The Mix-Up (Southern Hearts Club #3) - Melanie Munton Page 0,6
Under his breath he mutters, “Un-fucking-believable.”
That manages to clear some of the fog in my brain. “I’m snippy with you because you’re an overbearing, impatient perfectionist whose all-superior attitude grates on my last nerve.”
Myles clutches his stomach as he dissolves into laughter.
Moving my gaze between the brothers, I study Myles closely, looking for any features or defining marks that would distinguish him from the man I’ve known for almost a year.
There isn’t much.
At least, nothing I would have noticed while under the influence and in low lighting. His eyes are the same blue as Ryder’s, same golden skin color, same jaw shape. Their hairline is even identical, though Myles’s hair is longer and touches his ears. But it could have been just as short as Ryder’s ten months ago.
In short, Myles is as much of a hot tottie as his brother.
Though much more charming, it would seem. When our gazes connect, his mouth sensuously curls up in the corners. It’s a provocative grin if ever I’ve seen one.
This man has seen me naked. Myles, not Ryder.
“Sorry for the confusion, Gretchen,” Myles croons smoothly. “I guess being under the influence that night isn’t the best excuse.”
When he makes a blatant perusal of my body, he doesn’t even try to hide it. I’m confident in my own skin, but with Ryder in the room, glowering at his brother as he checks me out…I’m feeling pretty awkward.
I’m a five-foot-seven, twenty-five-year-old with generous C cups and a pear shape figure. Thanks to my father’s Greek heritage, my skin is on the almond side, and my dark chestnut hair is thick, shoulder-length, and permanently wavy. I stopped straightening it years ago because it never stayed that way longer than thirty minutes. If there’s one feature that I both love and hate about myself, it’s my eyes. They’re a unique, bright silver color that attract strangers’ stares like moths to a bug zapper. Their spooky astonishment tends to get both annoying and creepy. Because of this, feeling gawked at isn’t anything new for me.
But when Myles’s blue eyes droop in an appreciative way, I instantly feel uneasy. Which doesn’t make sense. I should be relieved that it was never my boss I slept with that night but his equally attractive twin brother instead. I should be flattered that Myles is sober now and still remembers me. I should be reacting in kind and taking him up on the obvious invitation in his eyes.
Just a teensy problem with that: he looks exactly like my boss.
How can I ever look at Myles without seeing Ryder? Is that even possible?
“If I’d been smart enough to get your number that night, believe me, I would have called,” Myles murmurs, pitching his voice lower. “And you ran out on me the next morning before I could ask for it.”
In my peripheral vision, I notice Ryder’s gaze fly to me and bore right through my skull. But I can’t bring myself to look at him. I’m too busy getting lost in my complete bafflement as the puzzle of the last ten months breaks apart and piece-by-piece, begins to reassemble itself to form an entirely different image.
That man gave you the best nooky of your life. Him. Not the one behind the desk. Not the one you work for.
Allow me to introduce my alter ego, the old hag.
Beyoncé has Sasha Fierce. Jennifer Lawrence has Gail. I have the old hag.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all Sally Fields’ Cybil on anyone’s ass. I don’t have a split personality. I’ve just always identified with the female geriatrics of the world. Aunt B. Ethel Mertz. The granny from Beverly Hillbillies. All the Golden Girls. Strangely, I feel a kinship with the eighty-year-old woman digging for caramels at the bottom of her purse. The kickass grandma Svengali who’s been around the block a time or two and keeps a forty-year-old dial-up vibrator stashed beneath her pantyhose. That’s my kind of spirit guide. My conscience has always sounded like a grouchy old lady looking for her six cats anyway. I think somewhere down the line, my brain just created an amalgam of my fantasy grandma guru. And thus, the old hag was born.
Gotta admit, it’s fun to constantly disappoint a cranky old curmudgeon.
And the old hag can’t begin to process what’s happening inside this office. Not without a full bottle of gin and a bendy straw.
Myles chuckles. “And hell, if I’d known you’ve been working for my brother this entire time, I would have—”