on Sunday night.”

“What other meeting?” I search my brain and come up empty.

“Pledge Committee,” he says, gulping the last of his coffee.

Oh, phew. “I don’t have to go to that one. I’m not on PC this year.”

“But I sent you that email?” Judd whines. “I told you I need you there. Initiation night is coming up and my committee is lame.”

“Who’s on it, anyway? What do you have planned?” Note to self: be conveniently unavailable on Sunday night. There is no way I’m sitting on the Pledge Committee again. Dealing with last year’s pledge class was a total pain in the ass.

“There’s Ahmad, who’s smart but boring. Paul, who’s just boring. Owen, who’s fun but not exactly creative. And Paxton, who’s just a tool.” He sighs. “Whatever. At least Bailey isn’t on it this time. Remember what a buzz kill he was last year? I fucking hate that guy.”

No big secret there. Judd’s had it in for Luke Bailey ever since the guy rushed Alpha Delt sophomore year. And say what you will about Judd, but he’s not an asshole unless he feels you’ve given him a reason. He’s a bro to the core—he believes in male bonding, high fives, and, in his mind, a friendship isn’t official unless you’ve bled together, partied together, and nursed your twin hangovers the morning after.

Luke Bailey doesn’t subscribe to this philosophy. The moment he scoffed at Judd’s attempt at a fist bump, he earned himself an enemy in Judd Keller.

Since then, their tumultuous acquaintanceship has only gotten worse. Luke is a cocky ass when he wants to be, and Judd hates feeling like he’s being mocked or judged.

Oh, and then Bailey banged Judd’s ex. So there’s that.

“You exert too much mental energy on that guy,” Tanner informs Judd. Tanner’s a psych major, so he’s constantly dishing out (pretty good) advice that everyone mostly ignores. “Holding onto anger isn’t conducive to robust mental health.”

“First of all, say the word robust one more time and I’ll clock you. You know how I feel about that, bro.” Indignation flashes in Judd eyes. “And second of all, Luke Bailey screwed my girlfriend! I’m never not gonna be angry at that prick.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” I hedge, but it earns me a deep scowl from Judd. The two of us are teammates, and I do feel loyalty to him, but I’m also not afraid to call it like it is. “You and Therese were broken up for months.”

“Me and Therese are never broken up. Sure, we take short breaks, a hiatus or two. But she’s my girl,” Judd says tightly. “Everybody knows that.”

“Bailey says he didn’t,” Tanner says.

“That’s bullshit. He’s a liar. And now he’s trying to screw K over!” Judd growls. “He joined the presidential race to get back at me. I just know it.”

“You think?” Tanner looks skeptical. “Because that would be sociopathic lengths to go to just to spite you.”

“Yeah,” I agree with a chuckle. “Bailey’s a prick, but I can’t see him taking on the huge responsibility of running a fraternity just to flip you the metaphorical bird.” Although if I’m being honest, I don’t know why Luke Bailey is running for prez. The guy hasn’t shown much interest in frat activities since he joined us.

“He totally would,” Judd argues.

“Hey, we got class now,” Tanner reminds our sulking buddy. “We should book it over there.”

“Fine.” Judd scrapes his chair back and gets to his feet. His cloudy gaze meets mine again. “I’m serious, man. Bailey is bad news, and we need to kick his ass in this campaign. There’s no way I’m letting him be our president.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t be.”

Once my friends are gone, I let out a tired sigh. I don’t particularly care about Judd’s beef with Bailey at the moment. I have a football game to win, a campaign to plan, and a father to impress.

And a girlfriend to please.

I go up to the counter to get a refill, then settle in my cozy corner of the coffeehouse and open the app I downloaded last night. I hadn’t lied to Annika earlier—her birthday request is in the forefront of my mind. I just need to do some investigating first.

Welcome to Kink!

Add a profile pic.

Add bio.

I’d wanted to fill all this out last night, but my frat brothers suckered me into an epic session of Red Dead Redemption that lasted till three a.m. Now I quickly scroll through the camera roll on my phone until I find a suitable one. It’s of Annika and me, taken in Easthampton last summer. She looks smokin’ hot in a teeny string bikini, and my abs are looking tight, if I do say so myself. I crop out our faces and load the photo.

I skip the bio for now, because I’m feeling impatient. I want to see what this app has to offer more than I want to break my brain thinking of one hundred and forty-five characters to describe how my girlfriend wants to bang two men at the same time.

Actually, that’s pretty much the gist of it.

Still, I’m curious to check out the goods. Kink is more hookup app than dating app, and I’m pleased to discover it lets you search for users who’ve expressed interest in certain arrangements.

I click on the threesome box in the search section. There are an eye-opening number of options, combinations that hadn’t even occurred to me. Annika wants another guy, though, so I ponder the easiest combos.

m/f/m

m/m/f

My finger hovers over the m/f/m button. The other option means the men are allowed to touch, I think. It’s the moment of truth. Some guys would hate this idea. I don’t, though. I’m a scientist. Experimenting is what I do.

I even dreamt about sex with men once. Or twice. I never mentioned that to Annika. But why would I? I’ve also dreamt of meeting a dragon who smoked clove cigarettes. The things my brain invents while I’m sleeping aren’t newsworthy.

But I’d be lying if I said that Annika’s shocking birthday request turns me off. I’ll try anything once. And the app lets you click as many boxes as you want. So after looking over my shoulder once more just to make sure nobody I know is watching, I tap both options and usher in the possibility of taking a walk on the wild side.

The threesome has to be with a stranger, though. I’m certain that any one of my frat brothers would be down to help me give my girl a night to remember. Well, except Dan, who’s only down for dudes. And, well, Bailey, who thinks I’m an ass. I think he’s an ass, too, so I guess we’re even.

But I can’t do this with someone I know. What if the whole night is awkward as fuck? If it’s a brother, I’ll still have to live with him. If it’s a teammate, I’ll still have to see him in the locker room.

And then there’s the opposite scenario. What if it’s not awkward as fuck? What if I like it a whole lot?

Yeah, I don’t want my buddies judging me. A stranger for the win, then.

I lean back in my chair and start swiping.

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Sep 052019
 

Neanderthal Marries Human (Knitting in the City #1.5) by Penny Reid

There are three things you should know about Quinn Sullivan: 1) He is madly in love with Janie Morris, 2) He’s not above playing dirty to get what (or who) he wants, and 3) He doesn’t know how to knit.

After just five months of dating Janie, Quinn—former Wendell and unapologetic autocrat—is ready to propose marriage. In fact, he’s more than ready. If it were up to Quinn, he would efficiently propose, marry, and beget Janie with child all in the same day—thereby avoiding the drama and angst that accompanies the four stages of pre-matrimony: engagement, meeting the parents, bachelor/bachelorette party, and overblown, superfluous wedding day traditions.

But Janie, much to Quinn’s dismay, tosses a wrench in his efficacious endeavors and challenges him to prove his devotion by going through the matrimonial motions, no matter how minute and mundane.

Will Quinn last until the wedding day? Or will he yield to his tyrant impulses?

This book is not a standalone. It is the sequel to ‘Neanderthal Seeks Human,’ and is book #1.5 in the Knitting in the City series.

Title: Neanderthal Marries Human (Knitting in the City #1.5)
Author: Penny Reid
Publication Date: June 14th, 2014
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance;
Format: Kindle (360 pages)
Rating: 10/10

This is the sequel to Neanderthal Seeks Human, the book where Quinn proposes to Janie, after just five months of dating.

While Quinn in ready for the after math of their wedding, Janie wants to go through all the “troubles” like being engaged, wedding planning, meeting the parents etc. The writing still blows my mind! It’s hilarious in a Janie’s way!

“Proposing is like giving someone your dick and a sharp knife, then waiting to see what they do next.”

I loved getting both Janie and Quinn’s POV and reading more about the characters I love. And I enjoyed how Janie made Quinn work for it. She’s very independent and will have to learn how to share a life with him. Even though she wants to build a life together, she will do what needs to be done to prove a point. Instead of the small wedding they both want, she thinks that if they face the stress that comes with a bigger wedding, than they are ok to get married.

All in all, this book is perfect for seeing how their story unfolds after reading the first book. I was glad to learn more about Quinn’s background story and how he came to be the man he is today.

“I will do anything to prove that to you. I will do anything to prove that what we have is worth a battle. What we have is worth a war.”

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The Series continues with the spin off on the Winston Brothers and below is the reading order:

Check out the rest of the series:

Sep 032019
 

Neanderthal Seeks Human (Knitting in the City #1) by Penny Reid

There are three things you need to know about Janie Morris: 1) She is incapable of engaging in a conversation without volunteering TMTI (Too Much Trivial Information), especially when she is unnerved, 2) No one unnerves her more than Quinn Sullivan, and 3) She doesn’t know how to knit.

After losing her boyfriend, apartment, and job in the same day, Janie Morris can’t help wondering what new torment fate has in store.

To her utter mortification, Quinn Sullivan—aka Sir McHotpants—witnesses it all then keeps turning up like a pair of shoes you lust after but can’t afford. The last thing she expects is for Quinn to make her an offer she can’t refuse.

New York Times Bestselling Author Penny Reid’s debut novel!
★ AAR top 100 romances of all time ★

Neanderthal Seeks Human is book #1 in the Knitting in the City series. Each book is a standalone, full length (110k words), contemporary romantic comedy novel, and follows the misadventures and exploits of seven friends in Chicago, all members of the same knitting group.

Title: Neanderthal Seeks Human (Knitting in the City #1)
Author: Penny Reid
Publication Date: March 13th, 2013
Shelves: Contemporary; Romance;
Format: Kindle (404 pages)
Rating: 10/10

If you are new to the Pennyverse world, this is the book to start! I just loved Janie and Quinn!!!

If you love your heroines quirky, hilarious and oblivious, then Janie Morris is the one for you. I am still mind blown by how smart Penny Reid writes! Janie’s “fun” facts are hilarious if you read her surroundings and how we can assume Quinn has the time of his life.

The book is told from Janie’s POV, but we get an epilogue on Quinn in the end. It’s totally worth it!

Janie gets her day in hell, finds her boyfriend of 5 years cheating her, gets fired for not wanting him back and escorted by the McHotPants security guard. What she doesn’t know is that her life is about to be changed, because Quinn has been keeping an eye for her as well.

Due to some interesting accidental meetings, finally Quinn helps Janie get a job at his company. She is brilliant but fights her insecurities along the way.

Quinn has a security company, but often works on the ground floors on his new building. This is how he notices Janie watching him.

Penny Reid writes very smart! I was in awe on her ability to make Janie a geek with Amazonian looks and fuck me shoes. Because she’s a little socially awkward, she is unaware on her charms working on poor Quinn, who has little chance on not falling head over heels for her.

Neanderthal Seeks Human introduces with Janie, her knitting group and her ladies. They each will have her own story and there’s a spin off coming with Ashley Winston, named The Winston Brothers. This group is hell on knits, because all the girls are different and yet they seem to form a friendship one would envy.

What I enjoyed is that the story is told from Janie’s POV, but the epilogue is in Quinn’s POV and we see a little bit of his thoughts and how he sees her and her knitting group. You’ll see this as something to happen to the next books in the series.

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The Series continues with the spin off on the Winston Brothers and below is the reading order:

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Feb 122019
 

MOTION (Hypothesis Series Book 4) by Penny Reid

Forced to lie to protect her sister . . .
From the New York Times Bestselling Author Penny Reid

One week.
Home alone.
Girl genius.
Unrepentant slacker.
Big lie.
What’s the worst that could happen?

Mona is a smart girl and figured everything out a long time ago. She had to. She didn’t have a choice. When your parents are uber-celebrities and you graduate from high school at fifteen, finish college at eighteen, and start your PhD program at nineteen, you don’t have time for distractions outside of your foci. Even fun is scheduled. Which is why Abram, her brother’s best friend, is such an irritant.

Abram is a talented guy, a supremely gifted musician, and has absolutely nothing figured out, nor does he seem to care. He does what he feels, when he feels, and–in Mona’s opinion–he makes her feel entirely too much.

Laws of Physics parts 1 (MOTION) & 2 (SPACE) end with a cliffhanger.
Part 1 (MOTION) will be released February 11, 2019 (ends on a cliffhanger)
Part 2 (SPACE) will be released March 11, 2019 (ends on a cliffhanger)
Part 3 (TIME) will be released April 15, 2019

Penny Reid is a sweetheart and has given us the first three Chapters of Motion. Curious? Well.. enjoy reading it!

Chapter 1: Physics in a Personal and Social Context

“You are receiving a collect call from ACCEPT THE CHARGES, MONA! at Cretin County Jail. If you accept the charges, press one. If not, disconnect,” the robot—apparently the love child between Alexa and Baymax—announced via my cell phone, the sound an odd amalgamation of her voice and his cadence.

No. Strike that. Inaccurate.

Most of the words were announced by the robot. But the words “ACCEPT THE CHARGES, MONA!” and the voice that whisper-shouted them belonged to my twin sister, Lisa. I didn’t press one and I didn’t disconnect. But I did stare at nothing, probably making my about-to-sneeze face, and attempted to parse through what I’d just heard.

“Is everything okay?”

Dr. Payton’s perfectly reasonable question hijacked my attention and reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I was in a restaurant.  The planetary astrophysicist’s eyebrows inched upward as we stared at each other, his last bite of steak left forgotten on the tip of his fork.

Fraught and feeling illogically harassed, I sputtered, “I don’t know.”

This was one of the very few times in my nineteen years that I’d said I don’t know. I didn’t like not knowing. I preferred I’ll find out, I’ll figure it out, or I’ll know soon.

If he’d asked me the same question just thirty seconds ago, I would’ve known how to answer. Prior to my cell ringing seconds ago, today had been a great day. I’d meditated as soon as I’d awoken. I’d journaled. I’d located and eaten a perfectly ripe avocado for breakfast. The best. Avocados in Chicago and Cambridge, Mass were so seldom perfectly ripe, or they were ripe for only 4.4 seconds. Whereas California had all the ripe avocados.

Traffic on the I-5 had been light while my driver transported me from the Pasadena Marriott to the Palomar Observatory. I’d spent most of my day elbows deep with my best friends: the gorgeous symmetry and chaos of relativistic equations, infrared array imaging, spectroscopy data.

Late afternoon, I’d gone to the dentist for a teeth cleaning, X-rays, and exam where I’d been told that my home regimen of flossing and brushing was exemplary. Praise from the dentist always put me in a good mood.

Presently, I was having dinner with Dr. Poe Payton, a second-year fellow in planetary astrophysics who was as intelligent as he was handsome and charming, which was considerably. Not that his handsomeness or ability to charm was relevant. As with all my prospective colleagues, nothing was relevant about Dr. Payton other than his ability to keep up.

Afterward, my plans included swimming in the hotel pool, showering, and finally an hour of scheduled fiction reading before bed. Although, now that I was living on my own, and finally free of Dr. Steward’s daily oversight, I sometimes read for an hour and a half.

“You are receiving a collect call from ACCEPT THE CHARGES, MONA! at Cretin County Jail. If you accept the charges, press one. If not, disconnect,” the Alexa-Baymax hybrid announced again, startling me a second time.

Flustered, I pressed one and brought the phone back to my ear. “Uh, hello? Hello?”

“Thank God!” My twin sounded far away, like the connection was bad or she was speaking in a tunnel.

“Lisa?” I whisper-asked, my eyes darting to Dr. Payton’s curious and concerned expression.

“First, don’t freak out. Second, I don’t have a lot of time, so don’t ask questions. Just do what I say, okay? I’ve been arrested.”

Arrested.

Oh God. Oh my God! Okay . . . OH MY GOD!

Clutching my forehead, heart racing, I dropped my gaze to the napkin on my lap. “Are you okay? I- what? Where are—”

“Listen,” she said firmly, “I need you to listen to me.”

“Should I call—”

“No! Don’t call anyone. I already have a lawyer, and—if everything goes according to plan—I should be released by next week.”

What? “What?”

My eyes darted up, snagging on Dr. Payton, who was now looking at me with some alarm.

He asked, “What can I do?” But this time he mouthed his question.

I didn’t answer, I couldn’t. Lisa was still talking in my ear, my mind accelerating to a million miles per second.

“. . . so I need you to go home and pretend to be me. Otherwise, they’ll know what happened and I’ll be so, so screwed.”

I lifted a finger, motioning for Dr. Payton to give me a minute, and turned my body toward the window on my right. “Uh, pardon?”

“Mona, focus.” My typically imperturbable sister’s voice trembled. “You have to get to Chicago—tonight if possibleand be me.”

Go to Chicago? Impossible. But one thing at a time.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and asked the most pertinent question. “First, tell me if you’re okay. Are you hurt?”

Lisa heaved a watery-sounding sigh. “I’m not hurt. But, no. I’m not okay.”

Lisa. My lungs constricted, I rubbed my sternum with my fingertips. We weren’t particularly close, not anymore, but right now that didn’t matter. This was my sister, my twin. There’d been a time when I’d thought we shared one-half of the same heart. Our brother Leo used to tell us this story and we’d believed him.

No. Strike that. Inaccurate. I’d believed him. Lisa had never been as naïve or gullible or susceptible to fictions and romanticism as me.

“What can I do?” I asked, opening my eyes.

“Get to Chicago. Pretend to be me for a week. And—”

“I can’t. I’m in California for my visit with Caltech. I’m interviewing for their PhD program.”

“Oh pleaseYou mean you’re interviewing them. Everyone wants you. They wouldn’t care if you left, they wouldn’t care if you did a striptease on the dean’s desk while snorting coke off his letter opener. Hell, he’d probably love it.”

“The dean is a heterosexual female.”

Lisa grunted. “Whatever! Please, please, please listen, Mona. This is serious. This is life and death for me. You have to wear my clothes, my makeup, sleep in my room, act like me. Mom and Dad can’t know I’m in . . . shit. I can’t believe this happened.”

I shook my head. “Lisa, no. No. Listen to yourself. This is crazy, even for you. Mom and Dad will know I’m me.”

“Obviously, Mona!” she whispered harshly. “But you don’t have to fool Mom and Dad. They’re still in Greece. Abram is watching the house. You just have to fool him until I get there.”

She was talking so fast, I was having trouble keeping up. “Who is Abram?”

“Abram. You know, Abram, Leo’s friend? You don’t know Abram? Oh, good”—she sounded relieved—“in fact, that’s great! I’ve only sorta met Abram once, so this’ll be super easy. Pretend like you don’t remember him or anything about the night we met, which is actually pretty accurate, because I don’t remember much. We’ll switch places before your BFF Dr. Steward arrives, and no one will know about this nightmare.”

Overwhelmed by my confusion and her sense of urgency, I couldn’t organize my thoughts into any logical order, asking questions as they occurred to me. “Wait, Dr. Steward is coming?” Dr. Steward had lived with me and served as my guardian for most of my undergrad; this arrangement had lasted until I’d turned eighteen. “And why do I have to go to Chicago if Mom and Dad are in Greece? Shouldn’t I come to where you are and—”

She made a short growling sound. “They’re planning to cut me off, okay? They said if I wasn’t home by tomorrow, and if I didn’t hand over my phone to Abram when I got there, and if I don’t cut off all contact with Tyler, then they’d close my bank accounts and credit cards and that’s it.”

I struggled anew with this information, mostly because I thought Lisa had already ended all contact with Tyler. Our family had been living the last few months under the assumption that she was safe from his influence, that they were finally over-over. She’d sworn it was over. She’d promised.

“You’re still with Tyler?”

An epic scoff-snort sounded from the other end of the call. “Not anymore. God, never again. Not after this. I am so done with that lying, cheating, massive piece of shit!”

I had to press the cell closer to my ear to hear her. Unlike most people, both Lisa and I became quieter when we were angry rather than louder.

“Lisa, this is crazy. I can’t be you.” I kept my voice low, turning in the chair as far from Dr. Payton as I could. “No one will buy it.” We hadn’t been raised together past the age of eleven. Both my older brother and I had stayed home with private tutors—he studied music, I concentrated on math and science—while Lisa had been sent to boarding school.

“They will buy it. We’re physically identical. All you need is a makeover.”

I struggled with how to phrase my next objection, but ultimately decided I didn’t have time to be tactful. “Lisa, I love you, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about acting like you. I don’t know you.” Most of what I knew about my sister’s life was deduced from chance encounters with the gossip sections of newspapers and magazines.

Exotica and DJ Tang’s youngest daughter spotted at New York hot spot

Exotica and DJ Tang’s youngest daughter in trouble again

Exotica and DJ Tang’s youngest daughter rumored to be dating Pirate Orgy’s front man, Tyler

Exotica and DJ Tang’s youngest daughter partying at fashion week

Exotica and DJ Tang’s youngest daughter wrecks Tesla

“That’s not true.” She sounded exasperated rather than hurt.

“I call you once a week, you never pick up. And when you respond it’s with a text message.”

“Mona, you never returned my letters when I was sent to boarding school, so what’s the big deal?”

What? Why was she bringing this up? Again! Lisa had been bringing this up to excuse treating me poorly for years. It’s how she justified her jokes and pranks, none of which were funny.

“I did return your letters. How many times—”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this again. You didn’t return my letters, which is why I stopped sending them. So, again, why does it matter if I text you back?”

“Because when we do talk on the phone, it’s for less than five minutes. You think my life is boring and we have nothing in common.” I tried—and succeeded—to keep emotion out of my voice. This was my superpower, a skill I’d honed as a fifteen-year-old girl, entering a field dominated by not fifteen-year-old girls. “You were right. We have nothing in common. And now you want me to pretend to be you? It won’t work.”

For better or worse, I had more in common with my musician older brother than I did with my twin.

“Yes. It will. Like I said, Abram has only met me once, and he didn’t seem impressed, and I hardly remember it. So as long as you’re wearing my clothes and your impersonation is passable, he’ll leave you alone and we’ll be golden. I’ve already set everything up with Gabby. She’s expecting your call. She’ll meet you in Chicago, dress you to look like me before you go to the house.”

Gabby. My nostrils flexed, flared with annoyance (I hated it when they did that).

Gabby was Lisa’s best friend and used to be mine, once upon a time. The three of us had been inseparable as kids. We used to pretend we were triplets, with Gabby being our long-lost sister. Noteworthy, Gabby and Lisa had always been more interested in pretty dresses and painting their nails than I had; and I loved reading in a way they both eschewed; but our differences hadn’t seemed to matter at the time. I would paint my nails right along with them, and they indulged my love of stories by listening to me read out loud.

Things started to change around the age of nine. Gabby and Lisa’s interests moved firmly from imaginary games involving being dragon tamers—or being astronauts, or being stranded on a desert island—to imaginary games involving being famous and important in the real world, calling the games I wanted to play “baby stuff.”

But pretending within the confines of “the real world” made no sense to me. It’s like they were speaking a different language, one I couldn’t understand, and one that seemed horribly . . . well, boring.

Anyway.

Our official friendship separation (Gabby and Lisa versus Mona) could be traced to one night when we were eleven. I’d alerted our nanny that my sister and our friend had snuck some whiskey from the liquor cabinet after asking them repeatedly to put it back. Lisa had been sent to boarding school not long after, but when she was home, I’d played on my own and they’d been virtuallyinseparable.

Fascinatingly, eight years later, Gabby still held a grudge—let me repeat, for eight years—related to my snitching on her when we were eleven. I’d never snitched again. On anyone. For anything. Ever.

Understatement: I’d learned my lesson about snitching.

I’d tried (and failed) to get in their good graces for years after the whiskey-snitching incident until Gabby introduced Lisa to Tyler. Now my dislike for Gabby was entirely mutual. I didn’t know how to forgive her for introducing my twin to that scumbag.

Conclusion: At this point, I worked under the assumption that Gabby was quite possibly mentally unhinged and strongly disliked—if not outright hated—me.

But back to now and Lisa being in jail and me being shocked and awed and making my about-to-sneeze face.

Lisa continued, “When you get there, all you have to do is wear designer clothes, eyeliner, and make terrible life decisions.” She laughed, the sound both hysterical and sad. “Plus, you have to do this for me. You don’t have a choice. Unless you plan to do nothing—again—and let Mom and Dad to disown me.”

What the what?

“Doing nothing? What are you—”

“Forget it, Mona. Now isn’t the time. If you care about me at all, go to Chicago and pretend for Abram until I get there.”

“But who is Abram? Why is he at the house? Why would Mom and Dad trust him to do this? And how can I—”

“God! Look, I don’t have time to argue with you about this.” Her tone was tired, strained, frazzled. “Are you going to help me or not?”

I wanted to say, This will never work! But when I opened my mouth, no words came out.

“Call Gabby, she’s expecting your call. Go to Chicago. Get a ticket for tonight, okay? My cell phone has been mailed to Chicago and should arrive tomorrow or the next day. If Abram asks you for my phone when you get there, just tell him you left it behind and are having it mailed to you. Sit tight and let your inhibitions go—for once—until I get there.”

“Lisa—”

“Promise me, Mona. Promise me. I swear, I’ll be so good. I’ll be so fucking good. I’ll go back and finish high school, I’ll never touch drugs again, I’ll never see Tyler again, I’ll be the best sister and daughter, I’ll forgive you for everything, we’ll create a special handshake for when the next NASA thing lands on Jupiter or whatever, I will never call physics boring, and I will make this up to you. I will never, ever lie. But if you don’t do this for me, I’m dead. I’m so, so dead.” Her voice caught on the last sentence, adopting a decidedly watery edge, and that sobered me more than anything else would have.

My sister didn’t cry. Ever. What a messy mess.

“You don’t have to worry about paparazzi or anything like that.” Her breath hitched, and that told me she was now unable to stem the tears. “Gabby hooked me up with the best lawyer, she specializes in this kind of stuff, keeping it out of the papers. This won’t make it out to the press. And you know they only care about you and Leo.”

I resisted the urge to huff and remind her that she was the lucky one, the one the press didn’t follow at all, the one who was able to live her life out of the spotlight. But every time I told her this it just seemed to piss her off.

“They don’t care about me unless I fuckup . . .” she added quietly.

“Lisa—”

But then she said, “Please.”

The single word sounded so desperate, so broken, it struck a chord deep within me, a bond I’d assumed had dissolved, but now understood had merely been dormant. She hadn’t asked me for anything since we were kids. How could I say no?

I couldn’t.

“Of course. Yes.” Even though it was complete madness.

“Thank you, thank you. You are the best sister in the world. I love you!” she said just before the line went dead.

Removing the cell from my ear, I stared at the blank screen, my mind in chaos. I was unsure what to do, or on which problem I should focus.

Am I really going to do this?

Hastily, I made a list of the most basic action items. Getting a ticket to Chicago shouldn’t be a big deal. If I left directly from the restaurant, I could probably catch something tonight, stay in a hotel by O’Hare. I’d call Gabby on the way. Assuming my parents didn’t insist on speaking to me—well, “to me” meaning Lisa—then I might be back in Pasadena by the end of the week.

Am I really going to do this?

“Hey.” Dr. Payton’s soft voice cut through my list making. His wide brown eyes moved over my face, concern etched between his eyebrows. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry. That was rude. I should have left the table,” I said on autopilot, my brain still working through next steps. I felt his eyes on me as I returned my phone to my backpack. His stare felt assessing, but not in the usual way. Usually, when people stared, I knew exactly what they were thinking.

Depending on the person and context, it was either, Isn’t that the girl whose research on Bose-Einstein condensates improved the reliability and power of infrared arrays? Wasn’t she twelve when that happened? Or the person was thinking, Isn’t that one of Exotica and DJ Tang’s daughters? Is that the cool crazy one or the weirdo math prodigy?

“Don’t apologize,” Dr. Payton said unexpectedly, drawing my gaze back to his as he reached a hand across the table and covered mine.

I pulled my fingers away. Immediately. On instinct.

Tangentially, I noted his skin had been warm and that this was the first time he’d touched me other than a handshake. In fact, other than my one friend, Allyn, this was the first time someone had touched me to offer comfort since . . . well, since longer than I could remember.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle and interested. “How can I help?”

“Wrong? Help?” What?

“All the color left your face.” Dr. Payton paused to study me, the intensity of his frown increasing. “Mona, what happened? Who was that?”

Mona? The informality was a bucket of ice water, cutting through the haze of confusion. I blinked at him and the use of my first name. For these last two weeks he’d been Dr. Payton and I’d been Ms. DaVinci, which was how interactions within my world worked. Always.

As the youngest person by far in any given room—and the room was typically full of men with PhDs fighting for prestige, tenure, and grant dollars—I’d learned early and often that informality meant being taken advantage of. It meant being the second or third author instead of the first on a scholarly article of my own original ideas. It meant opening a door to borrowing (i.e. stealing) my work and intellectual property.

Nothing was more sacred or worth protecting in academia than intellectual property, and everyone wanted to take credit for mine.

“Dr. Payton, I’m very sorry to cut our meeting short.” When I stood, he stood, giving me the impression his good manners were ingrained. “I hope we can continue our discussion on Illustris soon, but I have to go.” Once again, I flexed my superpower, removing all emotion from my voice.

Ostensibly surprised by my coolness, Dr. Payton rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Absolutely. I understand,” he said, though it was obvious he didn’t understand.

Placing my backpack on the chair, I furtively studied him as I zipped and unzipped it, searching for my wallet. I noted the cautious yet concerned way he continued to examine me, at the tense set of his jaw, like he was engaging in an internal debate. I had to swat away a pang of guilt and doubt.

Dr. Payton—Poe—had been nothing but gracious since I’d arrived, but not overbearingly so. Overbearing and overly solicitous faculty had been my experience at the other institutions I’d visited during my quest to find the right PhD program. Even his willingness to collaborate and share, discuss and troubleshoot had been unpretentious. Poe’s ideas and approach were unique and refreshing.

The man was certainly brilliant, seemed to be a genuinely good guy, and I was curious about his thoughts on Illustris, the universe-scale simulation project, which was why I’d agreed to dinner. Yet, tempted as I might be to soften my rules about informality and friendly fraternization with colleagues, I wouldn’t.

“Do you need a ride anywhere?” he asked stiffly, quickly adding, “No pressure. It’s just, my mother would be appalled if I didn’t offer.”

His slight confession, and how he referred to his mother with deference, made me pause my furious zipping. “Thank you. I have a driver.”

He cleared his throat and nodded, seemed to stand straighter. My gaze flickered to his then away and I dug for my wallet. Finding it, I placed a fifty-dollar bill on the table to cover the cost of my dinner.

“You don’t need to do that.” He frowned, reaching for the money and offering it back to me.

I shook my head and swung my backpack into place on my right shoulder. “My advisor told me I should pay for my own meals during the recruitment process so as to not unduly influence my final decision.”

He flinched subtly, like I’d surprised him again. “I see,” he said, then huffed a little laugh. It was amused, but also sounded a tad incredulous. I got the sense I’d offended him somehow . . .

A renewed wave of flustered urgency crashed over me. I didn’t have time to think about Dr. Payton. I had to call Gabby, get to Chicago, and figure out how to behave like Lisa and not like me.

“I’ll be gone for a few days,” I said, not understanding why I felt the need to explain anything. “There’s been an unexpected emergency. I’ll email Dr. Clarence and the team to let them know.”

“Fine.” He pressed his lips together, a flat line, his expression now neutral.

I hesitated for a split second, knowing I was doing something wrong yet unable to put my finger on what. But exigency—for my sister’s sake—spurred me to move. Giving him a final head nod, I left the restaurant.

With any luck, I’d be in Chicago before midnight.

* * *

“We’re going to have to get you a blowout.” Gabby pursed her lips at the sight of my single braid, sighed dramatically, and marched past me into my hotel room. “And Lisa’s hair is a little shorter I think, so we’ll also need a cut. But the color is fine, she went back to her natural dark brown too, like, I don’t know, a few months ago, when she pretended to split from Tyler. Do you own any makeup at all?”

Turning, I allowed the hotel door to shut behind me and faced my former friend. “Hello, and yes I own makeup.”

Of note, Gabby’s real name was Lyndsay. Gabby was a nickname she’d earned because she talked too much and had no filter, always saying whatever popped into her head. This worked for her because her parents were massively wealthy movie stars and had no problem bailing her out of whatever trouble she—and her mouth—found herself in.

Ignoring my greeting, she set a bag on the bed. “I bet it’s the wrong kind of makeup. Whatever. There’s a Sephora on the way to your house, we’ll go there. Lisa said you don’t know how to do your eyes, so they can teach you there. Lisa never shows her face without mascara and liner, so make sure you do that every day. And here”—she gestured to the bag—“I brought some of Lisa’s clothes from the last time she spent the night at my house. We got soooo drunk. And it was tequila drunk, not vodka tonic drunk, you know what I mean?” Gabby laughed and gave me a commiserating look.

I didn’t know what she meant, but I could extrapolate. Regardless, I did not return her look.

Her amusement vanished.

“Anyway.” She paired the single word with an eyebrow lift, a sure sign of exasperation. “This should have everything you need for now. Feel free to thank me at any point here.”

No thanks was forthcoming, but she already knew that.

I hadn’t returned to my hotel in Los Angeles last night. There was no point in packing clothes before leaving via LAX. Other than underwear and socks, I was supposed to wear Lisa’s clothes anyway.

Everything I needed was in my backpack—my laptop, my research notes, my journal—so I sent a text to Gabby and hopped on the next plane to Chicago. We touched down just after 1:00 AM and I spent the night at the Westin near O’Hare, wearing the same clothes to sleep that I’d worn to the dentist.

There’s something liberating about sleeping in clothes instead of pajamas, I’d mused the next morning as I brushed my teeth with supplies hastily purchased from the lobby store. The thought felt rebellious, so I pushed it aside and waited for Gabby to show up.

Which brings us to now.

Am I really doing this?

Not for the first or the thousandth time since hanging up with Lisa yesterday, I took stock of this messy mess and how I’d arrived at this moment, peaking inside a bag brought by Gabby. Speaking of the Gabster, she was staring at my profile as I peered in the bag.

Abruptly, apropos of nothing, she said, “You’re boring.”

My eyes lifted to hers. “Okay.”

“You look boring, I mean. Like, I know you and Lisa are supposed to be identical, but if you were in a club you’d be invisible. You’d be wallpaper. Doesn’t that bother you?” Though the words might’ve been interpreted as harsh, the question sounded honestly curious.

Nevertheless, it aggravated me. This was my chance to find out why Lisa had been arrested and Gabby was already getting under my skin before I could ask any questions.

“No,” I answered, just as honestly, withholding all emotion from my voice and expression.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to be noticed? Be . . . interesting?”

“Not really.” I turned my attention back to the clothes and spotted a black lace bra tucked to one side.

. . . Am I really doing this?

“How is it possible you are still such a Mary Sue?” She poked my shoulder. “Haven’t you heard? Nowadays, being nice is unlikable. It’s all about the rebel. You should do something unexpected, mean, selfish, and don’t apologize for it. Be bad for once and tell everyone to fuck off.”

I sent her a quick glare. “I just ditched a PhD program interview. I’m about to lie and impersonate my twin sister for several days so my parents won’t disown her. Maybe save that question for later, when it might be more accurate.”

“Well, you kind of owe her, don’t you?”

“Owe her? Owe her for what?”

“For getting her sent off to boarding school? For ratting us out to your nanny? Ring any bells?”

I was so proud of myself for not punching her in the face, and even more proud for keeping my voice level and calm. “We both know Lisa wasn’t sent to boarding school because I told our nanny that you had taken whiskey from the cabinet.”

“Oh? Really? That’s not how I remember it.”

“Yes. Really. The only reason Leo and I stayed with Mom and Dad was because of his music and my research.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night.” Gabby studied her nails. “And you know what I mean about being a Mary Sue. Helping Lisa is just part of the same saintly shit, different day.”

Why was she giving me grief about being helpful? Oh. That’s right. Because she’s unhinged.

“While you’re standing here telling me to be bad, Lisa is in jail. Aren’t you at all concerned about her?” As much as I despised interacting with Gabby these days, we were both here for one reason: to help Lisa because we loved and care about her.

Gabby rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m concerned about her. I’m terrified for her, okay? And I’m doing everything I can to get her out and save her ass, including putting up with you.”

“Putting up with me?” Arg! She was so irritating, all my questions fled my brain.

“You heard me.” Talking to her was like arguing with a flat-earther. Ignorance plus arrogance is why we can’t have nice things!

Best just to get straight to the point. “Why was Lisa arrested?”

Gabby’s flippancy morphed into a severe scowl. “Does it matter? She needs your help. What? Now you don’t want to help her?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then help her, and put on these clothes, and stop making this about you.”

“I just want to know why—”

“Classic Mary-Sue behavior. Even when you’re being bad, you’re still looking for a way to be the do-gooder center of attention. Where is the fun in always being the good one when it means you have no friends? Why must you ruin fun for everyone else?”

“Oh, you know, I think the fun is in not being arrested for doing something stupid and selfishly forcing your sister to clean up your giant mess.” Despite my best efforts, a hint of bitterness entered my voice, and that flustered me.

Rattled by my uncontrollable, unexpected, and uncharacteristic show of feelings, I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes. Apparently, my ability to speak truth without emotion was on the fritz. Best not to speak to her at all. Pulling out the black bra and shirt Gabby had brought, I held the top up to me. Scowling, I wondered where the other half was, it seemed to be missing the section that covered the stomach.

Gabby snorted and rolled her eyes. “None of Lisa’s clothes are boring. You’re going to be noticed.”

Reaching for a bunched-up pile of black leather in the bottom of the bag and realizing it was pants, I heaved a sigh. “Whether or not I’m boring is irrelevant. Whether or not I’m likable or nice or good or a Mary Sue is irrelevant. The fact is, I am boring and unlikable by your standards. That’s never going to change because I don’t subscribe to your standards. So, moving on, is there anything else I can wear other than these two items?”

Gabby turned her grumpy expression to the scrap of the shirt, black lace bra, and the black leather pants. “What’s wrong with these?”

“Nothing,” I mumbled, resigned, and scooped them up before turning for the bathroom. “I’ll go change.”

“Too bad you can’t actually change,” she called after me. “Too bad putting on Lisa’s clothes doesn’t also give you some of her badass mojo and rebel spirit.”

Unable to help myself, I mumbled, “You belong on Venus, Gabby.”

“You mean, because it’s, like, the planet of love?” she asked with fake sweetness.

“No. Because it’s, like, our solar system’s analog to hell.” And with that, I closed the door to the bathroom and changed. Into my sister.

Chapter 2: Introduction to One-Dimensional Kinematics

“You actually look . . .” Gabby snorted, as though she couldn’t believe what she was about to say, and then said, “You’re fucking gorgeous.”

We’d left the Westin near O’Hare via taxi and were now downtown in the Old Town Triangle area of Chicago, near my parents’ brownstone. We’d already visited the hair salon and were now finishing up at the makeup store, during which I’d said less than ten words total. I didn’t want to fight with Gabby. Even though we only saw each other about once a year, I was so tired of fighting with her.

But now the moment was imminently upon us. Soon we’d be walking the few short blocks home. Time flies when one is fretting about impersonating one’s twin sister.

While I’d been getting my “blowout” as Gabby called it, I’d received a call from someone who identified herself as Lisa’s lawyer. She’d left a voice message, detailing her strategy for getting Lisa released, the projected timeline—still one week—and that Lisa’s phone had been sent via priority to the Chicago house.

What she didn’t reveal was why Lisa had been arrested in the first place. I’d tried calling her back, but it went straight to voicemail.

Currently, I was staring at my reflection; at the copious waves of dark brown hair falling over my shoulders, how wearing it down brought out the olive tone in my skin more than wearing it back; at the red stain and gloss accentuating the fullness of my lips; at the dark liner and mascara and eye shadow emphasizing the thickness of my lashes and honey color of my eyes. Paired with the half shirt and leather pants, the entirety of everything together made me look . . .

I look hot.

With a resigned sigh, I accepted that Gabby was correct. “I look like Lisa.” Which meant I also looked like our motherEven at fifty-two, our mother and Lisa were often confused by the press.

“Exactly.” She grinned. “Like I said, you’re gorgeous. You work out, right?”

I gave her a noncommittal shrug. I swam daily and used a standing desk, which probably didn’t meet her definition of working out. Lisa and Gabby, I was pretty sure, both had personal trainers. Theoretically, I wanted a personal trainer—because wouldn’t that be nice? Someone to plan my workout, keep it interesting, keep me engaged, think about my health so I didn’t have to—but in reality, I didn’t want one.

I’d tried it once. The guy touched my arm to reposition it without asking me first. I flinched, which caused me to drop the dumbbell on his foot. I never went back, but I did pay his doctor’s bills and sent him a year’s supply of protein bars.

She walked to the other side of the chair, and the Sephora external aesthetic-modifier technician (which is what I decided they ought to be called) stepped back, giving Gabby room to inspect my face from a new angle. “Wow—” her eyes swept over me, from the black and white Converse on my feet, up to the leather pants, to my bare midriff, chest, collarbone, neck, “—you really do look like her.” She sounded surprised.

I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t point out the obvious, that we were identical twins. Of course I looked like her. But Gabby wasn’t being insulting for once and I had enough on my mind. No need to pick another fight. Hopefully, merely looking like Lisa would be enough to convince Leo’s friend that I was Lisa, because I had no idea how to act like a normal person, let alone like my sister.

Gabby cocked her head to the side, her gaze growing thoughtful. “Why don’t you wear your hair down ever? Or do your eyes. You’re beautiful, or would be if you put in the effort.”

“We already talked about this.”

“Because you want to be a nerd-girl stereotype, Mary Sue?”

“Human beauty is irrelevant in physics,” I mumbled. Not wanting to get into it, but beauty was more than irrelevant. It was a liability.

“Okay, Borg.” She lifted that eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then it has no mass,” I said automatically.

“What?”

“If it has no matter, it has no mass.”

Her stare was blank. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a physics joke. If something has no matter, then—never mind.” I pressed my lips together.

“No more physics jokes!” Gabby stabbed a finger at my shoulder.

Leaning away, I lifted my hands in a show of surrender.

She administered one final exasperated eyebrow lift before turning and giving the external aesthetic-modifier technician instructions on what items we were going to purchase.

Meanwhile, I stood from the chair and tried not to lick my lips. The lip stain wasn’t flavored, but the gloss the employee had applied over it tasted like bubble gum. In a word, delicious. I’d had a minor addiction to cherry flavored Chapstick at one point and it had taken a year to break the habit. Thus, I vowed to throw away the bubble gum gloss as soon as I left Chicago.

Or as soon as I landed at LAX.

Or, at the very latest, as soon as I made it back to the hotel in Los Angeles.

Maybe I’d keep it for a week, what’s the harm in that?

“Let’s go, Mona Lisa.” Gabby nudged my arm, pushing me toward the door as she handed over the bag with all the makeup. I gave her the side-eye, accepted the products, but said nothing.

Once outside, she nudged me again. “Get it? Mona Lisa?”

“Yes.” Hil-AR-ious.

My parents had decided naming my brother Leonardo, me Mona, my sister Lisa, and giving us the last name of DaVinci was a really great idea. It could have been worse. They could have named my brother “Michel,” me “Ang,” and Lisa “Elo,” which had been their original plan. Over the course of my life, I’d come to understand that my parents had named their children as a reflection of themselves rather than as a reflection of their hopes for us. Based on my informal sampling of celebrity children, it was always thus for superstars.

I glanced at my watch, it was only 1:00 PM. I considered calling the lawyer to check on the status of Lisa’s release even though she’d just touched base a few hours ago and I’d left her a voice message already.

“Your backpack.” Gabby flicked my bag. “What are you doing with that? Where will you put it?”

“Um.” My steps faltered. “I hadn’t thought about that.” I was bad at this. What other lying logistics had I not considered?

She continued to eye it. “What’s inside? Clothes?”

“My computer, research notes, wallet, phone.”

Gabby started shaking her head before I’d finished speaking. “Ah, no. You can’t bring that to the house. Lisa said Abram was supposed to take her phone as soon as she got there, right? Well then, he’ll definitely take—and probably search—your backpack. If he searches your backpack, he’ll know you’re you and not Lisa. Plus, he’ll find your phone, and you’re supposed to pretend like you left it behind.”

I scowled even though she was right. None of her valid points had occurred to me. “I guess I could go back to O’Hare, bag check it at the Westin, and pick it up on my way out of town next week.” I didn’t like the thought of being separated from my research or my journal.

She inspected me. “When we get to your block, give it to me. I’ll carry it the rest of the way and say it’s mine if he asks.”

I shifted away from her, distrustful. “What will you do with it?”

She made another of her give-me-a-break faces. “I’ll put it in your room—in Mona’s room—when we go upstairs. By the way, don’t forget, your room is Lisa’s room. Because you are Lisa and you don’t tell physics jokes. You tell peen and poop jokes like all self-respecting feminists.”

“You’re not going to take it?” I lifted my chin, scrutinizing her dependability in this particular situation. “If you try to take my backpack out of the house, I’ll break character right there and tell Abraham the truth.”

“You have trust issues. Don’t worry, I won’t take your precious backpack. It doesn’t match my ensemble. And it’s Abram, not Abraham.”

Speaking of not-Abraham. “Have you met him?”

Gabby gave me a meaningful look and kept on walking. Unfortunately, I’d never been gifted at deciphering meaningful looks.

I tried again. “So you do know him? Or what?”

“Abram?” Gabby blinked, once, hard. “Lisa didn’t tell you about Abram?”

I shook my head.

“Leo didn’t introduce you? They’re, like, best friends.”

“No. Leo never mentioned him.” When Leo and I talked, it was once every six months and typically focused on him telling me about his upcoming gigs as well as questioning me about girls—how they thought, why they did certain things, etc. He rarely mentioned his friend group, if at all. I’d tried to explain that I didn’t understand girls. Or people. He persisted. As such, I did my best to offer generalizable theories about female behavior.

Gabby stopped, blinking several times as though her brain was having difficulty accepting my words. “Oh, Mona. You are in for a treat.” Flipping her braids over her shoulder, she’d placed special emphasis on the word treat.

I glanced from side to side. “Why? Does he abhor superstring theory?”

She made another face of distaste, or at least tried to. I caught the tail end of a suppressed smile as she said, “I know him a lot better than Lisa, because sometimes I hang with Leo when he’s in town. Abram is uptight, for sure. But, woman, he’s so gorgeous it hurts. I mean, it physically hurts my hoo-hah to look at him in the best, hoo-hah happiest way. He’s so gorgeous, I’ve already forgiven him for being mean to our girl. And he’s a musician.” She paused here to bite her bottom lip and look at the sky. “Writes his own music,” she moaned, “plays the bass guitar, and the piano, and every other instrument, and he sings. And when he sings, it makes my panties want to melt right off my body. Just whoop”—she made a swooping motion with her hand, gesturing from her crotch to the sidewalk—“they want to melt right off.”

“Is he smart?”

“Uh, what?” Her gaze flickered over me, leaving me with the impression I’d disappointed her. “Here I am talking about his fineness, and you have to rain on my parade by asking about his brains?”

“Is he smart?” I repeated.

“Does it matter?”

Don’t make another physics joke about matter! “It’s relevant if his level of intelligence means he’ll deduce I’m not Lisa.”

“Okay, first of all”—she lifted a finger between us—“you can’t speak like that.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t use words like deduce or relevant.” Gabby over-pronounced the offending words, obviously attempting an impression of me.

“Fine.” A flutter of disquiet hit my stomach, which I hid. “Maybe I won’t speak at all.”

“That works. Don’t speak. Or, just give one-word answers. For example: no, yes, what, who, when, whatever. If in doubt, saying whatever usually works.” Gabby turned back to the sidewalk and we both began walking again.

While interacting with people about non-academic topics, I’d experienced my fair share of difficulty knowing how to segue into a new subject, or how to end a conversation, or knowing what to say when people over-shared. When I was fifteen, I stumbled across a list of phrases that mostly worked for any occasion, and I’d put them into practice with varying levels of success.

Phrases like But at what cost?

Or In this economy?

Or So . . . it has come to this.

Or So let it be written, so let it be done.

Or my personal favorite for when I didn’t know how to end a sentence or complete a thought . . . And then the wolves came.

These phrases seemed to work best when attempting to diffuse a tense situation or confuse the other person long enough for me to make my escape. Regardless, in the same spirit, I appreciated Gabby’s tip. I could default to saying whatever. That would be fine.

“Just don’t say anything obviously Mona-like,” she continued. “You look so much like Lisa, I don’t think the possibility that you’re Mona will even occur to him.”

“But he’s met Lisa.”

“Yes, but for like five minutes. He doesn’t really know her. Lisa only met him the one time, when we crashed one of your brother’s parties.” She paused here, sighing wistfully, as though remembering the encounter, and then added, “And even though they barely interacted, he was kind of a dick to Lisa.”

He’d been “a dick to her? That triggered the ingrained protective-sister sonar. Regardless of how close (or not) we were, sister-sonar meant I would automatically dislike anyone who’d been a dick” to Lisa, no matter how much hoo-hah happiness he inspired. Hoo-hah happiness was irrelevant.

“What did he say to her?”

“They didn’t really, uh, talk.”

Even with my paltry conversation-nuance detection skills, I picked up on the weird way she said talk. “Expand on that, please.”

Gabby waved her hand in the air, dismissing my question. “Whatever, it’s not important. Getting back to your original question, Abram might be smart, I don’t know. But he doesn’t know Lisa well enough to tell the difference between the two of you as long asyou don’t go around telling physics jokes and asking him to deduce or expand on things.”

“Fine.” I turned and continued walking toward the house, wondering if Gabby would fly off the handle again if I asked about Lisa’s arrest. Not wanting to inspire another round of insults, I tried a different—but related– topic. “So, why Abram? Why did my parents choose Abram to keep an eye on Lisa?”

“Uh, I don’t really know. According to Lisa, when I talked to her yesterday on the phone and we discussed the plan, she made it sound like he just happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

“Was she okay? When you talked to her?”

Gabby sent me a sharp, irritated glare. “How do you think she was?”

Okay, fine. Don’t ask Gabby about Lisa. Got it.

“Anyway,” Gabby flipped her braids, her tone growing lofty, “Lisa said that your brother was supposed to be at the house this summer, but that he went down to Florida for a thing.”

“I think he has work in Miami.” The last time I spoke to Leo, he’d mentioned spending part of the summer in south Florida, playing a few clubs.

“Yeah, something like that. So, I guess your guardian lady was supposed to step in and watch the house. What’s her name?”

“You mean Dr. Steward? She can’t, I think she’s in China.” I was nineteen now, but the day after I’d turned eighteen, Dr. Steward had taken off to travel the world. She’d been planning the trip for as long as I’d known her.

“That’s right. So, until Dr. Steward comes back, your brother suggested Abram keep an eye on the house. I think he’s being paid to house-sit. So when your parents issued the ultimatum that Lisa had to go home and wait for their return, they asked Leo to ask Abram to keep an eye on her.”

“Do they even know Abram? Why do they trust him?” I felt like I already knew my parents well enough to know the answers to these questions. But I also felt like they needed to be asked, just in case this would be the one time my parents surprised me.

“I don’t know.” Gabby shrugged. “I guess they figure, if your brother trusts the guy . . .”

I released an irritated puff of a breath, shaking my head, now absorbed in secondhand anger on my sister’s behalf. “That’s great.”

So, not surprised.

It had been the same way with Dr. Steward. The woman was a friend of a friend, an adjunct professor at a college in the Northeast. They hadn’t even interviewed her in person before sending me to the Northeast to live with her full time as a teenager. She’d been . . . fine. Strict and considerably more interested in the money she was banking than in me as a person, but fine.

“What?” Gabby poked me lightly, presumably to get my attention. “Leo wouldn’t recommend someone to watch the house who isn’t trustworthy, would he? Plus, like I said, they’re best friends. Plus, like I said, Abram is super uptight.”

“And uptight is trustworthy?”

“Exactly. Just look at you.”

I grumbled but said nothing to that.

Earlier, Gabby had said, He was kind of a dick to Lisa, and yet she saw nothing wrong with this guy keeping an eye on Lisa?

Nothing about Abram, or spending the next week in the same house as him, sounded treat-like to me. Another almost-stranger my parents trusted with one of their daughters. Granted, this guy was Leo’s good friend, and Leo did seem to have better judgment about people than either me or Lisa.

Am I really going to do this?

Yes. Yes, I was. We were about two blocks away now, I wasn’t a snitch, my sister needed help, and I’d promised. There was only one logical path forward.

But mostly, I refused to be another person in Lisa’s life who let her down. Gripping my bag’s strap tighter, I imagined the moment I’d have to hand it over to Gabby. Just the thought of trusting her with my backpack for any length of time was making my hands sweat.

“What?” She bumped me with her shoulder.

I shrugged, irritated I couldn’t wipe my hands on my pants. Wiping sweaty hands on leather just made for visibly wet leather and still sweaty hands, and wet leather was never a good idea. Never.

“What is that face you’re making?” She pointed to my face with her index finger, moving it in a circle.

“I don’t know, I can’t see myself.” There was just something about Gabby that grated, brought my emotions closer to the surface. Or perhaps it was this entire situation. Whatever it was, I couldn’t wait for this week to be over and return to the world I understood.

“Here, I’ll make the face you’re making.” Gabby caught my arm and I immediately maneuvered out of her grip. My reflexive reaction didn’t seem to bother her, or she didn’t notice. Regardless, she cleared her features of all expression except her eyes. She’d narrowed them subtly, and seemed to peer at the world with a hypercritical coolness. “This is the face,” she said robotically.

Trying to stuff my fingers into my pockets and failing—because the pockets were sewn shut—I scratched the elbow she’d grabbed and started walking again. “It’s just my face.”

“Well don’t make that face around Abram. Lisa doesn’t make that face.”

“Okay.” How the hell am I going to do this for a week? I pasted on a big, fake smile. “Is this better?”

“God, no. Don’t do that either.” She looked horrified. “What the hell was that? Was that a smile? Was that you smiling?”

I neither confirmed nor denied her speculation, keeping my attention forward as I twisted my lips to the side, trying not to smile for real. Gabby was a nebulous assemblage of unscrupulousness and exasperating nonsense, and we’d likely never be friends again, but she was undoubtedly charming when she wanted to be. There’d always been something about her timing, her delivery, that veered into the territory of funny.

“Okay, hand it over.” She touched my arm again, stopping me, and this time I had the wherewithal to not yank out of her grip. Instead, I removed my backpack with extreme reluctance, which elicited an eye roll from Gabby. “Oh, give it a break, Mona. Just hurry up. I have other things to do today.”

With continued extreme reluctance, I eventually handed her the backpack. She carried it the rest of the way to our brownstone while I continued to carry the makeup bag. Every so often, she’d pretend like she was going to toss my backpack in the road, snickering when I tensed.

“Relax, Lisa. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the happiness and well-being of my BFF.”

Gabby batted her eyelashes as I punched in the gate code, all nerves and thumbs. Our brownstone had a tall cast-iron fence facing the sidewalk. I wasn’t surprised by the lack of paparazzi. Everyone assumed the DaVinci family members people cared to gossip about—my parents and my brother mostly, me sometimes, Lisa only when she did something crazy—were elsewhere.

After three attempts, I finally got the code right and opened the gate for her. She preceded me up the stairs while I glared at the back of her head. When we reached the door, I reached for my backpack. She twisted away.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“I need my keys to open the door.”

“No. Your keys aren’t in my ugly backpack, Lisa.” Gabby sent yet another meaningful look to the house.

Oh. That’s right.

Giving my backpack one more longing look, I stepped away from Gabby and rang the doorbell.

“Good.” She moved closer to me as we waited for this Abram person to open the door. “That face you’re making is very Lisa. Pouty. I approve.”

Before I could respond, the door swung open, revealing . . . well, revealing an extremely handsome guy. Upon my initial cursory inspection, I noted that he was tall, had brown hair and eyes, was both startlingly attractive and visibly displeased. One might go so far as to call him irked.

The guy—dressed in a faded black T-shirt and worn blue jeans—pushed a hand into a fall of shiny hair, lifting the long strands away from his forehead. Most men look sloppy in faded T’s and worn jeans. But he did not. He looked hot.

Oooohhhh. Okay, I get it.

Yep. I understood at once what Gabby had meant. Abram had won the genetics lottery. Or Powerball. Or whatever. The point was, this guy probably received congratulations cards for his face. Noted.

“Lisa,” he said to me. A muscle at his defined jaw jumped, visible even beneath the few days of stubble covering the lower half of his face.

“You’re Abram,” I said, because who else could he be? This statement was made to his distracting chin. His chin—like the rest of him—was pleasingly formed, but his stubble was remarkable. A shade lighter than the hair on his head, it was just as thick. If he ignored it, he’d likely have a hell of a wizard beard in a matter of months. The only thing I truly envied men was their ability to grow wizard beards.

Lifting my hand for a shake, Gabby intercepted it before I could bring my fingers parallel to the ground. “As always, a real pleasure to look at you, Abram. What do you have to eat? Lisa left all her stuff behind—including her wallet—so we’re starving.” Using my mistakenly offered hand, she pulled me inside the house, brushing past Abram.

Oh, right. Why would Lisa shake his hand? I sent Gabby a glance of gratitude and wondered again how in the helium I was going to fake being not-me for a week.

“There’s leftover Chinese food and pizza in the fridge.” His tone blatantly hostile, providing additional proof that he wasn’t happy to see us.

Gabby steered me into the kitchen and sat me on a stool, giving me a hard look before turning for the fridge and pulling out a box of pizza. I placed the Sephora bag on the counter and waited, unsure what to do. If I’d been me—Mona, not Lisa—I’d have made myself mint tea. But I had no idea if drinking mint tea was in character for Lisa. Maybe I should pour myself a glass of whiskey?

While I was stuck debating my beverage choice, Abram appeared in the doorway. He opted to hover by the entrance to the kitchen, leaning his back against the doorframe and shifting his irked glare from me to Gabby. Even scowling and visibly inimical, he was hot.

“Where’s your phone?” he asked, his attention coming back to me, lifting his chin as his eyelids drooped.

“Like I said, gorgeous—” Gabby walked into his line of sight, blocking me from view “—she left all her shit behind, even her phone.”

“How’d she board a plane if she left everything behind?”

I was used to people talking about me in the third person, like I was a calculator. These numbers make no sense, how did she arrive at these values? Did she do this part in her head?

It didn’t bother me.

“Well, if you’d let me finish, I would tell you. She left it all at security. She was almost late for the plane and had to run to the gate,” Gabby lied smoothly, making me envious. “We’d already arranged to have me pick her up from O’Hare. Don’t fret, though. My mother’s secretary called the airport and they’re sending her phone and stuff. It should get here tomorrow or the day after.”

Gabby’s lies were so persuasive, spoken with such artlessness, I almost believed her.

Conclusion: I required lying lessons.

Abram leaned to the side to peer around my sister’s friend, his eyelids still droopy, his gaze still irritated and distrustful. “You don’t have your phone?”

One-word answers. One-word answers. One-word answers.

“Nope,” I said, both proud and disgusted with myself for the lie. Needing a distraction, I picked through the fruit bowl in the center of the island, hunting for the perfect apple.

In my peripheral vision, I watched as Abram stepped away from the door, walked around Gabby, and stopped four feet from me just as I took a bite from the apple. Honeycrisp. I chewed and he studied my face. Meeting his inspection directly, I concentrated on the taste of the apple and hoped I was making a Lisa-face.

Lifting his chin toward the Sephora bag, he asked, “You had money for makeup but not for food?”

“Priorities, Abram,” Gabby spoke for me.

He ignored her. “You don’t mind if I search you for it?”

Before I could catch it, I felt my eyes squint and my lips curve into an unfriendly sneer. Like hell he was putting his hands on me. I didn’t care who he was, whether or not he was Leo’s best friend, or whether my parents trusted him, I didn’t like being touched by anyone.

Abram’s glare sharpened, as though my reaction surprised him, or he found it confusing.

But Gabby laughed, taking the stool next to mine. “Yeah, sure. Go for it, handsome. Where is she going to hide a cell phone in that outfit? But, okay. I’m sure you’ll both probably enjoy it, so go ahead.”

I glanced down at myself, at my boobs on display in the tank top and black lace bra, my bare stomach, and the second skin of Lisa’s leather pants. Once again, Gabby made a good point. There was nowhere to hide anything in these clothes, the pockets were sewn shut for Bohr’s sake.

Returning my attention to Abram, it was my turn to be surprised. An expression of mild repugnance passed over his features as he looked me over, like the thought of giving “Lisa” a pat down was just as distasteful to him as it was to me.

Well, okay then. Maybe nineteen-year-old, olive-skinned, heavily makeupped, athletic with big boobs, long black hair, and brown eyes wasn’t his type.

Crossing his arms, Abram leveled me with a severe stare. “As soon as your stuff arrives, you give me the phone.”

“Fine.” I shrugged and took another bite of the apple while Gabby selected a piece of pizza from the box.

My calm capitulation seemed to increase his irritation. “No drinking. No drugs. No parties. No sneaking out. No one comes over until your parents get home in two weeks, or Dr. Steward arrives, whichever comes first. And no leaving the house without me. Anywhere you go, I go.”

I stared at him evenly, because—other than having him escort me out of the house—he was basically reading my Christmas list. Total seclusion and quiet for the next week? Where did I sign up?

But staring evenly with no reaction must’ve been the wrong thing to do, because the force of his eye-squint escalated, his gaze flickering over me with suspicion. “Did you hear me?”

“Yep,” I said, wishing I’d thought ahead and brought books to read. I’d already read all the ones here. Maybe I can go to the library? Wait, no. Shoot! No card. Bookstore?

Abram continued to examine me, his frown intensifying, his suspicion now edged with confusion. “Are you . . . feeling okay?”

I sensed Gabby’s restlessness before she stood from her stool and stepped in front of me again. “Okay, dad. What are you, like only three or four years older than us?” She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Whatever. We got it. No fun.”

Successfully disguising my disapproval at the petulance in her tone and the instinct to distance myself from her puerile response, I continued to give him my very best blank-face. To be clear, I’m not against sass or sarcasm. Both definitely have their place. But Gabby’s dramatics felt immature and superfluous.

Given the situation, the fact that Lisa was currently in jail and had been lying about being with Tyler for months, this Abram guy’s rules made complete sense. If I’d been left in charge, I would have set similar limitations.

“We’ll just be upstairs.” She pulled me from the stool, and I had to consciously force myself to allow Gabby to lead me toward the back stairs. “And just so we’re clear, we’ll be doing absolutely nothing,” Gabby spat, the venom in her voice—again—striking me as childish.

“No.” Abram shook his head, moving quickly to block our path. “No, Gabby. You’re not staying.”

I was relieved to see the earlier suspicion and confusion pointed at me had faded, replaced with a hard look for Lisa’s friend.

“What?” she screeched, her mouth falling open. “What the hell, Abram? You’re cute, but you’re not that cute. Stop being such an asshole.”

Abram rubbed his face tiredly, his jaw ticking again, his eyes now dark as coals. “Do you think I want to spend the next few weeks babysitting Lisa? No. I’m doing this as a favor to Leo.” He said this last part to me, his animosity a palpable thing. “So, if you could just, you know, not do anything stupid or crazy for the next two weeks, that would be really great.”

“Wanting to talk to her best friend is neither stupid or crazy.” Gabby inched us closer to the back stairs.

He moved to counter our progress, a big wall of lean muscle and unyielding determination. “Gabby, time for you to go.”

“Lisa isn’t a prisoner!”

I tried not to smirk at the irony of Gabby’s statement.

“Gabby,” he said, the single word a warning.

“This is such bullshit!” she continued to protest, but it was evident Abram wasn’t going to bend.

Turning my arm, I encircled Gabby’s wrist with my fingers and tugged her lightly, encouraging her to face me. “You should go. I’ll be fine.”

Her moss-green eyes moved between mine, hot with anger, but also tempered with worry. She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, like a grunt, and pulled me into a hug.

I stiffened in her embrace, baffled by the action and feeling a familiar reflexive suffocation, but then she whispered, “The backpack is under the stool I was sitting on. Don’t let him see it or we’re all dead.”

Gabby released me and leaned away to administer one of her meaningful looks. This one I read perfectly.

Nodding once, she turned back to Abram, looked him over, and promptly walked to the kitchen exit. “You’re still hot, Abram, even if you are an uptight asshole.”

“I’ll walk her out, you stay here.” He exhaled a harassed-sounding breath, turned, and followed Gabby from the kitchen.

I watched them go. As soon as they were out of sight, I dashed to my backpack, grabbed it, and . . . hesitated. Would I have enough time to run up to my room, deposit it within, and be back in the kitchen before Abram returned?

Probably not.

Which meant I needed to hide it before he returned. There were many, many options as the kitchen was expansive. Did I hide it in the pantry? Or beneath the double oven? Or above the fridge? The unmistakable sound of the front door shutting made my decision for me. The pantry was closest, so that would be its home for the time being.

Rushing, I shoved the bag behind baking supplies on the bottom shelf. Unless Abraham—Abram? Abraham? Damn. Which one was it?—was secretly a pastry chef, I felt like it was the safest place.

“Lisa?”

He’d returned.

Panicking, I reached blindly for a bag of something on the snack shelf and poked my head out of the walk-in pantry.

Following Gabby’s advice, I said, “What?”

The guy’s gaze found me, his slashing dark eyebrows pulled low, giving him an air of being thoroughly . . . I’m going to go with the wordirked again. “What are you doing?”

“Getting—” I held out the bag of whatever I’d grabbed in front of me, reading the package “—prunes.”

Ah jeez. Prunes. Why’d it have to be prunes?

He blinked. Some of the severity in his glare seemed to dissolve into confusion as he looked between me and the bag. “Prunes.”

I nodded. What else could I do? I was holding a package of prunes, now I just had to commit to the package of prunes.

“Yes. Prunes. As you see.” Tearing it open and walking out of the pantry, I reached into the bag. Slimy, larger versions of raisins were waiting for me inside.

“You’re going to eat . . . prunes?”

I nodded, struggling to find a lie that sounded as plausible as Gabby’s had been. “You don’t know anyone who eats prunes?”

“My grandpa,” he said flatly, still splitting his attention between me and the bag.

“Smart man. They’re high in fiber.”

“Fiber.”

“Yes.” I lifted the bag to scan the nutritional information, hoping they were actually high in fiber. Though I had a suspicion, I wasn’t 100 percent certain. After reading the package, I released a relieved breath. “Twelve grams of fiber per serving. It says so right here. That’s a lot. And I need my fiber.”

“Why do you need fiber?”

“Flying makes me”—oh God, don’t say it!—“makes me”—oh noes, here it comes—“constipated.” I nodded at my own assertion, quickly stuffing my mouth with three prunes so I wouldn’t be able to speak.

His confusion persisted, but he said nothing. Holding perfectly still, he watched me with a frown that teetered on dismayed.

Meanwhile, I had to stop chewing. Each prune had a pit. Shit. There existed no graceful way to remove a pit from one’s mouth. I would have to spit the pit.

Holding his gaze, which now seemed to be fascinated in addition to dismayed, I spit the pits into my palm. I then gave him a tight-lipped smile while I continued to chew, because that’s what I did when people stared at me. I wonder what Lisa does when people stare at her?

One of his eyebrows lifted and he gave his head a subtle shake. “Okay. Right.” He glanced at the ceiling and then around the kitchen, as though trying to figure out where he was. “I’m going to have to call your parents’ assistant, Dr. Steward, right? And let her know you don’t have your phone.”

Luckily, I was still chewing the prunes, which gave me a few moments to think about how to respond to this statement. As an aside, carrying around a bag of food and stuffing my face whenever he asked me a question was a solid plan. It would give me an opportunity to stall, to think.

Stating that Dr. Steward was my parents’ assistant wasn’t entirely accurate. More like, she had incidentally become one of the various team of people my parents called upon when they needed a problem handled. But I didn’t need to clarify that with Abram. Trying to explain the complexities of staff and their unofficial roles to people who didn’t understand celebrity was time consuming and typically yielded even more confusion.

Moving on.

Even though I dreaded the possibility of speaking to either of my parents while pretending to be Lisa, his logic made sense. I couldn’t see any way of talking him out of calling Dr. Steward as I could form no compelling—i.e. logical—argument against it.

Therefore, after swallowing, I said, “Whatever, Abe.”

I’d decided to say whatever since Gabby had indicated it would always be a safe choice, and I’d called him Abe since it was short for both Abram and Abraham. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which was correct. I’d never been good at remembering names. Or remembering faces. Or people.

This must’ve been precisely the right thing to say—and by that, I mean it was the wrong thing to say but in the right way—because his eyelids lowered again to half-mast and his mouth flattened. He looked perturbed, which was good. Perturbed was much better than suspicious or confused. Perturbed meant he saw me as Lisa and not as a potential imposter. So, in summary, woot woot!

“Forget it,” he grumbled, turning from me and running a hand through his longish brown hair. “Just, hand over the phone when it arrives, okay? I’ll be in the basement. Let me know if you need to go out for anything. Otherwise just . . .” his gaze flickered to me and I spotted that same hint of repugnance as before, like he found my presence unsavory. “Just don’t do anything stupid.”

I wanted to respond with In this economy? But instead, and without thinking too much about it, I saluted, still gripping the pits in my hand. Why I did this, I had no idea. Luckily, the action didn’t faze him. With one last irked look, Abe walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with my prunes, their pits, and an immediate sense of relief.

Chapter 3: Displacement

Prunes would be my constant companion for the next week, the means by which I delayed answering or speaking to Abe. Good plan.The fiber consumed would be a bonus.

Tossing the pits in the garbage and rinsing my hand, I zipped closed the bag, tucked it under my arm, and glanced at the pantry. The backpack would stay put for now. Abe didn’t trust Lisa. Best to move the bag in the middle of the night, or at some point when I could be 97 percent certain we wouldn’t cross paths.

So, what did I do nowRead? Exercise? Going for a walk was out of the question. Watch a movie in the theater downstairs? I hadn’t seen a movie or TV in months, but Abe said he’d be in the basement, so that was a no-go . . . How about a shower?

Yes. Shower. A shower was the answer. I hadn’t showered since yesterday. Plane rides didn’t make me constipated, they made me feel grimy. A shower sounded divine. Hydra environments were deeply within my wheelhouse.

And yet, I was faced with a quandary: I wanted a shower, yet I couldn’t get any part of my head wet. Gabby had been adamant about not allowing Abe to see me without Lisa’s hair and makeup. Protecting my hair and face from the shower spray was necessary.

A waterproof implement was in order, one that allowed me to see and breathe, and ideally large enough to cover my entire head. A shower cap wouldn’t cut it, I had too much hair and by design it left the face exposed. The more I thought the issue over, the more I realized I would need something reusable. I didn’t want to have to reapply makeup all the time, or redo my hair.

Conclusion: What I needed was a shower helmet. I was fairly certain a shower helmet didn’t exist. I’d have to make one.

Biting the inside of my bottom lip, I searched the kitchen drawers closest to the gas range and found what I sought: aluminum foil, parchment paper, tape, scissors, and plastic wrap. Laying my materials on the kitchen island, I used the aluminum foil to make a mold of my entire head. I lined the inside with parchment paper, cut away spaces for my eyes and mouth, and finally covered the outside with several layers of plastic wrap.

I did have to make a few minor tweaks: air holes, increasing the size of the eye area for better range of vision, expanding the crown section so that I could wear my hair up and out of the way. Once I was satisfied, I carried my shower helmet and bag of new makeup to the bathroom, making a pit stop in my room first to grab underwear.

When the house was remodeled before we moved in, my parents had installed an elevator. Since my room was only one flight up, I typically took the stairs. Lisa and I shared the bathroom off the main hall on the second floor.

Leo’s room was on the third floor, he shared his bathroom with the two guest rooms on that level. My parents had their own bathroom and living space on the fourth floor, a giant master suite that took up the entire level.

Stripping out of the tank top and leather pants, I twisted my hair into a bun and fitted the waterproof helmet into place. Three minutes into my shower, I was generally pleased with the results of my efforts. The helmet succeeded in its purpose. My hair and face were dry. The only downside was the interior acoustics, which seemed to amplify the sound of the shower tenfold. Ah well. I would have to make notes for a second prototype, should the need arise.

Toweling off, I studied my image in the mirror as best I could given the limitations of the helmet, and debated how to best dry the contraption. Leaving it outside was the obvious choice, just not in direct sunlight. I didn’t want the plastic to melt. The small balcony off my room should work and had the added bonus of giving me an excuse to access “Mona’s room” whenever I wanted.

Decision made, I pulled on my underwear. I left the helmet on—enjoying the novelty of feeling like a Storm Trooper, or perhaps a member of Daft Punk—wrapped an oversized towel around myself, and opened the bathroom door just in time to almost collide with Abe. But we didn’t collide, thanks to my eyeholes and his veering to the left at the last minute.

“What the hell?” he said, staring at me aghast. “What are you doing?”

Bah! I forgot my prunes.

Lifting the towel closer to my neck, I met his stunned gaze through the plastic sheeting of my helmet, and debated how best to answer. In the end, I decided the truth would have to do. “I’m walking to my room. What are you doing?”

“No, I mean, what are you wearing?”

I glanced down at myself. “A towel and underwear.”

“No. On your head.” He touched his temple and I mimicked the movement, my fingers coming in contact with the plastic outer layer. “What’s that thing on your head? Is that aluminum foil?”

“Oh. It’s for the shower. To keep my hair dry and, you know, my face also.” An image of me, of what I looked like in the helmet, flashed into my brain. I guess I looked silly. Removing it, I gave him another of my tight smiles. “Is that better?”

I could see him more clearly now. His forehead was scrunched, like I, or my shower helmet, or both of us together were inconceivable.

“That’s actually . . .”  His expression cleared and he blinked, shifting back a step as though to get a better look at me. “That’s actually really smart.”

Now I frowned at him. The way he’d said smart irritated me on my sister’s behalf, as though the mere idea of me—Lisa—doing anything smart was outside his understanding of reality.

So I lifted my chin and said, “Well, you would know.”

He must’ve detected the undercurrent of sarcasm in my tone because his head moved back an inch on his neck, his gaze flickering over me. “What?”

“Clearly, you’re a foremost expert on what qualifies as ‘smart.’” I tugged my towel higher.

“Are you”—his eyes narrowed—“are you giving me shit for complimenting your—your—”

“Shower helmet.”

Abe pressed his lips together in an obvious attempt to curb a smile, but the presence of faint indents on either side of his mouth, the beginning of dimples, betrayed him. “Shower helmet,” he said, eyes— which I’d just this second realized were the color of amber when he wasn’t irked—glinted with amusement.

“Yes, I’m giving you shit regarding your paltry compliment about my shower helmet, because it was wholly eclipsed by your incredulity that I am capable of doing something ‘smart.’”

He gave up the fight against his grin. “Oh? Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

Abe huffed a disbelieving laugh, looking at me like I was a puzzle. “Well then, you know what would’ve been actually smart?”

“Please enlighten me.”

“Taking a bath.”

I opened my mouth to volley a new sarcasm, but then promptly snapped it shut, blinking in astonishment. He was right. Taking a bath would have been the simplest and smartest course of action. But taking a bath hadn’t occurred to me. I hadn’t taken a bath since Lisa and I’d taken them together as children.

“Unless you don’t like baths.” Abe’s left eyebrow tilted upward a hint, as did his mouth.

Scowling, because I wasn’t going to admit that taking a bath hadn’t occurred to me, I deflected by asking, “Why are you here? I thought you were in the basement.”

“I’m staying in one of the guest rooms on the third floor, I’m on my way up.”

“Oh. That makes . . . sense.”

We traded stares for several seconds, neither of us moving. I debated what to do or say while I watched all the good humor slowly leach from his features, leaving a mantle of renewed hostility. My stomach fluttered, startling me, and I pressed a hand against it.

You’re having butterflies because he’s pretty, I told myself. But the hurried explanation felt woefully inadequate.

Let the record show, Abe really was extremely attractive in a cool, aloof, tall, dark, and handsome kind of way—if you go for that. For some strange reason, I couldn’t help but compare him to Dr. Poe Payton, who was also extremely attractive. But although Poe was tall, dark, and handsome—objectively, perhaps even more handsome than Abe—he wasn’t aloof. He was friendly and brilliant.

That’s the problem, a voice inside my head informed me, has anyone brilliant ever been nice to you without having an ulterior motive?

Releasing a silent sigh, I wallowed for a split second in the sudden cold nausea curdling my stomach, fighting a duel with the flutters. It might have been the hastily eaten prunes, but I didn’t think so. More likely, it was the realization that I was more inclined to trust someone who disliked me than someone who liked me.

Which was probably why despite Abe’s apparent dislike for all things Lisa (and therefore me) in that moment, while standing so close to his handsomeness, I felt a small kinship with Gabby and her hoo-hah. Abe openly disliked me/Lisa, and I found him and his dislike attractive as evidenced by the increasing fluttery activity in my abdomen. How messed up was that?

Needing to break the moment, I considered saying one of my anytime phrases.

My first instinct was to use Is this why fate brought us together? but immediately dismissed it as an option. I usually employed this one when I spotted something I wanted, like chocolate gelato or fingerless gloves. So, nah.

Perhaps, Be that as it may, still may it be as it may be? Eh. No. Too random and too much time had passed with us just staring at each other.

Eventually, I channeled Lisa and flicked my wrist, moving my hand in a dismissive out-of-the-way motion I’d seen her use the last time we were together.

“Move. You’re in my way.”

His lips curved, definitely more of a smirk than a smile. Hinted at dimples made an appearance, deeper on the left side than on the right. But that might’ve been because his mouth hitched higher on that side. Licking his lips, his eyes dropped to the ground, the radiant amber irises now hidden by his long black lashes. He stepped to the side, lifting his arm in a go-right-ahead gesture.

So I did. I walked to my room. I opened the door. And then I closed it.

Not three seconds later, he knocked.

Gritting my teeth, I opened it, once again coming face-to-face with his smirking smile, dimples, and amber eyes, which—for the record—held no amusement.

“What do you want?”

“Isn’t this your sister’s room?” Abe crossed his arms and lifted a dark, challenging, irked eyebrow.

Ah! I was in my room! But that was okay because of my shower helmet plan. Which meant I didn’t even need to lie.

“This is Mona’s room.” Truth. “This room also has a balcony, which I plan to use to dry my shower helmet.” Also truth. Turning from him, I walked to the single French door leading to the small balcony and unlocked it, opened it, and placed the helmet under the small table so it wouldn’t get direct sunlight.

Shutting the door to the balcony, I was surprised to see that Abe had followed me into my room. His gaze moved over the interior of the space, seemingly taking in or cataloguing the objects within. His unexpected inspection made me look around as well. I attempted to view my sanctuary from his perspective. What must it look like to a stranger?

The walls were white. I liked rooms painted white, especially if I spent any period of time within the room. Books. Lots of books on four giant shelves lining the wall closest to the door. Two floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the French door dominated the far side and flooded the space with light. The bed was twin-sized with a night-sky print comforter and one white pillow. I preferred the small footprint of a twin over surrendering valuable floor space to a larger bed. A drafting table that served as my desk sat against the fourth wall. Books and papers were stacked beneath.

“’Heisenberg may have slept here,’” Abe read the sign over my bed, his tone thoughtful. “What does that mean?”

Since I didn’t have my prunes, I didn’t pause to think before asking, “You’re uncertain who Heisenberg is?” and then immediately grimaced, because no physics jokes.

Abe’s gaze moved to mine. “The name sounds familiar.”

“Have you ever taken chemistry? Or physics?”

“Yeah. In high school.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to explain who Heisenberg was, and that the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle related to the fact that everything in the universe behaves like both a particle and a wave at the same time, which meant no one can ever simultaneously know the exact position and the exact speed of an object at any given time. Furthermore, just the act of measuring anything—or attempting to measure—changes the object being measured.

But then I remembered I was Lisa. I was Lisa, not Mona. And Lisa had never understood or cared why the sign over my bed was funny.

Taking a breath, I swallowed and shrugged. “It probably has to do with something like that. Mona likes, uh, physics. A lot.”

“Leo said she went to some big deal, Ivy League school.”

I cleared my throat and nodded once. “Correct.”

“When she was fourteen?” Abe’s gaze moved back to the sign.

“Fifteen.” The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled, probably because I was still standing around wearing nothing but a towel and undies. But maybe also because I was discussing myself like I wasn’t me.

He made a dismissive, scoffing sound and moved to leave. “That would suck.”

I scowled at the back of his head, following him into the hall and catching myself before saying Pardon?

Instead I said, “What?”

He glanced at me, his expression one of clear aversion to the direction of his thoughts. “Going to college at fifteen? Never getting to experience high school? That would have sucked.”

My throat felt oddly tight and a bizarre restlessness stirred in my chest. “Some people say that high school sucks.” I didn’t know why I was arguing with him about this. I should have been avoiding him. And getting dressed.

“High school does suck.” Abe nodded, tilting his head to the side, his eyes growing fuzzy as though he was recalling a specific memory. “But fifteen-year-olds are still kids. High school is your last chance to make mistakes without huge adult consequences. Missing out on that chance would suck. That’s like losing four years of your childhood.”

His gaze returned to mine and seemed to be guileless, as though we were just two random people having a random conversation about a random topic where neither of us had an emotional investment. It was the first time since I’d arrived an hour ago that he’d looked at me without being irritated, or confused, or—as he’d done just moments ago upon finding me with my shower helmet—freaked out with a hint of good humor.

Meanwhile, I was still scowling.

Abe blinked, apparently what he saw on my face confused him. But then his expression cleared, as though he’d just realized something significant.

“You dropped out of high school.” He said this with no malice, but rather as though this fact—Lisa dropping out of high school—explained my persistent scowl.

“Yes,” I said stiffly. And just for good measure, I added, “Whatever.” So . . . it has come to this.

His gaze moved over me, assessing and yet surprisingly free of judgment. These amber eyes of his were making me tremendously self-conscious as I sensed something new behind his inspection. Something like interest, but not quite. Whatever the something was, it also made me acutely cognizant that I was wearing just a towel and underwear.

I gathered a deep breath, about to walk around him to Lisa’s room, when he said quietly, “So did I.”

“What?”

“I dropped out of high school.”

I flinched, astonished. “You- you did?”

He nodded, biting his lower lip, a faint smile in his eyes. “That surprises you?”

“Why would you do that?” I asked this as myself, as Mona, because dropping out of school made no sense to me. To have access to knowledge and to reject it made no logical sense.

Abe’s left dimple appeared, his pretty eyes—yes, they were pretty, but alluring might have been a more fitting word—seemed to glow.

Instead of answering, he countered, “Why did you drop out?”

“My parents couldn’t find a high school that would take- take me. I was kicked out of ten schools by my junior year.” I thought everyone knew this story. It had been in all the papers.

He made a low whistling sound. “Ten?”

I nodded, remembering the phone call I’d had with Lisa after number ten. She’d seemed proud, like it had been an accomplishment. I didn’t understand her.   

“So, technically, I didn’t drop out,” I said, repeating what she’d said to me at the time.

“Right.” He looked less than impressed, which echoed how I’d felt about Lisa’s statement.

Before I could catch the impulse, I rolled my eyes, a small smile tugging at my lips, forgetting for a moment that we weren’t commiserating over Lisa’s recklessness because, you know, I was Lisa.

Abe looked at me like I’d again surprised him.

Oh. Oh no. He thinks I’m being self-deprecating. Yikes.

“Yeah. Well. I’m the funniest person I know, and then the wolves came.” I forced a light laugh, knowing I’d messed up. Lisa was many things, but I’d never known her to be self-deprecating. If there was one thing my sister took too seriously in this world, it was herself.

“Wolves?” His gaze traveled over my face, a smile lingering even though his eyebrows had pulled together. The dichotomy of his expression had me wondering whether he was enjoying our conversation, or if perhaps he was confused about the fact that he was enjoying our conversation.

“Anyway.” I took a step to the side, and then another. I needed to extract myself. I needed the prunes to chew on before I could be trusted to speak. “I’m cold. I need clothes. Goodbye.”

With that, I crossed to Lisa’s room, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me. I counted the seven seconds until I heard footsteps on the stairway leading up. Shaking my head at how incompetent I was at lying, I moved to Lisa’s dresser.

As I searched for something to wear, I admitted to myself that I failed at pretending to be someone else. Everything that had just happened—except for me saying whatever and flicking my wrist at him—had been completely out of character for my sister.

Avoiding Abe was the only way to salvage this week and allow Lisa to slip back into the house without raising suspicion.

Avoidance. I would avoid him.

Complete avoidance.

Yep.

The excerpts of Motion can be also read on Penny Reid’s website. Be sure to check it out!

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