I’m not strong enough. I’m not brave enough. I’m not Alex enough and the whole world is going to see it and you’re going to see it and how am I supposed to be someone else when I can’t even be me and—
The pressure seemed to break then—not in her pants—but in Zoe herself. She felt like she might split right down the middle. Her hand reached up and traced the scar that ran between her breasts. She didn’t know why. She had forgotten it was there until she felt it through the fabric of her shirt. It was like the real her was trying to claw to the surface—take the wheel—remind her of the thing she should never forget: I’m not as good as Alex. I’m not as strong as Alex. I’m not as brave as Alex.
It wasn’t something that she thought. It was something that she knew. Like the alphabet or the names of the states or the fact that she didn’t have the skin tone to wear yellow. She knew that she was less than Alex in the same way she knew that ten was less than twenty. In the way she knew—
“Hey.” His hands were on her arms and his gaze was like an anchor, the only thing that could keep her from floating away on that vicious current of self-doubt.
“Hey, where’d you go, lady?” Sawyer pulled Zoe closer, and she breathed in the clean, fresh smell of him and wanted to curl up and sleep for a thousand years. She wanted to pretend they were the only two people in the world, but she couldn’t do that—she had to pretend to be Alex.
“What’s wrong?” His voice was gentle.
It had seemed so easy. In theory. So basic and sensible. In theory. She could walk in, be her sister, grab the drive, and ride into the sunset with the really hot, really broody, really deceptively kind man. In theory!
But in practice, her pants were too tight and her palms were too wet and her heart was pounding way too hard in her chest. The whole world was full of shadows, and she had no idea what was going to jump out at her.
“I’m not like Alex,” Zoe said, finally looking up at Sawyer. “I thought I could do this. It sounded like such a good idea—like shampoo with conditioner but what you get is hair that’s not really shampooed and also not really conditioned and I don’t know how I know that! I just know that I’m in these ridiculous clothes, trying to pull off this ridiculous plan, and . . . No one is ever going to believe I’m Alex!”
“I know. You’re nothing like her.” She might have been insulted if it weren’t for the kindness in his eyes—the wicked gleam as he said, “You’re better.”
“But these pants . . .”
“And hotter. Did I mention hotter?”
“But—”
“And kinder. And smarter. And funnier. And . . . Who jumped off the bridge, Zoe? Who got us out of Paris? Who hot-wired the car?”
For a moment, she actually thought it might be a trick question, but she couldn’t help looking up at him, admitting, “I don’t know how I did those things. I wasn’t even thinking when I did them. But I’m thinking about this, and what I know is no one will ever believe that I am—”
He stopped her with a kiss. It was quick and soft and gentle, and for a moment Zoe forgot about her pants and her sister and the bank. Zoe forgot about everything except that man and that moment and that feeling. But, too soon, he was pulling back and tipping her face up.
“I worked with Alex for five years. Now guess how many times I wanted to kiss her.”
She really didn’t want to guess, though. And she really, really didn’t want to know. “You don’t have to—”
“Never, Zoe. Not once.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “I thought she was beautiful and smart and cunning. I thought she was a great operative. And I was glad she was on my side, but I never wanted to kiss her.”
“You probably say that to all your danger bangs.” It was a joke. It was. But he wasn’t laughing and neither was she and when he pressed against her, looked into her eyes, she knew—she knew even before he said—
“It wasn’t a danger bang.”
And then she wanted to cry—emotion springing out through her eyes because she was just so full she couldn’t hold it in as she shook her head and her voice got all wobbly and her cheeks got all wet. “It wasn’t a danger bang.”
His hands cradled her face, pushing the too-red strands of the wig away from her eyes—like he couldn’t take the chance she might not see. “And that’s why I’m telling you, you don’t have to do this.”