Gavin stops pacing. He looks at me and shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot and have bags under them. His clothes are rumpled.

“Excuse me?”

I roll my shoulders. “No. You aren’t calling off the wedding.”

“Dang it, Will—”

“Also, welcome back to good ol’ Romeo. You look like hell. How was your flight?”

Gavin scowls at me. “It was crap. Do you know how much I hate flying from Bali to New York on short notice? There I was, on this sweet little catamaran…dang it Will, I’m calling it off.”

I study my brother. We're identical twins, but nearly thirty years of living completely different lives has made noticeable differences in our appearances. Where I’m pale from living at the office and bulky from letting out stress at the gym, Gavin is more wiry and bronzed and has lines around his eyes from a decade of pursuing every outdoor activity on the planet. Scuba diving in the most exotic places in the world. Hang gliding in Rio de Janeiro. White-water rafting in forgotten rapids, which is how he met his fiancée, Lacey Duporte. She treated the snake bite he got while camping alongside a river in Cambodia.

Lacey saved Gavin’s life. When he called me on the satellite phone, feverish and only half-lucid, he told me it was love at first sight and he was going to marry the woman who sucked snake venom from his leg. Turned out, Lacey was Dr. Lacey Duporte, an ER physician on a Doctors Without Borders trip. She lived in New York City and was close to her family.

The keywords here are “family” and “Duporte.” Her father is Alan Duporte, owner and CEO of our largest competitor and our pending acquisition. The business deal hinges on Lacey and Gavin’s wedding.

“Let’s have a coffee.” I take the back stairs down two at a time to the first floor. They’re the old narrow servant stairs that lots of old mansions have. They’re also the most convenient way to get to the kitchen from anywhere else in the house.

I start the industrial machine and make two espressos. Gavin tips both of them back, so I make another two. When it seems like the frantic, hunted look has somewhat left his eyes, I lean back against the cold marble counter and take a sip of the hot black espresso.

“So, why do you want to ruin your life and our family business by doing a stupid thing like calling off your wedding?”

Gavin closes his eyes and rubs his temples.

“I can’t do it. She keeps asking me what color bedsheets I want, and what pattern of china, and if I want bath towels made in Turkey or Egypt.” He looks up and his eyes are wide and desperate again. “I don’t care where the damn towels are made. But she does. She does.”

“Okay? And?”