Page 21 of My Twin Sister's Extremely Famous and Incredibly Hot Neighbor

“What?” he asks.

“Did you make this?”

He chuckles. “Yes.”

It’s red, white, and blue with a star in the middle. “It’s adorable. How old were you?”

“About ten probably.”

I give it back to him. “So cute.”

When we sit down to eat, Dustin looks over at me. “Well, now you know not to remove the beaters from the bowl until the power is off.”

“I think that’s something you should have told me right away.”

He scoffs. “So, all this is my fault?”

I smile sweetly at him. “Yes.”

He lets out a laugh. “All right. I’ll take the blame.”

My insides do funny things as I stare at his laugh lines. Why does he have to be the most handsome man on the planet? Why couldn’t Jera’s neighbor be some troll? I’m in so much trouble. I look down at my plate and concentrate on eating.

Of course, the brisket melts in my mouth and the cheesy potatoes are to die for. This man can seriously cook. And now I’m fantasizing about marrying him and eating like this all the time.

A few minutes go by in silence before he speaks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, still trying to push the image of him as my husband out of my head. Imaginary Dustin looks fantastic in a tuxedo.

He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t press the matter. “How do you like the meal?”

“It’s delicious.” I shove a large scoop of potatoes into my mouth to prove it.

He seems pleased at this. We eat in silence for another few minutes. I try not to look at him, because when I do I seem to forget who I’m supposed to be.

Dustin takes a sip of his water. “Do you eat out a lot, since you don’t cook?”

I know Jera does, so I nod. “Yeah.”

“Do you have a favorite restaurant?”

I have no idea what Jera prefers, so I shake my head. “Not really.”

A noise comes from the other room, like something fell on the floor. Dustin looks at Squint, who is still curled up by the patio door.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I’ll go check.” He wipes his face with his napkin and leaves the room. Moments later he comes back in holding a framed photo. “A picture fell from the wall. I guess the nail gave out.” He sets the picture on the table.

“For a minute there I thought you had a ghost.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, smiling at me.

I turn to the photo on the table. “Who is that?”

“My grandmother. In a lot of ways I was closer to her than my own mother. But she died when I was young.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

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