Two Wrongs Make a Right (The Wilmot Sisters #1)

by Chloe Liese

“I said, this is Jamie Westenberg. He goes by West.” “Jamie’s fine, too,” he says, after an awkward beat of silence. His voice is deep yet quiet. It hits my bones like a tuning fork. I don’t like it. Not a bit. He’s still scrutinizing me, this man I’ve decided most definitely doesn’t get to ruin hist-rom Wests and is instead getting called Jamie. Judgy Jamie suits him much better.

“I know you’ll be fine,” she says. “But life’s too short to be just fine.”

Bea draws nudes. Erotic art. Does she draw herself? Heat roars through me. “That sounded like a question,” she says, eyeing me critically. “Apologies. No. It wasn’t. And it isn’t. A problem, that is.” Except that my body’s on fire and my mind’s turned pornographic, picturing wet paint and bare skin and—

And I’m definitely getting a total-gentleman-in-the-streets, freak-in-the-sheets energy.”

“Have you had them since they were kittens?” “Not as such. They’re fairly recent additions.” “So they’re the old cats from the shelter that nobody wanted and were about to get euthanized.” Sweet Jesus, if he rescued these cats— Jamie clears his throat, then says, “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Dammit. First, he’s a baby doctor. Now, he rescues zombie cats in their hour of undead need. Ugh.

“Were you rushing to get here? You’re breathing heavily.” I’m breathing heavily, I almost tell her, because I’m on my knees in front of you and not nearly uncomfortable enough about it.

Jamie was lying out of his glorious ass when he said he’s passable at bowling. He’s a fucking beast. And I am wildly competitive. With Jamie in my clutches, I’m Gollum hoarding the One Ring, Emperor Palpatine with Anakin in his grip, Thanos wearing the Infinity Gauntlet.

I think you’re gorgeous, too. I’ve stroked off every night and told myself it’s not your body I’m wanting, your mouth I’m dying to taste again.

The kind of silence that I’m starting to realize he likes as much as I like it, silence that makes space for daydreams, for time and patience to find the right words.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear as the wind whips it across my face. “I don’t see you differently. I see you better.”

She loves something prickly, a bit daunting to approach at first. It unravels the ever-present anxious knot in my chest, a ball of relief unspooling through my limbs. If she can love that little creature, quills and all, maybe she could— No, not love. Of course not. But perhaps . . . understand me. How rare that would be.

People shouldn’t take on something to love and expect it to be convenient for them. You have to meet a living creature where they are, and love them for who they are, not who you want them to be.”

What’s “terrible,” I almost tell her, is how much I want to kiss you. The ways I want to kiss you. The ungentlemanly things I want to do to your body when you stand there, blushing as you peer down at the ground, swaying your skirt.

“I loan her my beloved historical romance novels, and this is how she repays me. She doesn’t even grasp the best part of the genre: happily ever after.” Sipping my wine, I shrug. “I’m in it for the fucking and the fancy talk.”

“Don’t downplay your work,” she says fiercely. “Don’t make yourself small just because someone else has.”

The real question is, James, can you canoodle?” “Oh, Beatrice, I can canoodle.” And I’ll enjoy it more than I should.

Picking up her pen, Bea resumes drawing on the paper napkin. I realize she’s drawing me.

Something is happening to me. Something frightening. When I saw Bea, looking lost and too close to tears, a force I’ve never known in my life roared through my body. It was raw and base and violent. Something had hurt her. Something just beneath the surface of that tough exterior, those sharp tattoos and fierce eyes and shocking blond-tipped hair. And I wanted to crush it.

going to happen. “I think I want pizza,” Jamie mutters. “Pizza!” I gasp. “Who are you and what have you done with the real James Benedick Westenberg?” “Ha!” He gives me a playful glare. “Boring Jamie isn’t so boring after all, is he? Hmm? He can order a pizza on a Friday night when there’s a little too much tequila in his system.” “One shot, James.” “I’m a lightweight,” he admits.

“It’s . . .” Glancing away, he stares at the floor. “It’s soup.” “Okay? Well, there’s no shame in bulk soup making.” Eyes still on the floor, he says, quieter, “For you.” “For me?” My heart twirls in my chest. He made soup for me? Jamie’s cheeks pink as he clears his throat. “I made four different kinds of veggie puree soups with my fancy blender and froze them. I was going to give them to you, but then I didn’t know if it was too much, or if you’d even like them. So they’re just . . . sitting in there.

“My fake boyfriend isn’t supposed to ruin me for everyone else,” I whisper. Jamie’s eyes fall shut as he drops his forehead to mine. “Sometimes, Beatrice, I want to ruin you for everyone else.”

“Well, when it’s an intimate dance like the waltz, you can hold each other’s eyes. But I know that’s not always comfortable for you. So you can look elsewhere.” “Elsewhere?” I tease, wiggling my eyebrows. Jamie doesn’t smile as his gaze roams my face. “Yes. So long as it’s me.”

Grace’s inamorato strolls out. If he’s older than me, I’ll eat my glasses. He also looks like an underwear model. “Damn,” Bea says. “Hey.” I drag her stool closer. “You’re with me.” She glances back my way. “What?” “I said”—I drop my voice and lean close, breathing in her soft scent and barely resisting the urge to press a kiss to her neck—“you’re with me.” “Oh.” She smiles. “Don’t worry. He’s not my type.” I narrow my eyes. “What is your type?” “Tall, dark blond, and stuffy.” She looks me up and down. “Obviously.”

As she speaks, her model glances out and smiles, his eyes lingering on Bea. I clear my throat. Loudly. He meets my gaze, sees the murder I’m glaring at him, then looks away.

“Look at that and tell me you’re not stuffy?” “That is grumpiness,” I tell her. “It’s different.” “Oh really? You’re not jealous, are you, James? May I remind you that you are on a fake date with your fake girlfriend?” “You mean the one whose clothes I tore off last Friday, then brought to a stunning orgasm?”

But first things first. I lift my brush. I drench it with color. And with a shaky hand, I paint my new beginning.

“You know it’s okay, right? For someone to see the best in you. For them to like the things you’re way too hard on yourself for.”

“I don’t know how lovely having my head in the clouds is when it means I trip while walking.” “That’s why I’m here,” he says. “To catch you.

Our friends might not have interfered. And if they hadn’t interfered, I wouldn’t have ended up almost kissing you in a closet, staring at you over a chessboard and a cup of coffee, agreeing to the wildest and best month of my life.”

“I’m saying, you’re the best kind of chaos I’ve ever met. And while chaos used to terrify me, you make me crave it. I’m saying, even though this is an absurd situation we’ve backed ourselves into . . . I’d do it again in a heartbeat because it’s given me you.”

“When we’re together, I don’t want other people around, Beatrice. I want hours and hours, and plenty of privacy for you to be as noisy as you want.” Her eyes spring open. Her mouth parts as she stares up at me. “I’ve got time. I’ll be quiet. Let’s go.” “No, you don’t. And you won’t.” I press a kiss to her cheek, then reach past her for the door, opening it again. “And I’ll love it.”

I nudge her into the vestibule, swatting her softly on the bum. “Plans. Now, up you get.” Bea spins, then kisses me hard on the mouth. “I knew you’d be a spanker.” “Beatrice!” My cheeks turn red. “That was not a spank. That was a . . . a love tap.” She cackles as she jogs up the stairs, tripping halfway on the first flight. “It was a spank!” she yells. “And I liked it!” My head falls back as I stare up at the sky. “God help me.”

“You are devastatingly handsome. Leave it up to you to look like temptation in a tux, when I swear I’ve never met someone in one of these getups that didn’t look like an oversized penguin.” A thick laugh bursts out of me. Bea tips her head, slides her thumbs carefully beneath my eyes. “Are you crying?” I blink away the traitorous wetness. “Fall allergies.” “Of course.” She nods. “The pollen count in this apartment is despicable.” “It is. I’ll be having a word with your landlord.”

You’re the best thing in my life, I want to tell her. You’re safe and real and perfectly imperfect. We started as a lie, and now we’re the truest thing I’ve ever known.

“You speak French?” My mouth parts, but I’m not sure what to say. “Ehrm. Yes?” “And you never thought to tell me?” “I’m . . . sorry?” “Not forgiven.” She drags me to the edge of the foyer for a kiss that melts every worry our confusing conversation’s caused. “French on your tongue makes me want to do filthy, filthy things to it.” Oh Christ. Heat floods me. My tongue. Beatrice. I’m aching for it. “I—yes, let’s. Absolutely. Let’s go.”

I love her. Oh God, I love her. With each pound of my heart, the swell of the string quartet as the music builds, that’s the only thing I hear and feel—I love her. When haven’t I loved her?

He double-checks my seat belt, an adorable frown knotting his features. His hair’s wild from headbanging with me at the end of the song, those chiseled cheekbones flushed pink from effort. He smells like sweat and rain and Jamie, and it’s that moment, right then, when I know, as surely as I know my name: I love him.

“Jame, these are my parents, Maureen and Bill.” My heart squeezes. Jame. She called me that in the car, too, and I thought I was dreaming

“Fucking hell, woman. Ride my cock right now and make me come.”

That’s a lot of words for what I’ve meant to say since I started writing this, so I’ll say it now: I love you and I’ll wait for you. However long it takes. Always yours, Jamie

He sweeps me like a bride into his arms, making me squeal with delight. “Where are we going?” “My bed,” he says. “Then the sofa. Then the shower. I’m feeling adventurous: maybe even a closet. We seem to do well in those.” “Ooh, a closet.”

He smiles up at me, still shirtless, hair mussed, glistening with sweat, a flush on his cheeks. A portrait I’ll paint titled Satisfied.

“I’ll finally have my own Beatrice Wilmot original.” “The first of many.” His grin is so deliriously wide it makes my heart sing. “What’s it called?” he asks. “Two Wrongs Make a Right.” Jamie slowly lowers my phone. He blinks. Then blinks again, before he dabs the corner of his eye. That’s when I realize what’s happening. My heart drops to the floor. “Jamie? I made you cry. I’m so sorry—” “Come here, you,” he says, curling me tight in his grasp, setting my phone on the nightstand next to him. “Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs as he nuzzles me. “It’s just those pesky fall allergies again.”