“I love wearing short skirts as much as the next guy, but we wouldn’t be your friends if we didn’t at least make sure your head is in the right space.”

“I’m good,” I say, looking at the two of them. They nod, knowing if I wasn’t I’d speak up.

That’s usually the case, at least. But I don’t know if I’m in the same head space right now. Tonight I want to get my hands dirty. I can’t shake my thoughts of Pandora, and it’s driving me crazy. Every other second I’m wondering what she’s doing and who she’s with.

I was able to find out through subtle hints to Henry that she isn’t married. I don’t know if she has a boyfriend, but fuck him if she does. That’s just a bump along the trail, and I’m all too willing to step on a man if it gets me closer to her. And that’s the problem. I’m so consumed with my need for her that I’m willing to break up a relationship to get it.

I tip the bottle back and drain the rest of my beer. When my phone buzzes I check the text and see the name of the place on the screen. I slam it down a little too hard when I’m finished and grab my bag and keys.

“Where to?” Ezra asks, as he and Donovan get up and grab their stuff.

“Lincoln’s.”

CHAPTER 5

Pandora

“Got you!” my sister, Penelope, screams as she hops out in front of me.

I’m leaving work, and she thought she could sneak up on me. I saw her peeking through the glass door as I was walking out. It’s hard to miss someone who looks exactly like you. Well, except for the little pregnant belly and her green eyes. Oh, and let’s not forget she always has a giant Russian standing near her.

“Don’t hop, krasota,” her husband, Ivan, says, standing a few feet behind her.

Penelope rolls her eyes as her hand goes to her belly. She rubs it in such a sweet, mothering way.

“What are you doing?” I ask, like I don’t know the answer. She knows something is up with me. It’s like some weird twin thing we share. It’s always been there, and it always will be. But sometimes I’d like a little emotional privacy from her.

“Well, what I’m not doing is giving you these.” She holds up a white bag like she has victory in her hands.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Are those what I think they are?”

For a second I contemplate snatching the bag from her, but she turns, tossing the bag to Ivan, who easily catches it. Stupid twin thingy.

“Don’t even think about it.” She narrows her eyes back at me, giving me the exact look I gave her. I know those are her famous homemade brownies that we all fight over at family dinners.

“And I made them with real butter,” she adds.