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

by Chloe Liese

So even though the universe has all but warned me to buckle up, buttercup, and the air crackles like ozone before a storm, here I am. I reported for duty at the family home—wore a dress, donned my crab mask, made a cheese-and-cracker plate. And now, like any self-respecting scaredy-cat, I’m hiding in the butler’s pantry. That is, until my sister sweeps in and blows my cover. The swinging door flies open, and I’m caught in a beam of light like a crook cornered by the cops. I stash the peppermint schnapps behind my back and slide it onto the shelf just in time to prove my innocence. “There you are,” Jules says brightly. I hiss, throwing my arms across my face. “The light. It hurts my eyes!”

“I don’t want to meet people.” “Of course you don’t. You want to drink in the butler’s pantry and eat half the cheese-and-cracker plate before anyone else can. But that’s what you want, not what you need.” “It’s a solid system,” I grumble. Jules rolls her eyes. “For eccentric spinsterhood.” “And long may those days last, but I’m talking about my anxiety.” “Having been your twin our entire lives,” she says, “I’m familiar with your anxiety and its bandwidth for socializing, so trust me when I say this guy’s worth it.”

I’m neurodivergent; for my autistic brain, engaging strangers isn’t easy or relaxing. But with the trick of a couple of covert swigs of schnapps—buzzed, calmer—I find the experience less overwhelming, and my company finds me not only passably sociable but minty fresh. At least, that’s how it typically goes. Not tonight. Tonight I have grim cosmic warnings hanging over my head. And I have a bad feeling about whatever she’s dragging me into.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Quite all right,” Jamie says, wiping his forehead clean. “I should have expected it. Seems like your signature greeting.” I whip around. “As signature as your terse condescension.” “Oh boy.” Jules laughs nervously. “Be nice, you two. It was a little misunderstanding. That carrot was meant for me, not you, West. Bea’s sorry.” Jamie and I stare at each other. How did I nearly plaster my mouth to his in a closet? That moment seems lifetimes away. He stands, mouth tight, eyes narrowed, everything so exact in his appearance that I want to tug his shirt until it wrinkles, ruffle his immaculate hair, and knock his glasses sideways on that perfect fucking nose.

“You have some ranch on your glasses,” I tell him. He freezes, then slowly turns to meet my eyes. “I imagine I do,” he says icily. “You’re not going to clean them? You just don’t seem like a guy who wants buttermilk ranch rusting his hinges.” His left eye twitches. “I’ll take care of it once I’m home.” “Gotcha.” I pop the last nugget in my mouth. “Are those dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets?” he asks. “And if they are?” He clears his throat. “Surprising choice for an adult’s meal. Then again, your vegetable is a solitary baby carrot drowning in ranch. Perhaps your regard for nutrition is like that of most Americans. Deplorable.” “It was four carrots!”

PA: I told you I’m weird, but it’s like the kind of weird that doesn’t have a home anywhere. It’s like the way I am isn’t enough of one thing & is too much of another. Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong anywhere & if I was only more of this or less of that, I would. Does that make sense? JAMIE: It does, yes. It feels like when I had a growth spurt and my pants were too short and my sleeves weren’t long enough. All I could do was feel how nothing fit anymore. PA: What did you do? How did you deal with that, I mean? JAMIE: I figured out what parts of belonging fit me best, and now that’s what I wear in the world. That’s how I learned to fit in. PA: Isn’t that lonely, though? Don’t you ever wish you just wore what you wanted? That you could belong no matter what you put on any given day?

PA: Actually, you can just ignore this. I’m sorry. I’m being like the texting version of the drunk stranger at the bar who sobs on your shoulder about their personal shit that you didn’t ask to hear. My heart beats hard as I stare down at her words. As I finally find my own. JAMIE: You don’t need to apologize. I like talking about this. Nobody wants to talk about it. Except me. And you, apparently.

JAMIE: I don’t know if I’ve ever felt free. What does that even mean? PA: I don’t know. I guess when I’m misunderstood or lonely, I remember at least I’m true to who I am & I know who that is. That to me, is being free. That who I am is non-negotiable. That I am myself. Sometimes, I just wish that identity had a place among others.

PA: Notorious NRB. So, I told you I’m a creative-type. JAMIE: You did. But you’re frustratingly thin on details. PA: Details are for 1 hr from now. There was a joke coming. JAMIE: I’m all ears. PA: Why are artists terrible at chess? JAMIE: I don’t know. Why? PA: Because they love to draw. A dry laugh leaves my chest. JAMIE: Now who’s devolved to corny chess puns? PA: You started us off with them this week! I’m just bringing it full circle. PA: Ack. I’m all wiggly knees & jitters. I’m nervous. Are you?

A zing of awareness dances down my spine. He has a strong profile. Long nose, angular jaw, pronounced cheekbones. Lips that he tugs gently between his teeth as he reads the book cradled in his bent legs. He’s really freaking hot. Then again, he’s reading a book, and that’s always revved my engine. There are entire handles on Instagram devoted to candid shots of hotties reading in public. Humanity has spoken: reading a book makes a sexy someone even sexier.

Ohhhh no. It can’t be. But it is. He is. Hottie with a Book is none other than Jamie Westenberg, parked on the very bench where, in five minutes, I’m supposed to meet NRB. My luck. My fucking luck. Of course, right before my nerve-racking date, I would bump into Jamie McJudgerpants.

Unfortunately, the great outdoors suits Jamie. Very much. Our interactions thus far have been indoors. I’ve never experienced him in the light of day. Never in the glory days of sun-dappled fall. And now I really wish I hadn’t. Because under the autumn sun, Jamie’s dark blond hair is a stunning bronze, the faint promise of russet in the shadowy dips of his waves. His hazel eyes are emeralds slivered with gold, and everything about his tall, trim body seems even more statuesque. He’s the stuff of sculptures I stared at reverently in European museums, of artwork that made me fall in love with drawing the human form.

So, more often than not, I haven’t looked. I’ve stayed in this holding pattern, tired of having so little but afraid of reaching for more. Which I recognize isn’t particularly healthy. But this is their solution? The people who supposedly love me best, understand me most, trick me into a date. And with someone who, just last week, reminded all of us how awkward and clumsy and terrible at socializing I can be.

“I can’t believe they even tried it,” I tell Jamie. “I mean, there are so many holes in this plan.” “Not if they counted on us being consistent, which . . .” He glances over at me, adjusting his glasses. Crisp paper-white button-up. Midnight-blue sweater. And those damn tortoiseshell frames that bring out the amber in his eyes.

“I demand a consolation prize. The truth.” “Ugh, fine. If you didn’t know my real name, and if you lost interest, it wouldn’t have felt as personal . . . or as painful.” “I see.” He glances down at his hands. “Well . . . Turned out to be a nonissue after all.” “Right. Since this is all one big joke.” Another stretch of quiet holds between us before he says, quieter, “I meant that, in talking all week, I didn’t lose interest.” “Oh.” My eyes widen.

Bea sips her coffee from a bowl-sized cup cradled in her hands. I watch her through curling wisps of steam wafting from its surface, puffing a mouthful of air that swoops her long bangs out of her eyes. It isn’t the first time I’ve thought this, but after realizing she’s the one behind this week’s messages, it feels riskier to admit the truth—Beatrice is very beautiful. Even when she takes ten minutes to make a move.

“James,” she warns, finally advancing her pawn. “It’s not my problem you’re a workaholic. It’s Saturday, for Christ’s sake.” “Saturday is an essential day in my workweek.” “What do you do?” Staring at the board, I consider my options in light of her move. “On the weekends? Everything that I can’t get done during weekdays. Professionally? I’m a pediatrician.” When I glance up, Bea’s watching me. “What is it?” “A pediatrician?” she says faintly. “Like babies and kids?” “That is generally what indicates a physician is a pediatrician, yes.” “Smart-ass,” she mutters, returning her focus to a paper napkin beneath her hand.

“What are you drawing?” I ask her. She freezes, then slaps her hand over the paper napkin. It crumples inside her grip as she drags it off the table and shoves it in her dress pocket. “No need to stop on my account.” A splash of color hits her cheeks as she avoids my eyes. “That’s all right. My drawing isn’t fit for public consumption.” “How so?” She hesitates a beat, then meets my eyes defiantly. “I’m an erotic artist.” “A what?”

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— “Great,” Bea says, wrenching me from my obscene thoughts. “Let’s talk about why we’re here. Because even after pounding a chocolate chip muffin the size of my head, I’m still pissed.” “I understand.”

“Well, I’d be perturbed, too, if I’d just had a ginger scone with green tea.” She makes a gagging noise. “Excuse you. Ginger and green tea are a classic pairing.” She sips her coffee again, making a show of how delicious it is. “Mmm. Coffee is where it’s at. Coffee and chocolate. Green tea? Ginger? They taste like hand soap and floor cleaner.”

“You’re a strange man.” Shaking her head, Bea analyzes the board. “So what’s the strategy?” “Well, you opened with a French Defense, so here we are.” “I’m not talking about chess, Jamie. I’m talking about the meddlers, who are entirely responsible for the fact that you and I are having a coffee date instead of avoiding each other like the plague.”

She hovers over her pawn, then drops her hand, staring at the board. “I’m pissed. You’re perturbed. But that doesn’t solve our problem. My sister’s so hell-bent on me dating again, she swindled me into going on a date.” “Same with Jean-Claude.” Turning over the situation, I sip my tea. “What a maddening irony that we won’t be safe from their pressure to date until we’re dating again—” “Oh my God.” Bea’s eyes widen. “That’s it, you genius.”

“I’m not following. Why would we feign a romantic relationship?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, the logic slips into place. “Oh. To get them to leave us alone?” “I mean, that’ll be a nice perk.” Her eyes glint mischievously. “We fake a romance to crush their dreams, James. Give them a taste of their own shitty medicine and show them how much being manipulated blows.” “How?” Bea leans in, washing me with her soft, warm scent, which is unsettlingly pleasant. “We pretend to date, get them invested in us, convince them that we’re blissfully happy. Then . . . ?” A lightbulb pings over my head. “Then we break up?”

She rolls her eyes. “God forbid you step one tiny toe outside the line of your moral code, you curmudgeonly Capricorn.” “Would you stop with the astrological nonsense—” She gasps. “Take that back. It’s not nonsense.” I sigh heavily. “Beatrice—” “You”—she jabs a finger in my direction—“could not be more of a Capricorn. Look it up. Prepare to be humbled, Mr. Rules and Regulations.” “Rules and regulations exist for a reason. They provide order and structure, they establish clear expectations and dictate appropriate behavior—” “Which our ‘friends’ completely violated,” she fires back.

“I regret that I’m frustrating you,” I finally manage. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on this.” She glances back down at the board. “Understatement of the century. Whatever. It’s fine.” I stare at her as she assesses the game, warring with myself. Should I consider this? Why would I bend my rules and agree to a plot for revenge—a plot that will routinely not only subject us to each other but require pretending to be in a relationship? Am I honestly entertaining a faux romance—a fauxmance?—with a woman with whom I’ve shared nothing but physical catastrophe and a dozen stinging verbal paper cuts?

Damn that moment in the closet. Damn those messages and the smile I felt in them, the laughter I sensed in too many early-morning exchanges. Damn Jean-Claude and Juliet and their so-called friends for making this mess even messier than it was. Suddenly, Bea’s fingertip grazes mine. I nearly knock over my tea.

Our eyes meet for a moment, and a flush creeps up Bea’s throat to her cheeks. She glances away, examines her ink-stained fingers. When her eyes drift toward the window, she goes unnaturally still. “Those gloating motherfuckers.”

The meddlers are still there, now seated on the bench where Bea and I met. Jean-Claude’s sprayed-white head is bent, thumbs moving over his phone. Juliet steals glances at Boulangerie behind dark sunglasses, her own phone in hand as if, not too long ago, it was subtly pointed our way.

My blood pressure spikes, a surge of rare righteous anger burning through me. I’m a chess player. I can appreciate the beauty of a winning strategy. But people aren’t pawns, and their personal lives aren’t games to be played. “That’s it,” I tell her. “I’m in. I want blood.” Bea snorts a laugh, glancing my way. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry,” I say frostily, “would that be an insufferably long time to fake date me?” “Honestly, a little bit. And don’t act like you could stand fake dating me that long, either.” Fair point. “Thanksgiving? Do your friends have a gathering around then? Her eyes light up. “The Friendsgiving party! Oh, that’s perfect. Okay, so that gives us . . .” “A little less than two months.” “Two months. That’s doable.” “Agreed.”

Jamie and I step outside the coffee shop, blinking against the harsh late-morning sun. While I’ve turned so that my back is to the road and our antagonists across the street, Jamie faces the sunlight head-on, squinting down at me. “They’re watching, aren’t they?” I ask. “They are.” He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. “I assume we should part on some kind of amorous gesture?”

Taking a step closer, I sidle up to him until our toes touch. Slowly, I bring my hands to his face, cupping his jaw, the slight rasp of his facial hair tickling my fingertips. I shut my eyes, feeling with my sculptor’s hands the angles and planes of his face. Then, while I have a sliver of courage still guiding my touch, I stretch up on tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek. To his jaw. To the corner of his mouth. Jamie’s breath stills in his chest, tension coiling his body. And just as I begin to doubt what I’ve done, wonder if I’ve taken it too far, his hands slip around my waist, steadying me. Holding me close. He turns his face so slightly, until his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.

My voice is breathy and uneven, which of course has nothing to do with the fact that my skin crackles with energy, with the awareness of Jamie’s body throwing heat and his despicably huffable scent.

Turning at the same time, we part ways, back-to-back, armed and ready, like a duel in one of my hist-roms. Except while our personalities will always be at odds, now we’re no longer in opposition, no ready, aim, fire. This fake relationship is our shot in the sky, weapons set down. Now, somehow, Jamie and I are on the same side. No longer me versus you but us against them. I remember the brush of his thumb down my wrist, the warmth of his touch as I kissed the corner of that hard, uncompromising mouth. Us against them is going to take some getting used to. —

It’s not like I can go to the apartment, either. I risk running into Jules, and I’m not ready to see her yet. I’m too upset. My feet have a mind of their own, and soon I’m a block away from the Edgy Envelope. I come to a stop after crossing the street. Should I slip into work? Sula and Margo won’t be coming back. Toni runs the place on the weekend along with a revolving door of college temps, so Sula and Margo can have some work-life balance.

Toni’s cheeks pink as he pulls his ink-black hair into a small ponytail. “Well, you had your date and I didn’t want to, uh . . .” He scratches his nose. Telltale signs he’s hiding something. I gasp. “You’re in on this shit!” “Okay. Just . . . listen.” He stares at me very seriously. “They made me.” “They made you.” “Yes! Last night, Sula and Margo texted that you had a date and it was not to be disturbed. That’s all, I swear. Does that make it any better?” I glare at him. “It does not.” “How about”—he bends, then straightens with a plate towered in what I can’t see but know by smell alone are the world’s best lemon cookies—“now?” “Oh,” I say on a breathy sigh. He whips away the towel that was covering them. “Made with love. And a little pinch of guilt.”

“So.” He waves his cookie. “How’d it go?” I glare at him and shove another cookie in my mouth. I wasn’t expecting to have to lie so quickly. I assumed he’d be out of the loop because he’s the one person in our friend group who didn’t originate with Jules. He socializes with us occasionally, sometimes for movie nights but mostly game nights, since his boyfriend, Hamza, loves to go out and makes lots of plans for them. On top of that, Toni’s still very much involved with the local artists’ circle. That’s how he and I met, though we didn’t really become friends until he got a job here to supplement his income. By the time he was working at the Edgy Envelope, I’d already stepped away from the art scene, thanks in large part to Tod.

I pull out my phone and hop on the web browser tab that may or may not already have Jamie’s photo in it. What? So I did a little rudimentary internet search of the guy who felt me up and almost kissed me in a broom closet. Never hurts to make sure he’s not an ax murderer. “Oh, he’s hot.” Toni stares at Jamie’s LinkedIn profile picture. And smiles. Broadly. “Stop it.” “I can’t.” He smiles wider. “He’s so cute. He’s giving me straight-laced, starchy bachelor meets eyeglasses-model vibe. And I’m definitely getting a total-gentleman-in-the-streets, freak-in-the-sheets energy.” “What?” “You know, he’s all manners and politeness in public, but the moment that door closes, he throws you over his mahogany desk, flips up your skirt, and spanks your ass.”

I’m not a violent man, but after what he’s done, if I saw my roommate today, I’d be tempted to throat punch him. Thankfully, avoiding Jean-Claude is easy. He practically lives at Juliet and Bea’s place, so I return home and spend the remainder of the day at the apartment, well into the evening, catching up on continuing medical education, burning through a few seminars and a lengthy article, until the laptop screen gets blurry and my stomach starts to growl.

I pause halfway down the grocery aisle, my hand hovering where my phone burns a hole in my trouser pocket. Anxious thoughts crowd my brain. Was I cold when we left? Should I have sent her a message since we parted ways? Why am I horrible at all this? And why is a ten-hours-old fake relationship already on track to be more of a headache than the last real relationship I was in? A voice on the overhead speakers announcing a sale on ground beef snaps me out of my overthinking. “No texting,” I tell myself, pushing the cart. “No need to overcompensate. No reason to act like an overeager, lovesick boyfriend.” Because I’m not, obviously. Lovesick. Or her boyfriend. Not really.

She beams, all white teeth and sparkling blue-gray-green eyes. The world swims a little. That smile’s a dangerous thing. “Instead of nipples, females nurse their babies through folds in their abdominal fur.” “I see.” Bea said nipples, and I’m blushing like a schoolboy. I clear my throat, cheeks heating. When I tear my gaze away from the platypus leggings, I see she’s still holding her arms harshly behind her back, concealing her shopping basket. “Bea, why are you hiding your basket?” Pink splashes on her cheeks. “Basket? What basket?” “The one you’re holding behind your back.”

“Well,” she says, performing an awkward sideways shuffle that keeps the basket hidden. “This has been fun.” Because her eyes are locked on me, Bea misses the free-standing tiered baskets of snacks. Tripping into it, she stumbles forward, but I lunge and catch her wrist before she hits the floor. When I pull her my way, momentum sends her tumbling into my chest. “Shit,” she yelps, her hands landing on my waist as she steadies herself. A wave of her scent washes over me, and her warm hands burn through my clothes. I swallow roughly, begging my body to cool down. It’s been a year since anyone’s touched me. That’s all this is.

She bites her lip and stares at the ground. “I just feel like you’re judging me.” “I feel the same way about you.” “I’m not.” Her eyes meet mine. Bea takes a step forward, then stops herself. “I’m really not. Live your best, clean-eating, wrinkle-free life. I don’t knock it. Just don’t look down on me for being different.”

As an autistic person, I work my ass off to function in a social system that is not intuitive. A system whose patterns I have had to learn and do my best to observe without breaking myself. It’s harder with new, unfamiliar people, but it’s even hard sometimes with the people I know and love. Some days, no matter who it is, I struggle, not unlike the way it seems Jamie’s struggling now.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shut you down there. You were being considerate, explaining yourself. I shouldn’t crap on that.” The tension in his shoulders dissolves. “I don’t want you to think I expect you to bend around my schedule. It’s not always this demanding.” The kindness of his words jolts me. I pull away and form fists with my hands, as if that will extinguish the sparks dancing beneath my skin. “Thanks, I appreciate that. But so you know, everyone at the stationery shop is pretty nice about changing shifts and covering each other in a pinch, so I have flexibility. I don’t mind working around your schedule when you need me to.”

“Well . . . thank you.” He returns his hands to the shopping cart. I watch his knuckles turn white. “Right. Shall we check out, then?” I cannot get enough of his speech. Shall we? He sounds straight from the tower of historical romances on my nightstand, and it makes me smile in spite of myself. I hoist the basket tighter in my arms, value-sized lube and overnight pads for all to see. “I believe we shall.”

As Jamie shuts the door to his apartment behind me, two hefty furballs amble toward us, emitting meows that are more like howls of the dying. Or maybe they are dead. And haunting us. Zombie cats. That’s it. They have that undead sway going on. “What’s up with the fur babies?” I ask.

I watch them warily. One is gray with misty pale blue eyes, the other with mint green irises and long white fur. Their stares bore into me. “They seem a little . . . hostile?” “Hardly. They’re easygoing seniors.” Unpacking a bag of produce, Jamie sets everything in a neat pile by type on the counter. “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.”

I’ve got to cool it. I need to stop getting swept up in this bizarre attraction I feel for Jamie. So what if he’s my wet dream of a jock’s body with silver-screen Gregory Peck glasses and good looks? So what if he takes care of babies and rescues geriatric cats and says adorable shit like Shall we? And If you insist?

“Do you and the cats get along?” I ask. The gray one gives me death eyes. Then she bares her needle teeth. I shudder. “We do,” Jamie says, calling me back from his cat’s telepathic death threats. “They don’t seem to mind that I have long hours periodically. I keep the heat on the high side and they have cat beds set in the south-facing windows, so they get as much sun to nap in as possible. They seem happy enough when I’m home.”