Barbara Dunlop - The Twin Switch

She was smart, too. She got straight A’s right from elementary school.

Me, I was more of a B-plus person. But I was a pretty good listener. And I could twist a mean French braid, which Brooklyn liked.

She had long blond hair and beautiful blue eyes. She tanned, too. We both tanned.

Since we were little kids, we’d spent our summers at the beach on Lake Washington. First it was the swings and the jungle gym. A little older, we’d race to the floater in the middle of the swimming area, dive off, then dry on our towels in the sun. Older still, we hung out at the snack bar, batting our lashes at cute boys and getting them to buy us milkshakes.

I didn’t get to choose my own sister. But it was happening, anyway.

In just two weeks, Brooklyn was marrying my big brother, James.

“I can see the Golden Gate Bridge,” Sophie Crush said from the front seat of the cab.

I was in the middle of the back seat squished between Brooklyn and Nat Remington. That’s what happened when you insisted on taking a hybrid from the airport.

“Do you think we’ll have views from our rooms?” Nat asked.

“I want a view of the spa,” Brooklyn said. “From inside the spa, I mean.”

“You heard the bride,” I said.

I flexed my shoulders in anticipation of a deep stone massage. I’d had one once before. It had been a little slice of Heaven that I was dying to repeat.

“Pedicures,” Sophie said.

“Facials,” Nat said.

“I want to sit in the sauna,” Brooklyn said.

“I feel my pores opening up already,” I said.

The sauna sounded like a great idea. So did a facial. I was the maid of honor, and I was determined to look my best.

Unlike some brides—more selfish brides—Brooklyn had chosen gorgeous bridesmaid dresses. They were airy and knee length with strapless sweetheart necklines and fitted bodices of azure-blue chiffon that faded to pale sky at the hemline.

My auburn hair was tricky but, happily, the colors worked. Because for a single twenty-six-year-old, a wedding was a really good place to meet new guys.

I was at a disadvantage this time since half the guests would be my own relatives. Plus I’d met nearly all of Brooklyn’s friends and family over the years. Still, she might have an undiscovered hot second cousin or two in the right age range. A woman could never discount an opportunity.

The cab pulled to a halt beside a rotating glass door and miles of windows that looked into the lobby. Stylized gold lettering spelled out The Archway Hotel and Spa on a marble pillar.

Three men in crisp steel-gray short-sleeved jackets simultaneously opened our doors.

“Welcome to the Archway,” one of them said to Brooklyn, his gaze lingering on her sea-breeze eyes before moving past her to me.

His smile was friendly. He was cute, but I wasn’t about to get interested.

Not that I have anything against valets. He could be putting himself through grad school for all I knew. Or maybe he liked living near the beach and having flexible hours.

Brooklyn moved past him, and he held out his hand to me.

I took it.

It was strong, slightly calloused, definitely tanned. Maybe he was a surfer.

I’m not a snob about professions. I’m a high school math teacher, and that isn’t the most prestigious job. I’m open to meeting people from all walks of life.

He did have really gorgeous hazel eyes, and a strong chin, and a bright white smile.

I came to my feet and he let go of my hand, taking a step back.

“We’ll take care of the bags,” he said, his gaze holding mine a little longer than normal.

It took me a second to realize he was waiting for a tip.

I almost laughed at myself. He wasn’t flirting with me—at least not with any romantic intent. He did this with everyone who arrived at the hotel. It was probably how he paid for his surfboard.

I rustled through my purse for a five and handed it over.

It was a splurging kind of a weekend, I reminded myself. You only got the perfect sister-in-law once in your life.

Two bellhops wheeled our luggage into the lobby and we followed.

“We could go see some male exotic dancers,” Nat said.

Brooklyn winced. “Pass.”

I smiled. I knew Nat was joking. If Sophie had suggested it, I might have taken her seriously.

“Don’t be too hasty,” Sophie said. “After all, what do you think James is doing with the guys right now?”

“You think James is watching male exotic dancers?” Brooklyn asked as we made our way past the fountain to the check-in desk.

“Female,” Sophie said.

There was no lineup. In fact, there were three attendants available. Nice.

Brooklyn swung her tote bag onto her shoulder. “The guys are watching a doubleheader.”

“Afterward,” Sophie said.

I couldn’t imagine James going to a strip show. He was absolutely not the type.

But Brooklyn got a funny expression on her face, like she thought maybe it was a possibility, even though the idea was ridiculous.

“Are you checking in today?” the woman behind the counter asked us in a chipper voice that said she was delighted to be here to help us.

“We’re the Christie party,” Nat answered, deftly pulling a copy of the reservation from her bag.

Hanging back, I spoke to Brooklyn in an undertone. “You’re not worried about James, are you?”

Brooklyn frowned and gave a noncommittal shrug. Then she moved toward the counter, digging into her bag. “Do you need my credit card?”

“I just need one for check-in,” the woman said. “When you check out, you can split the charges if you like.”

I repositioned myself so that I was beside Brooklyn.

“He’s not going to see a stripper,” I whispered, wondering how she could possibly be worried about James’s behavior.

James, with a master’s degree in economics, who’d landed a job at one of the most conservative consulting firms in Seattle, who only spoke in complete sentences and who guarded his social media accounts as if he had the nuclear launch codes, would not be hanging out at a strip club.

I couldn’t imagine him risking someone snapping his picture in a strip club—even if he did want to see naked women. Which he did not, because there wasn’t a woman in the country more beautiful than Brooklyn.

Brooklyn was a fashion buyer for a chain of Seattle boutiques. But she could have been a movie star or a supermodel. There was nowhere for James to go but down in the looks department.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

She turned her head and smiled. “What could possibly be wrong?”

There was something in her eyes. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“Did James do something?” I asked her.

“No.”

“Are you mad at him?”

“No.”

“Then what…?”

“Nothing.” Brooklyn smiled again. “He’s perfect. James is perfect. And I’m going to book a spa appointment.” She reached for the brochure on the countertop.

“I can help with that,” the check-in woman said as she handed Nat’s credit card back to her.

“Something with aromatherapy,” Brooklyn said.

I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced by Brooklyn’s nonchalance, but I thought about hot stones pressed slowly across my oiled back and decided anything else could wait.

Massaged and steamed and showered and dressed, I spotted Sophie sitting at the bar in the lounge. A jazz trio was playing in the corner while candles flickered on the mottled glass tables. The chairs were white leather, and a glass mosaic decorated the wall behind the bar.

I was wearing three-inch heels with my silver cocktail dress, so I was happy to rest my feet by perching next to Sophie.