The man was certainly brilliant, seemed to be a genuinely good guy, and I was curious about his thoughts on Illustris, the universe-scale simulation project, which was why I’d agreed to dinner. Yet, tempted as I might be to soften my rules about informality and friendly fraternization with colleagues, I knew better.

  “Do you need a ride anywhere?” he asked stiffly, quickly adding, “No pressure. It’s just, my mother would be appalled if I didn’t offer.”

  His slight confession, and how he referred to his mother with deference, made me pause my furious zipping. “Thank you, you are very kind. I have a driver.”

  He cleared his throat and nodded, seemed to stand straighter. My gaze flickered to his then away and I dug for my wallet. Finding it, I placed a fifty-dollar bill on the table to cover the cost of my dinner.

  “You don’t need to do that.” He frowned, reaching for the money and offering it back to me.

  I shook my head and swung my backpack into place on my right shoulder. “My Harvard advisor told me I should pay for my own meals during the recruitment process so as to not unduly influence my final decision.”

  He flinched subtly, like I’d surprised him again. “I see,” he said, then huffed a little laugh. It was free of amusement. I got the sense I’d offended him somehow . . .

  A renewed wave of flustered urgency crashed over me. I didn’t have time to think about Dr. Payton. I had to call Gabby, get to Chicago, and figure out how to behave like Lisa and not like me.

  “I’ll be gone for a few days,” I said, not understanding why I felt the need to explain anything. “There’s been an unexpected emergency. I’ll email Dr. Clarence and the team to let them know.”

  “Fine.” He pressed his lips together, a flat line, his expression now neutral.

  I hesitated for a split second, knowing I was doing something wrong yet unable to put my finger on what. But exigency—for my sister’s sake—spurred me to move. Giving him a final head nod and short wave, I left the restaurant. With any luck, I’d be in Chicago before midnight.

  “We’re going to have to get you a blowout.” Gabby pursed her lips at the sight of my single braid, sighed dramatically, and marched past me into my room. “And Lisa’s hair is a little shorter I think, so we’ll also need a cut. But the color is fine, she went back to her natural dark brown too, like, I don’t know, a few months ago, when she pretended to split from Tyler. Do you own any makeup at all?”

  Turning, I allowed the hotel door to shut behind me and faced Lisa’s friend. “Hello and yes I own makeup.”

  Of note, Gabby’s real name was Lyndsay. Gabby was a nickname she’d earned because she talked too much and had no filter, just saying whatever popped into her head. This worked for her because her parents were massively wealthy and had no problem bailing her out of whatever trouble she—and her mouth—found herself in.

  Ignoring my greeting, she set a bag on the bed. “I bet it’s the wrong kind of makeup. Whatever. There’s a Sephora on the way to your house, we’ll go there. Lisa said you don’t know how to do your eyes, so they can teach you there. Lisa never shows her face without mascara and liner, so make sure you do that everyday. And here,” she gestured to the bag, “I brought some of Lisa’s clothes from the last time she spent the night at my house. We got soooo drunk. And it was tequila drunk, not vodka tonic drunk, you know what I mean?” Gabby laughed and gave me a commiserating look.

  I grimaced. I didn’t know what she meant, but I could extrapolate.

  Her amusement vanished.

  “Anyway.” She paired the single word with an eyebrow lift, her signature look of exasperation. “This should have everything you need for now. Feel free to thank me at any point here.”

  No thanks was forthcoming, but she already knew that.

  I hadn’t returned to my hotel in Los Angeles last night. There was no point in packing clothes before leaving via LAX. Other than underwear and socks, I was supposed to wear Lisa’s clothes anyway.

  Everything needed was in my backpack—my laptop, my research notes, my journal—so I sent a text to Gabby and hopped the next plane to Chicago. We touched down just after 1:00 AM and I spent the night at the Westin near O’Hare, wearing the same clothes to sleep that I’d worn to the dentist.

  There’s something liberating about sleeping in clothes instead of pajamas, I’d mused the next morning as I brushed my teeth with supplies hastily purchased from the lobby store. The thought felt disobedient, so I pushed it aside and waited for Gabby to show up.

  Which brings us to now.

  Am I really doing this?

  Not for the first or the thousandth time since hanging up with Lisa yesterday, I took stock of this messy mess and how I’d arrived at this moment, peaking inside a bag brought by Gabby. Speaking of the Gabster, she was staring at my profile as I peered in the bag.

  Abruptly, apropos of nothing, she said, “You’re boring.”

  My eyes cut to hers. “Okay.”

  “You look boring, I mean. Like, I know you and Lisa are supposed to be identical, but if you were in a club you’d be invisible. You’d be wallpaper. Doesn’t that bother you?” Though the words might’ve been interpreted as harsh, the question sounded honestly curious.

  “No,” I answered, just as honestly.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to be noticed? Be bad?”

  “Not really.” I turned my attention back to the clothes, spotted a black lace bra tucked to one side.

  . . . Am I really doing this?

  “Why are you always such a Mary-Sue?” She poked my shoulder. “Haven’t you heard? Nowadays, the nice girl is unlikable. It’s all about the rebel. You should do something unexpected, mean, selfish, and don’t apologize for it. Be bad for once and tell everyone to fuck off.”

  Sending her a quick glare, I gritted my teeth. “I just ditched a PhD program interview. I’m about to lie and impersonate my twin sister for several days so my parents won’t disown her. Maybe save that question for later, when it might be more accurate.”

  “You know what I mean. Even when you’re being bad, you’re still a do-gooder. Where is the fun in always being good?”

  “Oh, you know, I think the fun is in not being arrested for doing something stupid and selfishly forcing your sister to clean up your giant mess,” I said, a hint of bitterness entering my voice.

  Flustered by my uncontrollable, unexpected, and uncharacteristic show of feelings, I cleared my throat and dropped my eyes. Apparently, my ability to speak truth without emotion was on the fritz. Pulling out the black bra and shirt Gabby had brought, I held the top up to me. Scowling, I wondered where the other half was, it seemed to be missing the section that covered the stomach.

  Gabby snorted and rolled her eyes. “None of Lisa’s clothes are boring. You’re going to be noticed.”

  Reaching for a bunched-up pile of black leather in the bottom of the bag and realizing it was pants, I heaved a sigh. “Whether or not I’m boring is irrelevant. Whether or not I’m likable or nice or good or a Mary-Sue is irrelevant. The fact is, I am boring and unlikable by your standards. That’s never going to change because I don’t subscribe to your standards. So, moving on, is there anything else I can wear other than these two items?”

  Gabby turned her grumpy expression to the scrap of the shirt, black lace bra, and the black leather pants. “What’s wrong with these?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled, resigned, and scooped them up before turning for the bathroom. “I’ll go change.”

  “Too bad you can’t actually change,” she called after me, “too bad putting on Lisa’s clothes doesn’t also give you some of her badass mojo and rebel spirit.”

  Unable to help myself, I mumbled, “You belong on Venus, Gabby.”

  “You mean, because it’s, like, the planet of love?” she asked sweetly.

  “No. Because it’s, like, our solar system’s analog to hell.” And with that, I closed the door to the bathroom and changed. Into my sister.

  **END SNEAK PEEK**

  Pre-Order MOTION today!

  Sneak Peek: Truth or Beard (Available Now!)

  by Penny Reid, Book #1 in the Winston Brothers series

  ~Jessica~

  I pulled into the Green Valley Community Center parking lot and scared the crap out of five senior citizens.

  Even though it was Halloween, inducing heart attacks in the geriatric population was not on my agenda. Unfortunately for everyone within earshot, while I’d dutifully stopped as they crossed in front of my vehicle, my truck made a ghastly, high-pitched whining sound. This happened whenever it idled.

  The five of them jumped, obviously startled, and glared at me as though I’d commanded the truck to make the screech on purpose. Soon their glares morphed into wrinkled squints of befuddlement, their eyes moving over my appearance from my perch. It took them a few minutes, but they recognized me.

  Everyone in Green Valley Tennessee knew who I was.

  Nevertheless, I imagined they were not expecting to see Jessica James, the twenty-one year old daughter of Sheriff Jeffrey James and sister of Sheriff’s Deputy Jackson James, dressed in a long white beard sitting behind the wheel of an ancient Ford Super Duty F-350 XL.

  In my defense, it wasn’t my monster truck. It was my mother’s. I was currently between automobiles, and she’d just upgraded to a newer, bigger, more intimidating model. Something she could plaster with bumper stickers that said,

  Have You Kissed Your Sheriff Today? and

  Don’t Drink and DERIVE, Alcohol and Calculus Don’t Mix, and

  Eat Steak!! The West Wasn’t Won With Salad.

  As the local sheriff’s wife, mother to a police officer (my brother) and math teacher (me), and the daughter of a cattle rancher, I think she felt it was her duty to use the wide canvas of her truck as a mobile pro-police, mathematics, and beef billboard.

  I waited patiently for them to look their fill, giving them a small smile which they wouldn’t see behind my beard. Being stared at didn’t bother me much. After a few more minutes of confused gawking, the gang of seniors shuffled off toward the entrance to the community center, casting cautiously confused glances over their shoulders.

  As quickly as I could, I maneuvered the beast into a space at the edge of the lot. Since inheriting the truck I usually parked on the edge of parking lots so as not to be that jerk who drives an oversized vehicle and takes up two spaces.

  I adjusted my beard, tossing the three-foot, white length over my shoulder, and grabbed my gray cape and wizard hat. Then I tried not to fall out of the truck or flash anyone on my hike down from the driver’s seat. Luckily, my costume also called for a long staff, and I leveraged the polished wood to aid my descent; the rest of my costume was negligible—a one-piece mini-skirt sheath dress with a low cut front—and made stretching and moving simple.

  I was halfway across the lot, lost in delighted mental preparation for my father and brother’s scowls of disapproval, when I heard my name.

  “Jessica, wait up.” I turned, found my coworker and friend Claire jogging toward me. I set my wizard hat—which had a built-in wig—on my head and waved.

  “I thought that was you. I saw the beard and the staff.” She slowed as she neared, her eyes moving over the rest of my costume. “You’ve made some… modifications.”

  “Yes.” I nodded proudly, grinning at her warily amused expression. I noted that Claire hadn’t changed since work; she was still wearing an adorable Raggedy Ann costume. Lucky for her, she already had bright red hair and freckles. All she had to do was put her long locks in pig tails, add the overalls and white cap.

  “Do you like what I’ve done?” I twisted to one side then the other to show off my new garment and the high-heeled strappy sandals.

  “Are you still Gandalf? Or what are you supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, I’m still Gandalf. But now I’m sexy Gandalf.” I wagged my eyebrows.

  Claire covered her mouth with a white-gloved hand then snorted. “Oh my God! You are a nut!”

  A sinister giggle escaped my lips. I’m not much of a giggler unless I’ve done something sinister. “Well, I couldn’t wear it to work. But I love the irony of it, you know? All those stupid Halloween costumes that women are expected to wear, like sexy nurse and sexy witch and sexy bee. I’ve actually seen a ‘sexy bee’ costume. Am I missing something? Is there a subset of men who get off thinking about pollinators?”

  “I agree. You can’t wear the sexy Gandalf costume to work. In addition to being against the dress code, you’re already starring in the sex fantasies of all your male students as their hot calculus teacher. If you’d worn sexy Gandalf at school instead of regular Gandalf, I think they’d go home feeling confused about their sexuality.”

  I laughed and shook my head, thinking how odd the last three months had been.

  Like me, Claire was a native of Green Valley; also like me, she’d moved back to town after college. However, where I was here only temporarily—just for the few years until I paid off my student debt—Claire was here to stay. She’d become the drama and band teacher during my senior year of high school. Now we were coworkers. With her gorgeous red hair, light blue eyes, and a strikingly beautiful face, during my senior year as well as now, she was labeled the hot drama teacher.

  She even had those awesome high cheekbones that magazines talk about, with the little hollow above the jaw. Add to her stunning good looks the most laid-back, kind, generous, and all-around talented person I’d ever met, she should have been in New York or Milan living the life of a muse or a model or a concert pianist.

  But she had sad eyes.

  Claire had married her childhood sweetheart. Her husband, Ben McClure, had been a marine; he’d died overseas two years ago. Having no other family to speak of, I surmised that Claire was still living in Green Valley because she wanted to stay near his family.

  Meanwhile, I’d been in the thespians my sophomore through senior year of high school and was a therefore labeled as one of those drama kids—so, for my school, that basically meant weird and funny.

  I didn’t marry my childhood sweetheart because I didn’t have one, though I kissed lots of boys because I liked kissing boys. Kissing boys also had the delightful byproduct of aggravating my sheriff father and overprotective brother. Essentially, I’d left home for college an angsty, but well-mannered good girl. So, a typical teenager.

  But upon my return to Green Valley High School (just a short four years later), same school with the same social order and subsets, I’d now become a new stereotype.

  I was the hot math teacher.

  I’d never thought of myself as the hot anything. Don’t get me wrong, I had a perfectly fine self-image. But I guess in comparison to Mr. Trantem—the previous and now recently retired math teacher—the fact that I had boobs and was under eighty-five meant I might as well have been Charlize Theron.

  I shivered as a gust of late autumn wind met my excess of bare skin.

  “Come on,” Claire looped her arm through mine. “Let’s get inside before you freeze your beard off.”

  I followed her into the old school building. As we neared I heard the telltale sounds of folk music drifting out of the open double doors.

  It was Friday night, and that meant nearly every able-bodied person in a thirty-mile radius was gathering for the jam session at the Green Valley Community Center. As it was Halloween I noted the place had been decorated with paper skeletons, carved pumpkins, and orange and black streamers. The old school had been converted only seven years earlier, and the jam sessions started shortly thereafter.

  Everyone in Green Valley would start their evening here. Even if it hadn’t been Halloween, married folks with kids would leave first, followed by the elderly. Then the older teenagers would go off, likely to Cooper’s field for a drunken bonfire. Those that were adult, unmarried, and childless would leave next.

  I was clumsily and hesitantly trying to find my way in this new single adult subgroup.

  Before I left for college, I was part of the Cooper’s field, teenager, drunken bonfire subset, even though I usually didn’t stay long and never got drunk. But I always managed to find a boy to kiss before I left.

  Whereas, where each individual from the unattached adult cluster (to which I now belonged) ended the evening would depend heavily on that person’s personal goals. If the goal was to have good, clean fun, then you typically went to Genie’s Country Western bar for dancing and darts. If the goal was to get laid, then you typically went to The Wooden Plank, a biker bar just on the edge of town. If the goal was to get laid and cause trouble, then maybe get laid again, then you went to The Dragon Biker bar, several miles outside of town and home of a biker club named The Iron Order.

  Or, if you were like me—no longer an angst-filled, rebellious adolescent looking for boys to kiss—and the goal was to relax and grade a week’s worth of calculus assignments, then you went home, put on flannel PJs, and turned on The Travel Channel for background noise and inspiration.

  I spotted my father before he spotted me as a crowd had gathered; he was speaking animatedly to someone I could not see. My daddy was standing at the table just inside the entrance where a big glass bowl had been placed to collect donations. He was, as always, wearing his uniform.

  Claire stood on her tiptoes then tried leaning to the side to gauge the cause of the crowd. “Looks like they’re doing trick-or-treating. I see a bunch of kids in costume, and there’s a bucket of candy at the table.”

  I nodded, glancing down one of the short hallways then the other. Music came from only one of the room, but there was a mass of kids going in and out of the five classrooms, each with either a decorated pillow case or an orange plastic Jack O'Lantern bucket to hold their treats.

  I leaned close to Claire to suggest we skip the line and make our donations later when my eyes snagged on a red-haired and bearded man coming out of one of the classrooms, holding the hand of a blonde little girl—not more than seven—dressed like Tinker Bell.