{Sneak Peek of} Faking With You

Chapter 1

I volunteer as tribute.

Finn

THE MINUTE I WALK INSIDE THE BAR, I'm assaulted by the noise, a combination of booming music and the voices trying to talk over it. The usually loud atmosphere is made louder with the holidays only a week away. There are string lights strung up on every possible surface giving the place a festive feel. As I survey the crowd, I note Santa hats and reindeer antlers adorning a majority of the heads, and more people than not wear some sort of Christmas-themed clothing. There are more ugly Christmas sweaters present tonight than in the closet of a retired elementary school teacher.

I glance at my clothes with a passing thought that I obviously missed the memo. It appears to be some sort of Christmas party is taking place. Had I known, I could have scrounged up my ratty old Grinch t-shirt or plopped on my trusted Christmas tree hat that everyone seems to hate so much. Instead, I'm in my usual graphic tee with a hunter green cardigan and jeans.

I run a hand over my hair, damp from the melted snowflakes—outside is a winter wonderland, like someone picked up our small chunk of Minnesota and shook it like a snow globe. Inside, though, is nice and toasty with plenty of charged energy that manages to seep in and jolt me awake.

I escaped to the nearby town of Maybury for this very reason—a change of pace to recharge my bored state of being as of late. Monotony might very well be the death of me.

Finn Anderson, age 29, died too young from literal boredom. Pretty sure that's what my obituary would read.

I need to shake things up. Meet new people. Do different things. My regular existence in Lake Hope is safe, stable, and oh-so-utterly boring. I'm on the cusp of turning 30 and I'm still existing the same way I have been for the entire decade. I feel stuck. Uninspired. Lazy. Lonely.

Fuck, the loneliness one hits the hardest.

As I weave my way through the festive green and red bodies, my eyes snag on a leggy redhead seated at the bar. When I say leggy, I mean her crossed legs seem to go on for miles. And when I say my eyes snag on said redhead, I mean I cannot look away. I blame the legs on the reason it takes me so long to recognize the face attached to the legs. I mean, if I hadn't been mesmerized, I would have looked up sooner.

The minute I do look up, though, my eyes traveling from those sexy legs up that tight green dress to that breathtakingly beautiful face, I stop in my tracks. Fucking, of course. I should have known instantly. It's not like it's my first time being sucked in by those legs. Or that body. Or, fuck, that face. Because, you see, I have logged many hours staring at all parts of Rylie Foss. So many fucking hours.

A slow grin crawls across my face as I resume my trek to the bar, my steps taking me closer and closer to that feisty ginger. The closer I get, I realize Rylie's normally easygoing demeanor is replaced with tenseness. Her body is arched away from the man perched at the bar next to her, but with every millimeter of distance she puts between them, he encroaches two more.

Rylie is hardly a woman who needs saving; she's easily the most terrifying chick I know. But we have this game we play—one where I play the part of the golden retriever puppy and she the dog-hating neighbor. In other words, we flirt by way of feigned distaste. Well, the distaste is on her end only. Like the good puppy I am, I'd gladly lick up any bit of attention she throws my way. And I do mean lick in the literal sense. Should we revisit my lustful gawking of her legs?

With this game in mind, I sneak up behind her, sliding my arms around her waist and nuzzling my face in her neck. I stop just shy of licking her neck because I can show restraint. "Hey kitty cat," I purr into her ear, loud enough that the drunk guy encroaching on her space can hear. "Sorry I'm late. Did you miss me?"

Rylie swivels on the bar stool to face me, and I take advantage of her opening her legs just enough for me to slide my body between them. With her head titled up in my direction, she feigns excitement as she says, "Oh yes, I missed you oh-so-much."

I laugh at her fake cheer, not letting her lack of enthusiasm deter me. Instead, I take the game further, dipping my head to kiss her cheek. "Well, I'm here now." I stare pointedly at the dude who has yet to take a hint. "You can fuck off."

Once the guy finally leaves, I take his spot, sinking into the stool next to Rylie. "You're welcome," I say with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes at me. "Whatever, Finnegan. Don't act like you did me some huge favor because you scared off some drunk creep."

I flag down a bartender to order a beer. "Now Wiley Rylie, is that really any way to repay your savior?"

"What are you even doing here?" She crosses those fucking legs again, and I try hard—I really do—not to look, but shit! It's not my fault. They've starred in so many of my fantasies: wrapped around my waist, wrapped around my head, spread wide open...you get it; I have a thing for her legs.

With a single finger under my chin, she directs my eyes upward. Instead of apologizing, I simply grin at her. She knows who I am. It's not like we've just met, or this is the first time she's called me out for looking. And we all know it won't be the last either.

"Same as you, I'm betting," I finally answer when the bartender clunks my beer onto the bar. I take a long swig of the cool liquid.

"So you're out looking for someone suitable to bring home to your overbearing, controlling parents?"

With raised eyebrows, I ask, "What now?"

"Never mind." She waves me away, and I eye her suspiciously. It isn't like Rylie to dive into her private life. I know next to nothing about her life outside of working at my family farm.

"I don't know about the—" I wave my hand around her pretty face. "—whatever that was, which I'll eventually pry out of you, but I'm here because of the slim dating options in Lake Hope. Been picking through them since Junior High."

"Dating, huh?" Rylie smirks at me over the rim of her martini glass. She picks up the plastic spear and slowly—tauntingly, mesmerizingly slowly—sucks a green olive into her mouth. "Is that what we're calling hookups now? Dating?"

I groan, covertly trying to adjust myself from how my body reacts to her. "Wiley, come on. Don't try to shame me like that. I'm more than just a hookup man."

"Oh really? So when was your last relationship? And how long did it last?" She uncrosses her legs and recrosses with the opposite one on top, smoothing her hand over her knee. The green of her nails matches her dress and I'm too busy focusing on those unimportant details to follow her line of questioning.

Again, she lifts my head with a finger under my chin. "Finnegan," she chastises in that raspy voice of hers.

"Why have we never hooked up, Wy? I assure you it'd be a good time." I bob my eyebrows at her, a smirk lifting my lips.

"Wy? You're shortening that ridiculous Wiley Rylie nickname to just Wy now?"

"Don't avoid the question."

"Like you avoided mine?"

Groaning, I take a drink of my beer. "My last relationship? Let's see, high school? Or there was that one chick who latched on real hard and kind of, sort of moved into my apartment without me realizing it until it was too late. Does that count?"

She throws her head back and cackles. "Jesus, Finn. You're a mess. How'd you manage to get rid of the leech then?"

"Me?" I point to myself, grinning despite being the target of her teasing. "I didn't. Charlie took pity and rescued me."

This makes her laugh again, and I thoroughly enjoy the sound, even if it's at my expense. "Finnegan, Finnegan," she tsks. "Making your twin clean up your messes. How very mature of you. And how exactly did he do this? Let me guess, he sat her down and gently explained the situation. Gave her a sweet hug and sent her on her way."

"Nah," I say after taking another drink of my beer. "He pretended to be me and dumped her. I think he rather enjoyed playing the role of an asshole since he's so completely angelic all the time that it's sickening."

"Shut up!" she exclaims, grabbing my arm. "He did not do the whole twin swap thing. Tell me this is a thing you guys do often! Wait, have you ever done it to me?"

I raise a brow at her sudden burst of excitement. "Wy," I say with a knowing look. "You've never once mixed us up. Even when you first met us. How the fuck would we be able to trick you?"

Charlie and I may be identical twins, but the differences between us are so contrasting that anyone who spends a total sum of five minutes with us would easily know who is who. Where I'm easygoing and some might consider obnoxious—not me, of course, I prefer the term charming—my twin is more uptight. Ok, fine: responsible, mature, refined. Shall I continue the list I've heard countless times? No? You get the point?

"Then how'd you manage to trick the leech?" she asks, so completely invested in this conversation that she actually leans in toward me in anticipation.

I shrug. "He wore my clothes and messed up his usually perfectly styled hair. Probably tried to copy my oh-so-charming self," I chuff, puffing my chest out. "You know, channeled his inner cool twin that burrows somewhere in the hidden recesses of his uptight ass."

She snorts. "You're really selling it to yourself that you're the better twin, aren't you?"

"No selling needed, honey. It's a fact." I take a drink to hide the hurt from her comment, playing it off like it's not a sore spot. But fuck if it isn't one. You try having a clone of yourself always there as a gauge of comparison. It's exhausting. And I'll only admit this once so pay attention, my ego takes far too many hits because of this, tanking my self-confidence and ratcheting up my insecurities.

Yeah, yeah, you're diagnosing me now, right? Classic twin syndrome: always seeking attention in the form of obnoxious behavior in order to stand apart from his twin. Fuck off with that shit. I get it. I'm not an idiot. Doesn't mean I like to dwell on it.

"So you've seriously never tried to pull the whole twin switcheroo on me?" She finishes her drink and holds up the empty glass to the bartender.

"Nah, Wy. No reason to. Yet anyway," I quickly amend with a faux-flirtatious voice. "Once you hole up in my apartment and take over my bathroom, well then things might change."

She sizes me up as if contemplating something important. "Interesting, interesting."

"You want us to try and trick you, don't you? Why is everyone so fascinated by this? It's like people have never met twins before. Newsflash, Wiley Rylie: we're just people who happen to look alike." I finish off the last dregs of my beer, but I have no luck flagging down a bartender. Oh to be a woman with nice tits. They always get their drinks fast.

Completely ignoring my rant, she leans in and places a hand on my thigh, whispering, "Have you guys ever switched partners in the bedroom? Pretended you were the other one while hooking up with each other's dates?"

With her being so close, I notice the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. They're duller in the winter since they don't get much time in the sun to marinate this time of year, but they're still cute as fuck. Her twinkling green eyes lure me in.

"Now, Wy, you better be careful. You're letting your freak flag fly."

She swats my chest, backing away. "Whatever. Just answer the question."

I grit my teeth as I count to ten. This isn't a subject I like to think too hard on. It triggers a sore subject from our teenage years I'd rather not revisit. "No, Rylie. We never double dip."

"You guys are no fun. You're completely missing out on a prime opportunity." She twirls the plastic spear with olives around her martini, but her eyes never leave me.

"Are you actually saying it would be ok to trick poor women into thinking they're fucking one twin when it's really the other?" I clutch my chest in mock offense.

"Shut up. Since when are you such a prude? You give people so much shit, but you can't take it?"

"Ok," I relent with my hands up. "I may have been called out for my playboy ways a time or two, but I assure you I have never once even contemplated tricking someone like that in the bedroom. Even I have lines I won't cross, Wiley."

"Shame," she says, sipping from her martini. "If I had an identical twin, I'd definitely be taking advantage of that shit. It'd be like the ultimate test. If the dude can't tell the difference, then that's obviously a red flag. Bye, loser. See you never."

"Yeah," I argue, "but what if he does figure it out? It could go one of many ways." I hold her wrist in my hand, and I raise one of her fingers to tick off the first of my reasons. "One, he could be pissed and dump your ass." Lifting a second finger, I continue, "Two, he could prefer the twin." I pluck a third finger up, gazing into her electric green eyes. "Three, he could want both twins. Separately and at the same time." I wiggle my brows, and although I'm done counting the reasons, I don't let go of her hand. Instead, I feather my thumb over the pulse point on her wrist. "Are you really wanting to share with your twin, Wy? Or be constantly compared to her? It's a tricky line to toe, honey. Even Rylie Foss can get burned."

"Shit," she says, sitting back and taking her hand with her, severing our connection, her eyes surveying me a little too closely. "Are you harboring some resentment toward your twin, Finnegan? Is there some backstory there you're hiding from me?"

I renew my attempts at getting the bartender's attention, eager to avoid the feisty redhead. A subject change is desperately needed. Finally, a bartender takes pity on me and swaps out my empty bottle with a new one. I hold it up to Rylie, waiting for her to clink her drink to mine.

"What are we cheersing?"

Glancing around at the display of holiday-clad bodies, I shrug. "Merry fucking Christmas, I guess." As she's sipping, I tack on, "And to those fucking legs. Jesus, Wy, I noticed them across the room. They beckoned me over."

She chokes on her drink and instantly starts coughing, holding a hand up to her mouth. I lean over to rub her back in hard circles. From this close proximity, I can smell her perfume. It's her signature smell, one that does things to me. I tell myself not to, but apparently I'm not good at listening because I drop my head and inhale a lungful. What exactly is that scent anyway? It's sweet but also kind of spicy. I asked Siri once years ago what smell is sweet and spicy with hints of vanilla, and she came back with a myriad of answers, but the common one was amber, which was described as exotic and sensual. It felt right on the money for Rylie, so that's how I think of her smell now—amber musk.

"Careful, Wy," I whisper in her ear, "I might have to give you mouth to mouth. Actually, changed my mind," I quickly walk back my comment as I straighten just enough to look in her eyes—and, shit, I wasn't ready for the immediate zing of electricity that zaps down my spine, forcing me ramrod straight. When she sucks in a breath, I realize it wasn't one-sided. Surely, she felt that too. Right?

"What'd you change your mind about?" Her voice is a whispered rasp. I mean, raspier than usual. It's always raspy, this distinct sound that would be perfect for a phone sex operator. Shit, I wonder if she'd record herself saying something naughty to me. That'd be hot.

"Have you ever considered a career change? I bet you could make a killing being a phone sex operator. And would you be willing to record yourself saying something sexy to me." I grab my phone out of my pocket, swiping it open and pull up a voice recording app. I hold it up in front of her mouth. "On the count of three. One, two, three." I hit record, and when she does nothing but gawk at me, I hit stop.

"Wy, come on. Don't be like that." I put my phone away and direct my practiced pout at her.

"You're ridiculous. And relentless." She plops the last olive into her mouth, studying me as she chews. "If you're looking to get laid tonight, you should probably go mingle."

"Or we could finally do it." I run my gaze over her body again, making my intentions clear.

"Never gonna happen." The response is lightning quick.

"Why not? You never answered my question earlier. Why haven't we ever hooked up?"

"Too messy."

"Too messy? How could it be messy?"

"Teddy is the only person on the planet I give a shit about. I mean, truly care about. She's my person," Rylie says, referring to her best friend and my brother's girlfriend. "And since she attached herself to your family, I'm kind of stuck with you. I prefer to play in foreign sandboxes. Not the ones in my backyard, if you know what I mean. Keeps things cleaner."

"So," I say, trying to follow along. "If I can convince Teddy she can do better than Jensen, you're saying I have a chance?" I smirk around the bottle of beer before I tip it back for a drink.

She laughs good-naturedly. "Good luck with that. Pretty sure she's a lifer in the cult that is Jensen Anderson. See," she says, arching an eyebrow, "stuck with you."

"The least you can do is record sexy messages for me then. I feel like you owe me."

This makes her laugh, the sound loud, and I grin. I like making this woman laugh. "Sorry, Finnegan, but I'm afraid I don't have time to play around with puppies tonight. I'm here on a mission. Actually, maybe you can help me." She turns to survey the sea of people. "Which poor sucker do you think I can convince to be my fake fiancé to get my parents off my back?"

The fuck? She thinks I'm going to hand-pick some random dude to play house with her? I don't fucking think so. The mere thought makes me ragey; and the sudden burst of anger surprises me. Yeah, sure, I've lusted plenty over this woman. But never have I once ever felt possessive of her. The thought of someone else stepping in where I could just as easily be pisses me off, though. And that's why I find myself opening my mouth to say, "I volunteer as tribute."