Page 2 of Reckless Games

As if she doesn’t already do enough of that for both of us.

“You’re the one who got the invite, not me,” I point out.

“So? We’re twins.”

I don’t like where this is going.

“No one would know.” She claps in excitement on the other end of the line.

“Ivy, We’re nothing alike.”

“We’re identical.”

“We were until you went and got your boobs done.”

“Then wear a push-up bra.”

I sink onto the couch and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You’re considering it.” Her tone is lit with the smile I just know she’s wearing.

“Am not.” I tip my head back and close my eyes.

I’m not, I can’t. This invitation is so far outside of my comfort zone; I’m not sure why I’m even entertaining the idea right now.

Once more I open my Instagram and a picture of Josh fills the screen. I hate the algorithm. As if I need a reminder that he’s the first thing I log in and search. He’s moved on, why can’t I?

And why does Ivy have to be right?

“Okay, let’s just say, for argument’s sake, I went…” I groan.

“Yes!” Ivy releases a high-pitched scream. “You need this, Lake. So, so bad. Go, have fun. It’s only seven days, then you can go back to your normal, boring life.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just saying.”

Ivy might love me, but she thinks I’m the most boring person on the planet. I suppose, compared to her, I am.

“What is the Midnight Manor anyway? What would I be walking into?”

“I’m not entirely sure, all the rumors are different, which adds to the mystery. And no one talks about the guy who runs it. All I know is he’s got a ridiculous amount of money and apparently knows how to host the hottest holiday party on the planet. I’ve heard it gets wild.”

“How wild?” I bite my lip, not sure why this is so appealing to me right now. Nothing in my life up to this point can be classified as wild.

“Don’t know.” Ivy clicks her tongue. “Guess you’ll have to go and find out.”

“Invitation, miss.” The man at the door looks down at where I’m gripping the red velvet envelope in my hand.

My entrance fee with no escape. This whole scene feels like I’m willingly handing myself over to be held hostage.

All the guests were chauffeured to the property in private cars with blacked-out windows and my cell phone was taken by the driver for privacy reasons. We drove so far that I’m not sure if we’re still in Colorado where my plane landed or another state.

Whoever runs this charade takes privacy to a whole other level.

“Your name, miss?”

I blink up at him, considering running back to the car. “Ivy Aster.”

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