Grabbing my phone, I turn on Taylor Swift’s1989album. I’m not a fan, but Lucy is, and this is her favorite album. As lyricsabout a tall and handsome man, staring at sunsets, red lips, and wild dreams play, I’m lost in a fantasy where I can freely shed my responsibilities, uptight premonitions, and odd brain.
A fantasy where I can simply be and freely feel.
As I arrive in the parking lot of Club Paris, a high-end french restaurant that I rarely go to, my phone dings with a text from my sister.
Oh, I forgot to mention. Finley doesn’t know that we know he is a prince. Keep it a secret. I want to see how long it takes for him to tell me.
Crap.
“I’m too logical to lie, Lucy. I don’t see the point of lies. You know that.” I croak to the screen. Then I mumble, “Why do you think it is hard for me to pretend to be you?” One of my autistic traits is that I mimic those around me, but when I’m masking, I hardly realize I’m doing it. When it comes to actively living a straight lie, well, I don’t think I can do it.
Tucking my phone into my purse, I get out of the car and shut the door. Before I walk away, I use the side mirror to smile, altering it until it’s like my twin is smiling back at me from the mirror, somehow trying to capture her warmth and sweetness and gentleness.
“Lucy?” a masculine voice calls. I ignore the sound, trying to fix my face to reflect my sister’s. We might be twins, but the way we carry ourselves is opposite as can be.
“Lucy, is that you?” Oh. Right. That’s supposed to be me…
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I snap my head towards the voice and spot Prince Finley Andersson waving to me as he leans on a dark-colored mustang from three cars over. My stomach drops at the sight of him walking towards me. Why is he here thirty minutes early? I arrived this early to give me time to adjust to my surroundings and morph into Lucy.
Precious time he’s now stealing from me.
Why did I let my sister talk me into this? How can I pretend to be Lucy when her world is hues of pinks and purples while my world is one giant blob of black and gray? I’m going to crush her chance with this guy, and I can only pray she doesn’t hold a grudge against me for my lack of socialization in a dating situation.
Finley stands in front of me wearing an admittedly dazzling smile with gorgeous blue eyes, a white button-up, and feather gray dress pants that fit him well. His blond hair is styled yet loose as it falls in front of his perfect face. He doesn’t move like a man from Mississippi; his shoulders are set firmly back and the upward tilt of his knife-edge sharp jawline gives him that air of superiority I remember from Hadley’s wedding. His gait is confident and stiff.
Yes, focus on that. Now, breathe.What would Lucy say?
“Oh, hi, Pri—” I cough, already screwing this up. “Finley.” My voice sounds like an off-brand Barbie, and I hate myself for it. Finley, however, seems to think my greeting is adequate enough. Lucy might not question it, but I have to… “What are you doing here thirty minutes early?”
He snickers, and the sound grates against my bones. What’s so funny about asking why he’s hereearly?
“I could ask you the same thing. Seems we both value being on time. I have a reservation. Are you ready to go in?” He bends his arm at a ninety-degree angle out beside him. I’ve seen enough romance films alongside Hadley and Lucy to know I’m supposed to loop my arm through his, but I stare at his arm as if it might set me afire if I get too close.
I don’t touch people unless I am super close with them. I’ve never touched a man outside of shaking hands and the occasional hug of my father when I see him. This feels…intimate.
“Are you coming?” Finley Andersson has the nerve to wink at me at that moment, a smirk forming on his perfectly symmetrical face. I swallow the bees swarming my throat and loop my arm through his.
And set me afire, it does. Where the bare skin of my forearm touches the sleeve of his crisp, white button-up shirt, it’s like a star exploded, radiating burning heat that spreads through my arm, up my neck, and floods my cheeks. Highly uncomfortable at best and immensely embarrassing at worst. Though, I don't feel the instant revulsion or prickly feelings that I typically experience when I touch someone I’m not ultra familiar with.Curious…
Finley must notice the blush through my fair skin. The smirk on his face deepens, and he boasts an expression as if he’s used to this sort of reaction from women.
But little does he know that this isn’t because I’m enamored with the man. It’s because it’s the first time I’ve touched a man in this capacity. Why did it have to be an arrogant, cocky prince?
Oh, Lucy May Spence. You owe me big time.
Chapter Two
Finley
Dense man. You never told Lucy that she looked beautiful.
More accurately, she resembles a pastel pink angel, but that is perhaps too forward for a first date.
“Reservation for Andersson,” I say to the young, male host. I glance at Lucy who’s standing at my side, once again completely enthralled with her simplistic, refined beauty. The lady is sporting a constant blush. Coupled with the way she averts her eyes and clenches her hand into a fist—instead of resting it on my forearm like other women would do—reveals the blush is from a nervous innocence instead ofotherthoughts.
It’s the most adorable and endearing thing I’ve seen.
