Mom tilts her head, studying Patterson with a soft expression that makes my stomach clench. “You know, you and Jameson are so much alike. The manners, the charm. I can barely tell you apart. If you told me you did a switcheroo, I’d believe you.”
I nearly choke on my wine for the second time tonight. “They’re nothing alike.”
“Kendall,” she warns.
“I’m serious, Mom. They’re completely different.”
“They’re both polite. Well-mannered. Of course, handsome with charm.” She gestures toward Patterson like he’s Exhibit A. “I see no difference.”
“Yeah, the difference is, Jamie loved me.” The words come out harsh, and the table goes quiet. I force myself to shrug as if it doesn’t matter, but maybe that’s been my issue all along. I’m not easy to love. I clear my throat, realizing how awkward it got. “Patterson is literally the evil twin.”
Patterson’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow. “That’s funny, considering when we were kids, everyone always said Jameson was the evil twin. Maybe you’re the one who has it backward,” he says nonchalantly. “Unless you’re a villain too.”
I tilt my head at him, trying to understand.
Mom chuckles.
I set down my fork with a clatter. “I should get going. Have a really early morning tomorrow and lots of work to do.”
“Leaving already?” Mom looks disappointed.
“I’ve been here for two hours.”
“Stay for coffee at least.”
“I really can’t?—”
“Actually,” Patterson interrupts, and something in his tone makes me pause, “I was hoping to see more of the house before I head out. The architecture is remarkable. You don’t find craftsmanship like this anymore.”
Dad perks up. “It was built in 1920. Still had the original hardwood throughout, crown molding, the works. We’ve spent years restoring it.”
“It shows.” Patterson runs his hand along the dining room chair rail with what appears to be genuine appreciation. “The attention to detail is incredible.”
“Kendall, you should give him a tour.” Dad says it like a command, not a request. “Show him the upstairs, along with the study that has the original built-in bookshelves. I think he’d appreciate it.”
Every muscle in my body locks. “I’m sure Patterson needs to get back to the city.”
“I’ve got time.” His smile is pleasant, but his eyes are a challenge. “I’d love to see more.”
“There you go.” Dad stands, collecting plates. “Your mother and I will clean up. Go show him around. Maybe you should talk this bullshit out privately.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Mom is already shooing us out of the dining room with promises to pack leftovers. Patterson falls into step beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine, and the contact feels like a brand.
“After you,” he murmurs.
I lead him toward the staircase without a word, painfully aware of his presence behind me as we climb. The stairs creak under our weight, and it sounds like a scream. Soon, we’re away from my parents until all that’s left is the tension nearly strangling me with each step.
“That was interesting,” he says.
“Don’t talk to me.” I reach the top of the stairs and gesture down the hallway. “Study’s on the left. Original bookshelves. Very impressive. Tour over.”
Patterson doesn’t move toward the study. Instead, he steps closer to me, and my back hits the wall beside a framed photo of my twelve-year-old self in a skating costume.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.
“What does it look like?”
“My parents are downstairs.”
