Page 3 of Pretty Little Game

“And he’s cute like Cassio?”

I glance toward her with a smile. “They’re identical.”

Well, to the uneducated eye.It took me a little while to find their distinguishing features–and it didn’t help that they came to class on a regular basis pretending to be each other, which threw off my classmates and the professor.

But to me, the twins couldn’t be more different. They certainly have the same prank-driven sense of humor, and they look and sound almost entirely the same. But only Cassio has that freckle in his eye. His black hair appears less tameable–or he prefers a more haphazard appearance. And he’s quicker to smile. I suspect that of the two twins, Cassio is the mastermind behind most of their pranks.

“Please, Bianka, if you have a drop of affection for me, you have to introduce me. I mean, even if you aren’t ready to make the moves on Cassio, you can’t deprive me of the opportunity to kiss a face as identically gorgeous as that.Andhe was a gentleman.Andhe and his brother can appreciate theater–oh, god, I think I might swoon.”

“You are such a drama queen,” I chide.

“Well, isn’t that the point of becoming an actress?” she demands.

I roll my eyes. “First off, I’m pretty sure they only joined that theater class because they thought it would be an easy A.”

“Joke’s on them.”

I giggle as I nod. They had seemed rather shocked that they would have to work and perform in order to pass the class. “Second,ifI introduce you, promise me you won’t turn it into some one-night stand where I’m left being the awkward middle man.”

“When have I ever…?” Ellie trails off as she sees my face. “Okay, that wasone time. In high school. And we didn’t sleep together. When are you ever going to give a girl a break?”

“All I’m saying is that the Marchetti twins are cool, and I don’t want to stir up any trouble because you want tokiss a gorgeous face.”

“He’s one of the Marchettis?” Ellie asks with surprise.

I nod.

“Huh. He seemed so… well, maybe not humble, but not as high and mighty as the family has a reputation for.”

“Yeah. He and Lucca are pretty cool. So, you’ll behave?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Ellie says, flashing me a brilliant smile. “How about suggesting a movie night tomorrow?”

I had planned to go home this weekend to see Ilya. I’ve made a tradition of showing my brother all my new school clothes he lets me buy with the excessive allowance he’s given me every month since I showed up on his doorstep.

My heart warms with affection as I think about my overprotective, considerably older half-brother. While we both are children of Valentin Popov, our upbringings were vastly different. Ilya, ten years older than me, grew up under our father’s tutelage and is about as Russian Bratva as a man can get. He even took over aspakhanwhen our father was killed almost three years ago.

I, on the other hand, grew up in a nice house with my American mother and didn’t even meet Valentin until I sought him out on my fifteenth birthday.

But despite the difference in age and upbringing, Ilya and I have a deep connection. I love my big brother and trust him more than anyone in the world, even if he can be a bit overbearing at times. I was looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.

I don’t get down to visit him nearly as often now that I have such a nice apartment just fifteen minutes from Rosehill College campus, but I suppose I can postpone my visit by one day for Ellie–if she really needs to meet Lucca so desperately.

“Alright, fine. I’ll call Cassio and Lucca as soon as we get back to your place,” I concede.

“You are the best friend in the whole wide world,” Ellie gushes as she bounces in her seat.

I laugh and fight the urge to roll my eyes. But in all honesty, I’m kind of grateful for an excuse to spend more time with Cassio.

* * *

It takes me a ridiculous amount of time to pick out my wardrobe for a simple movie night. I fluctuate between too casual and too dressy until I have a massive pile of discarded options covering my plush watercolor comforter decorated with my favorite childhood stuffed animals I have yet to part with. Finally, I land on high-rise chino shorts accented with gold-tone nautical-inspired buttons and my dusky-pink floral pintuck flutter sleeve blouse. I finish the look off with gold Louboutin sandals that lace up my ankle.

“Ugh, could you look any more desperate to not appear like you’re trying too hard?” I demand of my reflection.

My unruly reddish-tinted brown curls are pinned loosely on top of my head, and I fuss with them a moment longer, throwing in several more bobby pins to keep the bun locked in place.

I vaguely consider dusting some foundation across my cheeks and nose to cover up my freckles, but I decide against it. I’ve rarely worn any makeup when we’ve hung out before, and I don’t want to come across as trying too hard. Before I can waffle back and forth about too much else, the doorbell rings.

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