Page 11 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

“I thought we could go dancing after this,” Annie says suddenly, scooping up a chunk of broccoli with her chopsticks. “That’s a classic bachelor party activity, right? Hitting the clubs?”

The back of my neck flashes hot. Annie’s not done for the night? Even though she’s figured out I’m not Wyatt, she wants to go dancing together? She wants to keep up this ruse?

“Yeah,” I agree quickly, dunking a fry in my little pot of ketchup. “Yeah, it is. That sounds good.”

Hell, this woman could ask me to tap dance on broken glass and I’d do it. She could plan an hour of watching paint dry, and I’d cheerfully go along with it if it meant spending more timewithher.There will never be enough time with Annie—not for me.

And if Annie knows I’m not Wyatt… this time isn’t stolen. Not anymore. It’s a gift.

You’d better believe I’m going to make the most of it.

Six

Annie

Icannot believe I’m sitting in the park with Dean Kinnear.

TheDean Kinnear. Even though he lived next door when we were young, even though I was best friends with his twin brother, he was always so aloof and unreachable back then. Hidden behind the thick walls he built up, separating himself further and further from his twin and his parents… and from me.

The Dean Kinnear from my adolescence was so unknowable, it was like having a crush on a rock star. Someone whose image I might see several times a week, but who I could neverreallybe with. And my fantasies about Dean falling for me too—those always felt like childish, impossible daydreams. Safe little stories that could never come true.

“How’s your food?” Dean says now, taking a monster bite of his burger. His nostrils flare with how good it tastes, and something about seeing this man flushed and rumbling with primal satisfaction makes me all squirmy inside. I keep fidgeting on the grass, squeezing my thighs together.

Would I drizzle burger sauce all over myself if it would tempt him to lick it off?

Why, yes. Yes I would.

“Delicious.” I offer a scoop of noodles on the end of my chopsticks, but Dean shakes his head, still chewing. His gaze is hot on me, a thousand questions swirling behind those brown eyes.

Questions like: what the hell are we doing?

And what happens now?

And why are webothgoing along with this charade?

I recognize those questions because they’re clanging around my brain too.

The Dean Kinnear I remember wouldneverhave let me put a bag on his head and lead him blind around the city. He would never have held my hand so casually, or thrown himself whole-heartedly into laser tag, or, you know, pretended to be Wyatt to spend time with me.

Where has he been all these years? And what has he been doing?

“So fucking good,” Dean mutters now, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a crumpled napkin before reaching for another handful of fries. In hindsight, that should’ve been another clue, because Wyatt never gets hangry. He picks around the edges of his food like a big, skinny bird. And he freakinghateseating meat—he’ll go gray at the thought. My bestie has been veggie for years and years.

If Dean hadn’t cut us all off so cleanly, he’d know that. He wouldn’t have blown his own cover, and I’d still be guessing which twin I was with.

Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I stir my noodles around with my chopsticks. A thousand different emotions churn in my belly: sheer joy that Dean is finally here; desperate longing for his hands on me again; bitterness that it’s taken so long to seehim again. Confusion as to why he’s playing along. And despair that after tonight, he’ll disappear all over again and I’ll be left behind, my heart bruised.

“You’re not hungry?” His deep voice makes me shiver. It always did.

I sigh and set my chopsticks down. No point fussing with my food.

“Not really.”

Dean grunts and takes one more giant bite, finishing his burger, then wipes his hands on the napkin and starts clearing up our food pots and whatnot. Moonlight gleams against his thick dark hair, short on the sides and longer on top, and his movements are quick and efficient.

I bite my lip as I watch him. This whole night is like one of my teenage fantasies, where I’d dream up elaborate scenarios of Dean and me getting together—except somehow this is even more far-fetched.

He goes off to take care of our trash, then comes back and offers a hand to help me up. When our palms slide together, I suddenly notice the hard calluses on his hands, and the old scars on his knuckles that glow pale in the moonlight. What are those from?

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