Page 2 of The Rebound (Close Quarters 3)

I don’t have any money with me, because who brings cash on their wedding day? I don’t have my keys because we were going straight to a hotel room after the reception tonight, and they didn’t fit in the stupidly tiny clutch I bought to match my dress. In any case, home is the first place people would look for me. And I don’t have my phone—because I didn’t want to bethatbride taking selfies on my big day. The only things in my clutch are my lipstick and breath mints.

Super useful, Presley. Well done. You’re ready to give a blow job but not get out of this bloody building.

“Think, dammit,” I mutter to myself.

My twin sister was right all along. She’dwarnedme about Mike, sensing his bullshit a mile off while I acted like a happy, naive little lamb trotting all the way to the marital slaughterhouse. All the way to a loveless union and a lifetime of misery.

Drew!

An idea hits me suddenly and I spy my sister’s evening bag sitting on an overstuffed couch, next to the bouquets. I snatch it up and inside is her phone and the keys to the apartment she’s been staying in on her trip home for the wedding.

Twenty-One Love Street. Thanks to the cutesy name, I remember the address. If I can flag someone down and convince them to drive me there, then I can get inside and...

I’ll figure the rest out when I get there. For now, all I know is that I can’t be here. I wrap my mother’s shawl around my lower half, knotting it hastily at one hip like a sarong. It’s still mostly see-through, but it’s the difference between flashing a vague hint of ass and showing the full moon. And a half-naked woman is not in a position to be picky over fashion choices.

Laughter floats into the room from down the hall.

“Crap crappity crap.” I push the window open as far as it will go and swing a leg over the windowsill. Thank God these old buildings don’t have fly screens.

“Pres?” Someone’s knocking at the door again. “Are you almost done? It’s time. Everyone is waiting.”

I swing my other leg over and jump down, wincing as my feet land on something sharp—a stick, most likely. There’s something crawling on my arm and I brush it away, my heart hammering in my chest. My leg throbs. I think I’ve scratched myself, but none of that matters now. How the hell have I ended up in this position again?

I’d overheard my soon-to-be-husband just minutes before we were supposed to walk down the aisle.

We only need to stay married a few years, long enough for Dad to hand the company over to me. After that, I’ll think about whether I want to keep her or not.

Fuck you, Mike. I hope your Dad doesn’t give you a cent.

My stomach knots as if reminding me that the remains of my mimosas aren’t safely digested yet. There’s more knocking inside. I need to get out of here now!

I inch along the side of the building, extracting myself from the buzzing lavender bush and heading slowly toward the car park out front. I peer out around the corner but immediately have to shrink back as I spot one of my colleagues walking up the steps with her husband. That’s the shittiest thing about this situation—given this ismywedding, I know most of the guests. Thankfully, Mike’s invitations were vast and, out of our four-hundred-strong guest list, I haven’t metallof his colleagues and extended family members.

But then it dawns on me.

What if I don’t have to be me right now? One of the best things about growing up as an identical twin was all the mischief Drew and I made by switching places. I’ll pretend to be her.

A car with a loud, rumbling engine pulls into the long, winding driveway. I squint. It’s a lone guy, and he looks to be early thirties. Could be one of Mike’s friends from overseas. I glance around the corner again. Most people appear to be inside already—the weddingshouldhave been starting by now. I squeeze my eyes shut and dig deep to find some bravery. If I don’t go now, this could be it. Then I’ll have to face Mike and his parents and my mother and...everyone.

“Don’t think about what could go wrong, think about what could goright,” I say to myself.

Sucking in a breath, I leave the safety of the bushes and sprint across the carpark, the shawl fluttering against my hip. If anyone comes outside they’ll get a good look at my practically bare backside. But I can’t care about that. Iwon’tcare about that.

The only thing that matters is getting behind a locked door as quickly as possible.

I practically skid to a stop beside the sleek black Mercedes that’s pulled into an empty parking spot, and I yank the passenger-side door open before the guy has a chance to do anything about it. I slide into the seat, my heart pounding from the adrenaline.

“Please,” I say, my voice shaking as I gulp in a breath. “You have to help me.”

CHAPTER TWO

Sebastian

FORAMOMENT,I wonder if the bartender at the pub slipped something extra into my whisky. But then I remember I barely touched the damn thing, too consumed with my thoughts to actually bring the glass to my lips. Therefore, Imustbe hallucinating.

There’s a half-naked woman in the front seat of my car—white-blond hair in wild disarray, eyes almost as colourless as glass—pleading with me. Her hand grips my arm, nails biting into the expensive wool of the suit I paid an arm and a leg for just to show my stepbrother up.

Her skin is porcelain pale and she’s wearing a lacy white bra-type thing that pushes her breasts up in a way that’ssoenticing it’s like a magnet drawing my eyes. Not to mention that she’s got endless legs and this glimmering pink stuff covering her lips. I clear my throat and look away, immediately chastising myself for beingthatguy.

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