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  Luke snorted.

  "Your sister probably talked you up plenty, so this woman's not going to start off all judgmental or anything. You can be confident she's predisposed to like you."

  "Confident. Sure."

  "Well, come on, what's your sister like? Do you two get along? What does she do?"

  "She's married."

  Evan shrugged. "Married people still have personalities. Or so my brothers and sister tell me."

  That got a laugh. "I mean, she can't be the other person on the double date. Well, I guess she could, but if it was her and Bruce--her husband--it wouldn't be the same thing where everyone is just, you know, flirty and relaxed. They wouldn't be focused on each other, they'd be telling me about Leticia and Leticia about me and I would be a performing seal."

  "I didn't mean she should go on the date. I thought if you and your sister have stuff in common, could be your sister and Leticia have the same things in common, so you and Leticia automatically have something to talk about." Luke wasn't buying his argument, and Evan hated seeing him sink further and further into himself.

  It wasn't exactly like throwing himself on a hand grenade to save the entire village, but he fought to hide his reluctance as he said, "I do know this one woman I'm supposed to call now I'm in town."

  He'd layered on what charisma he possessed, but Natalie shot him down before he could mention the double date. Any remaining hope of helping Luke withered with each minute she failed to show up at Black Gold. He'd take the guy a coffee as a consolation.

  He tried to catch the barista's attention to get her opinion between the espresso lungo and a cafe Cubano, but she approached the mouth-watering woman in line behind him. "Hey, Natasha, right? We're down to our last orange scone, do you want me to grab it for you?"

  Orange Scone muttered, "Crap," and he stared at her while she shook her head at the server.

  He recognized the voice. She regarded him, and his brain clicked like his battery had died, and it felt like an hour before he managed to ask, "Natalie?"

  She nodded.

  Talk about land mines. She just about blew his brain out. The frizzy-haired, flat-eyed person wearing God knew what odd attire in each successive Turkish photo was gone. In her place was a sleek professional, shiny hair in a smooth knot, crisp white sleeveless blouse, tailored skirt hugging the curve at her waist. Subtle makeup, except for her lips, which were deeply tinted to emphasize their fullness. Elegant jewelry, trendy enough to pop against her classic attire.

  And her eyes. They had a little cat-tilt he'd never noticed in the pictures. They were green.

  They were glinting at him. Evan gulped. He worked at forming a sentence that wouldn't be insulting. His siblings had spent weeks giving him crap about Natalie, thanks to their parents' entirely obvious group emails during their anniversary trip. Most of the teasing was the usual stuff about his being the baby and mommy finding him a girlfriend, and some texts overflowing with heart emojis that didn't lend credence to them mostly being in their forties. Chloe, the only other unmarried Lee child, had gotten nastier than she needed to be about Natalie's appearance. He'd admit to laughing when Chloe asked if Natalie possessed twice the hair follicles of normal humans. In truth, between the mass of hair and the ill-fitting, uncoordinated clothes, he'd formed an impression which stopped him investigating if this woman would be her.

  And the dry look she gave him said she knew he'd assumed the most beautiful person in the room wouldn't be Natalie. He was going to have to own up to it. "I'm sorry. You surprised me. I don't know why I was looking for someone wearing a shirt with the Hagia Sophia on it."

  "My clients expect a little more sophistication from me."

  "Of course. I didn't mean--like I said, I'm sorry." Before he planned it, Evan had leaned in for an awkward half-hug. "Hi. It's a pleasure to officially meet you."

  "You too." She stepped back, but because she was a lot classier than he was, she made it seem like she was shifting over so they could both see the menu board. Of course, that might have been all she intended, but he suspected she was reestablishing her personal space. He shouldn't complain. No matter how often his parents talked about her, getting all grabby with her at their first encounter wasn't acceptable.

  He waved a hand at the long list of drink options. "Thanks for the suggestion to meet here. I've been trying to choose. It's not easy, is it?"

  She smiled. It was pretty, but cool. Didn't reach her eyes. "I did warn you."

  Clearly she was a woman full of warnings. Though Evan doubted all her land mines were marked. "You did. Problem is, I can tell this place is going to become one of my regular spots. I'm a creature of habit. So whatever I order, if I like it half as much as I expect, I'll never try something new. I'd hate for my usual to pale in comparison to another choice."

  Flashing olive eyes called him out for rambling even before she said, "I didn't expect you to be so rigid."

  Damn the woman. She was throwing innuendo on purpose. He asked for the cafe Cubano, hoping it would live up to the dozens he'd downed during his years in Tampa, and gestured for Natalie to place her order. "I've got this," he reminded her when she opened her quilted leather satchel.

  "Thanks, Evan. I'll send a good report to your parents. They'll be proud to know you're as sweet as they said."

  Sweet. Great. His favorite descriptor. He escorted Natalie to a just-vacated table, not neglecting to check her out from the rear when he had a chance. He was, after all, a man.

  And she checked out good.

  Their conversation was nothing but inanities at first: the location, the weather, work. It wasn't until he made some comment about his dad texting that Evan thought he caught a glimpse of the real Natalie behind her professional facade. Not that he objected to her professional facade. If the Natalie sitting across from him at Black Gold had been the Natalie he'd first encountered via his folks' messages, Evan wouldn't have resisted contacting her for the nickel tour of his new hometown. He liked a woman who could present herself well; this Natalie understood the value of fine fabrics and tailoring. He didn't take points off for being casual when it was appropriate, but he spent ninety percent of his waking time with businesspeople, and gravitated towards others with the same mindset.

  He fingered the knot of his tie again, getting a kick out of Natalie's story about teaching Koray to use his phone's speech recognition functions. "It's hopeless, you know," he said. "The man has five children, eight if you count the in-laws, and three of his grandkids are preteens. I appreciate your efforts, but you're not the first person to give him a smart phone tutorial."

  "Oh, I never thought I was. But your mom kept showing off her tiny keyboard skills, and he wanted to prove he could operate on her level."

  "Did he manage it?"

  "Well." She grinned. Those dark lips framed lovely white teeth, one canine a little crooked. "With a little help, he managed to speak a text to one of your brothers--is Brant one of your brothers?--but he couldn't do it again when she dared him."

  Evan shook his head. "Ben. He's my oldest brother."

  "Right, Ben is Chloe's twin. And Alice is oldest of all."

  "God, they must have talked about us a lot, for you to remember all that." He knew his folks liked to brag on their brood, but it was disconcerting to hear his family dissected by a stranger.

  "Well, the alphabetical naming was a help. Good thing they stopped at five kids. Many more and you'd be writing some pretty unusual names on your Christmas cards."

  "Tell me about it. I was going to be Felix if my sister was born first." He shook his head. "Felix Lee."

  Natalie's relaxed, open expression froze for a second, then she composed herself. "Sorry. I thought you were the last one."

  Evan kicked himself. He'd fallen into a trap, assuming because Natalie knew things about his family, she knew everything about his family. He sipped his coffee, which was as good as any he'd gotten in Florida. "Um. Yeah. We were twins, me and Fiona. Preemies, just under twenty-five week
s. I was a few ounces heavier, and my lungs better off. So, we were both in NICU as soon as we were born, but Fiona didn't make it. Her lungs. It...I guess it was especially rough for Chloe, of all the kids. She and Ben were ten when we were born--surprise late-in-life babies--and she was all excited there was another set of boy-girl twins in the family, so she'd get a little sister. She already had a big sister and a baby brother and a twin brother, so it was Fiona she wanted around. I think the rest of them would have forgotten about Fiona, except for Chloe keeping a picture in her room for years."

  And now Natalie knew even more about his family. Avoiding her eyes, Evan drained his Cubano. "Want anything else?"

  Natalie shook her head, and before she could go and make Poor Baby Evan noises, he wove through the crowd to take his place in line.

  "So then he came back and tried to distract me from asking more about it by telling me about this sad-sack friend of his who freezes up when he meets women for the first time and that's how I ended up agreeing to this thing," Natalie told her friend Gillian, who strode on the elliptical next to hers.

  "Wow, manipulative," Gill said. Even back when they roomed together in college, Gillian was the cynic of their group. She could find a sketchy motive for anyone's actions, and Natalie had channeled her while judging Evan's intent behind the dead twin story. In the end, she'd rejected the manipulation theory. All she had to do was picture Evan's face once he realized he'd spilled all kinds of beans to nix any premeditation.

  "It's not," she corrected Gill. "It's sad. I mean, I could have still said no."

  "You'd already said no."

  "True." She slapped at the machine's controls to switch herself to cool-down mode, ignoring Gillian's side-eye. Ellipticals were boring. The gym was boring. If Gillian wanted to stay longer, let her, but Natalie all the sudden had pre-date things to do. Things she hadn't had to do for a while. Like, well, things. She had standing appointments for pedicures and eyebrow threading and facials and keratin for her damn hair--salon maintenance making it easier to put herself together on a daily basis as she met with customers--but for a date, even a not-real date with no naked time, Natalie added a few non-routine items to the agenda. Matching underwear. Careful shaving. A bit of the traditional standing in front of her closet staring at her non-work clothes and wondering why she didn't own a single good thing to wear.

  She'd been twenty-six when she met Chris. She was zeroing in on four years since she'd last gone out with someone new. And even though this thing with Evan wasn't a real first date, and even though she didn't care what he thought of her appearance--even if she did he'd seen her in a stranger's parrot shirt and the Turkish harem pants--Natalie had standards. She wanted to please herself. It was time to dip a toe back in the dating waters, so she was treating the night as a trial run. If she could pull herself together for Evan, she'd have more confidence when pulling herself together for someone she actually cared about.

  Gillian surprised Natalie by switching her own machine to cool-down. "Okay, I'll grant you it's a sad story. If he was using it to manipulate you, he'd deploy it for something better than your capitulation to the double-date. Unless he's stupid, and it doesn't sound like he could be stupid, he's got to know the 'my twin sister died while I struggled for life in the incubator next to hers' tale is good enough to get him laid. If he uses it right."

  "Gillian! Damn."

  Gill shrugged. "Like you haven't met guys who would."

  "Well, yeah, but not since college. We're thirty now. I like to think their tactics have improved with age."

  "Clearly you haven't been on the scene lately."

  "That's going to change. Don't tell my mom, but I've decided to sow my wild oats. Want to help me set up an online dating profile?"

  "Why bother? You'll only find garbage. Liars and reprobates and soul-destroyers." For all the trash she talked about internet hookups, Natalie knew Gill had at least three active accounts.

  "I'm not going to believe everything they post, Gill. I'm sure I can find a few guys worth an hour or so of my time." Nat let the forty-minute mark she'd hit be a signal she'd done enough walking in space, and stopped the elliptical.

  Gillian stopped, too, though Natalie wasn't sure if she was exercised out or just wanted to swivel to stare her down. "Do you ever listen to a single one of my stories? Don't you know how many men I've met online who've turned out to be creeps or jerks or flat-out psychopaths? I'm sure there are, whatever, polite guys with good hearts and minds out there, saving puppies and delivering meals to shut-ins, but they're not a mere click away, Nat. I promise you."

  Maybe it wasn't that Gillian was a born cynic. Maybe she'd been turned into one after years of putting up with terrible men. Natalie, Serena, and Rachel had met her when they'd advertised for a fourth roommate during their junior year at the University of Texas, and from the day Gill had tossed her great-aunt's patchwork quilt over the twin bed beside Natalie's, she'd been griping about men. She did have relationships. But even her longest, happiest ones were over after a few months, and Gillian's friends heard about any number of problems with the guy throughout.

  Nat pretended her sigh was a post-workout deep breath. "I know you can, hon. And I know you're right. I hardly expect it'll be easy to go out there and find Mr. Right. Like I told you, I want to have some fun for now. Not worry about potential and compatibility and long-term goals and what my mom will think. I'm sick of thinking about what my mom will think. It's time I stopped caring what anyone will think."

  Gillian gave a short laugh as they headed to the locker room. "Well, at least your expectations are low. That's a good start."

  Chapter Three

  They'd agreed to meet at the gallery where Luke and Leticia were starting their blind date. The sister who set Luke up also knew the featured artist. Evan refrained from asking if this micro-managing sister was the reason Luke had never learned to speak up for himself.

  Natalie was there when he walked in. This time, expecting the more pulled-together person he'd met over coffee instead of the travel-ravaged one from his mom's photos, Evan contained his dropping jaw. He needed the conscious effort. She looked fucking fantastic.

  He fingered the perfect van wijk he'd fashioned in his silk tie. He'd opted for a solid pale green, not wanting it to compete with the understated pattern of his shirt. Natalie was wearing, as it happened, a sheath dress in a harmonizing shade of green. It hit above her knees, giving him a hint of the full curves of her thighs. Her small metallic bag coordinated with her heels, and her chunky silver jewelry. Her hair was down, and a lot straighter than he'd ever seen it.

  "Hey, did I keep you waiting?" He leaned in for a hug, wondering if she'd carried the subtle fragrance of wildflowers at Black Gold. Wondering if the heavy aroma of coffee beans still topped his heavenly scents list.

  She flashed that crooked canine. "No, I walked in a minute ago. Good to see you."

  He grinned back. "And now we can say that and have it mean the conventional accepted thing."

  "Oh, convention. What would we do without it? I have to say, I've been thinking how handy it will be."

  "Why?" Had he screwed something up? Not that there was much to screw up; they were only there to help Luke out with Leticia.

  "You said your friends know this painter."

  He caught the glint in her green cat eyes. "His sister does, why?"

  She looked around before leaning in to murmur, "Check out the pig."

  Evan arched a brow, just to be provocative. He wasn't expecting her to tease, after treating him so solemnly over coffee. Well, that wasn't strictly true. She'd been chatty until he'd opened his damn mouth about Fiona. As usual whenever he thought about his twin, Evan's left hand closed reflexively. It was a stupid habit he'd have gone his whole life without noticing, except Chloe had picked up on it when he was ten or so, and pointed it out. In front of everyone. By then, he and Danny had been the only kids still living at home, but Ben and Chloe were at colleges close enough to drop in for la
undry and food. The house hadn't attained the racketing emptiness of the years after Danyal's graduation.

  Middle and high school memories of home were all about hauling his backpack past four empty bedrooms to get to his room, listening to his music without the bickering over volume and taste that was the soundtrack of his elementary years, and serving as the only dinner entertainment as he and his parents ate leftovers at one corner of the long table. So many leftovers. After decades cooking for a horde, Marisa and Koray didn't adapt well to their emptier nest. Evan should have looked forward to his brothers' and sisters' visits. And he had. But for years, the rest of them made it a point to say Evan's twin's name while staring at his hand. They'd be cleaning the kitchen or lounging on the sofas, and someone would mention Fiona. Or Shrek, or Fiona Apple--three of them had given him her debut for Christmas one year. And they sniggered every time his fist clenched, and no amount of self-discipline broke him of the habit.

  Stuffing the offending hand in his trouser pocket, Evan turned to the nearest canvas. It was, as Natalie had said, a pig. Skillfully painted, but grim. He was standing on his hind legs on a soap box, very Animal Farm, except the crowd he harangued was human. The paint was all blacks and browns and oranges.

  He turned back to Natalie. "Not to your taste?"

  "You didn't look at his clothes."

  The pig's clothes? No, he hadn't. Evan looked again. The pig's charcoal-hued tweed trousers screamed post-War Britain, no surprises there, and over his light brown button-down the pig wore a burnt-orange sweater that.... Well. Evan couldn't un-see it, now he'd leaned close enough to take it in. The sweater featured a country dance of pigs: pig fiddlers and pig pipers, pig couples dancing, a pig behind a table of refreshments, serving a plate of delicacies to a line of lady pigs.

  He pressed his lips together and glanced around to be sure they couldn't be overheard. "You don't suppose the tray is full of pigs in blankets, do you?"