The lighting in here is shit, but I swear to God, Lucy is blushing. Has to be by the way her head dips, unable to meet my eyes.

On stage, Scotty’s band begins to saunter out, taking their places, running a sound check. The drummer inspects his kit; guitarists tune their strings. Lead singer taps the mic, raising and lowering it, tightening the screw to hold it at his preferred height.

As he’s doing that, my neighbor kid looks up, catches sight of me, throws a peace sign at the same time he swings his black bass guitar strap around his neck like he’s done it hundreds of times.

He probably has.

Well practiced, moving with ease, Scotty doesn’t look nervous at all. In fact, the teenage shit gives me a cocky wink when they begin a warm-up, exercising their fretting hands.

Wearing the well-worn t-shirt of another popular band and torn jeans, Scott bends his knees, strumming, hair gelled into tiny spikes.

Their first cords are upbeat.

First words, in tune.

Fluid.

Soon, I find my head bobbing to the beat. Lucy and I pass the beer back and forth between us, tipping it back. It goes down cold and smooth, but it’s not enough for two.

I grasp for it again, prepared to take another swig.

“Wait! Does this not taste so damn good? God I love it when they’re cold.”

Her eyes close when she swallows.

Her hips sway when the music begins.

It’s pretty fucking great.

***

Amelia

I’m not expecting the next song to be slow, just like I’m not expecting my body to sway, hips gently rocking to the music.

I haven’t had much to drink, but it’s enough to loosen me up and forget myself, if only for a few moments. Enough for me to enjoy the company and the big, warm palms that slide around my waist.

It’s a full house tonight, stuffy.

“¿Está bien?” Is this okay? “Sorry I keep bumping into you, but the dickhead behind us keeps knocking into me.” His smooth voice speaks into my ear, the rich sound of his Spanish hitting all the nerves in my spine. “Te sientes diferente—una diferencia buena.”

You feel different, he says, rolling his tongue. A good different.

Since I’m pretending to be my twin sister—who doesn’t know a lick of Spanish—I don’t acknowledge the words, giving a feeble little nod without betraying myself.

In reality? My entire body is in complete and utter chaos.

I can understand him—perfectly.

I don’t want Dash speaking Spanish in my ear, whispering words meant for someone else. I don’t want Dash touching me—not because he repulses me.

But because he doesn’t.

He’s the antithesis of everything I thought he’d be. For the sake of my sanity, and to get me through this farce of a fake date, I desperately hoped the guy walking through my sister’s door would be a jerk.

A jockhole.

I prayed he’d be a stereotype, a caricature of what I perceive the average student athlete on our college campus to be. My sister is the jersey chaser, not me.

Pompous.

Boorish.

Egotistical asshole.

Dante Amado is none of those things.

He’s easygoing. Kind. Personable.

Every gentlemanly gesture out of Dash Amado has been sincere. His nice-guy routine is not an act; it’s who he is.

His mama raised him right.

And I’m so confused by it.

I wasn’t prepared for him to be like this.

Dammit! I’m not supposed to be attracted to my sister’s boyfriend— the guy my sister is dating—no matter how serious it isn’t, no matter how good-looking he is.

Honestly? I kind of hate myself right now.

A knot of guilt twists inside my stomach at the same time Dash’s hands ease around my waist, sliding over my rib cage, giving me a little squeeze. If I had to speak, there’s no way I’d be able to form a cohesive sentence.

The knot gets heavier, tighter, weighing me down. I’m the world’s worst twin.

The world’s worst sister.

“Having fun?” His baritone vocals hit my cerebellum, shockwaves finding their way down to all my best girly parts. “I really thought they were going to sound like complete shit—thank God they don’t.”

My throat is tight, and I have to clear it before I can speak. “I’m really impressed—I can’t believe they’re in high school.”

As many times as I’ve told myself I would try to fill Lucy’s high-heeled shoes on this date, I’m failing—so miserably. I want so desperately to be myself. I want my damn body to stop responding to Dash Amado. I want my damn heart to stop beating so wildly it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest.

If only my cheeks weren’t so flushed, my palms so sweaty.

I’m a complete mess.

Dash’s giant catcher’s paws grip my body, loosely resting on my hips, thumbs hooking inside the front pockets of Lucy’s jeans.

He lowers his head, gently resting his chin on my shoulder, lips intermittently brushing against the exposed skin of my jawline as he stares straight ahead, watching Scotty.

I let my lids flutter closed, allowing my lashes to rest on my cheekbones for the briefest of seconds, giving myself this one moment.

This is how it would feel if we were a couple.

It feels too good.

He feels good.

So good. “Tan bueno,” I say, forgetting myself, muttering out loud. “Tan bueno.”

Dash goes still.

“¿Que es tan bueno?” His mouth is right there, lips grazing my neck. What’s so good? he wants to know.

Jesus, it’s driving me absolutely freaking crazy—the Spanish, his cologne and his breath and the heat from his body. Even the hair on his arms is giving me goose bumps, the baby fine strands tickling the skin of my forearms as his thumbs dig gently into my hips.

“Huh?” I ask in a daze.

“You said so good.”

“Mmm, nope. Don’t think so.”

“Yes you did.” His lips skim the shell of my ear, speaking in a foreign language I spent years mastering. “I heard you, and you said it in Spanish.”

“I did?”

“¿Hablas español, Lucy?” Do you speak Spanish?

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? My sister doesn’t speak a word of it. “Um…?”

“¿Qué más no me estás diciendo?” What else aren’t you telling me? “Be honest.”

“Nothing.” Shit, I just answered him again.

He pulls back, turns me to face him, lightly setting those massive palms on my bare shoulders, fingers spreading over my skin, guaranteed to leave scorch marks in their wake.

His fingers brush the hair off my collarbone.

“¿Puedes entenderme?” You can understand me?

Crappers.

“Sí.” I cast my eyes away, chastised.

His are too intense.

Something changes in his expression then; he studies me under the lights of the stage, the red, blue, and green flickering strobes casting a glow across his skin.

Across mine.

Dash can’t quite figure me out, and I don’t blame him; I’m acting like I have multiple personalities. How could I let that Spanish slip out? Lucy is guaranteed to be pissed about that once she finds out.

Lucy, who could barely do her own English papers in high school.

I’m not my sister.

Not even close.

And call me crazy, but for a fleeting moment while Dash stands watching me—learning my tells—his brows lower and rise, concentrating on my face, reading every line imprinted there, eyes traveling over my chest, hair, and face.

The corner of my mouth.

In an instant, he knows.

He just doesn’t know that he knows.

And he’s confused.

“Come on.” He bends now, talking loud. “We need to talk. Let’s go grab another beer.”

“Where?” I shout back.

Those mammoth shoulders shrug. “What about the bar? At the back of the room? We’ll be able to hear each other better.”

“Okay. Sure.” I think I’d follow him anywhere.

Dash takes my hand without hesitating, without asking for permission, weaving us through the crowd, and I follow, fingers wrapped around his tightly.