“Ryan,” I grind out, leaning over to her side of the car. “Just, don’t. Don’t try to be the hero in my story. Don’t try to mother me, or push me, or see the best in me. I am what you see. I was shoved out of a flat naked because I told the girl I was fucking that her sister sucked cock better than she did.”

  Her dark eyes turn black with an icy glower. “You are a fucking pig.” She throws herself out of the car and storms up the steps to her flat, leaving me alone with only her tiny cardigan to keep me warm.

  “Here you go, Tanner,” Indie smiles, handing me a pair of joggers through the downstairs bathroom door and awkwardly adjusting her glasses. “I thought Cam had a T-shirt here somewhere, but this is all I can find. Do you want one of mine?”

  “This is fine. Cheers, Indie,” I murmur as I close the door, reluctant to make eye contact with her when I’m in this state.

  I slip into the soft material. It feels good against my balls and shaft. There was a time when walking around naked like Adam and Eve sounded fucking bad arse in my head, but the actual act of doing it is far less thrilling.

  I glance at myself in the mirror. I look tired. Being a couple months into the season, I’m usually in bed hours before now. This is not how I treat my body during the season. Normally, my routine is training, team meetings, practicing, eating, sleeping, attending matches. Mix and repeat for months on end. In professional football, we get two months break if we haven’t had a great season, but there are usually FA cup games and international friendly matches that keep us busy even in the off-season. Being a footballer is gruelling. Staying out late and partying after matches is not how I’ve been in past seasons. But without Cam on my team, everything feels different.

  A knock on the door snaps me out of my fog. “Tanner, Camden’s on the phone.”

  Speak of the devil. I drop my head to avoid eye contact with Indie as I open the door and take the mobile. “Hiya,” I say with a sigh, pressing my back against the door. I don’t need an audience for this conversation.

  “Broseph, Indie just filled me in. What the fuck?”

  “Don’t have a go at me, all right? I’m fucking shattered as it is and I don’t need to hear it right now, okay?”

  “Fine, fine, I won’t. But are you…okay?” he asks, his voice worrisome. The concern irritates me because I don’t like being fussed over like I’m his child.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Just a dodgy case of bird flu.” I force a laugh at my lame joke. “You know the kind. Or, erm…you used to.”

  “Right,” Camden replies slowly. “Well, I’ve called Santino. He said he’d pop over to the bird’s flat tomorrow morning by seven with some cash to see if he can get her to sign an NDA and get your stuff back. At least your keys and all that. I just need her address and I’ll text it over to him.”

  Santino is our family lawyer and has been working overtime the last couple of months since I can’t seem to stop landing myself in the shit. Without hesitation, I give Cam the address and feel a weight lifted from my shoulders thinking he might be able to get me out of this. Tomorrow I have a strategy meeting with the team at eight in the morning. Then Dad and Booker always come over and go through the footage from the previous match. It’d be nice to have my keys and mobile back before my dad figures things out. I’m just crossing my fingers that he won’t try to call me before then. I can just hear Kat answering the call with something sweet like, “Tanner Harris gave me herpes.”

  “Did they get pictures?” Cam asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe?”

  He exhales heavily and I swear I feel the compression of my own lungs mirror his. Having a twin can be a nightmare sometimes. There’s a connection between us that makes me feel like I’m never truly alone. Plus, the comparisons are endless. It’s a huge reason I opted to leave my hair and beard long this season. I’ve also been adding more ink to my body just to give me a sense of individuality.

  I don’t consider myself a jealous person, especially when it comes to Cam, who’s always there for me. But when he got injured last year, fell in love, and still ended up with the Premiership contract of a lifetime, I couldn’t help but think, What the fuck?

  Cam and I had been co-strikers for Bethnal Green for years. I was right side, he was left. We could sense each other’s decisions on the pitch perfectly, often passing without looking because we instinctually knew the other was there. I’ve seen enough match footage to know that watching the Harris twins playing together was a beautiful thing.

  Then he had the season of his life last year, scoring more goals than any player in the Championship and Premier League. It was a sight to behold. Everybody was talking about him, so of course he got a major offer. He’d earned it.

  But since he fell for Indie and left our team all at the same time, things have been different. Cam’s slot beside me as fellow striker was filled by Roan DeWalt—a South African transfer from Cape Town City—and it isn’t the same. We’re not in sync. I don’t want to be a moaning sap, but I fucking miss my brother. You don’t go from sharing a pitch and a flat with someone every day to seeing him briefly once a week, if our match schedules allow it, and not feel some sense of loss.

  However, when shit hits the fan for me, he’s always the first to call. And he never judges. He never makes me feel worse than I already do. He just…helps. So yeah, the good bits of having a twin far outweigh the bad.

  “I’ll let Santino know there may be pictures and see if he can do damage control to minimise any exposure,” Camden says, using his business voice. I fucking hate his business voice.

  “I’m the older brother here, not you.”

  He scoffs, “You’re older by four minutes. I was heavier so that makes me more equipped to do the heavy lifting.”

  “You were heavier because you hogged all the food. You were a fat arse then and you’re a fat arse now.”

  “Oink, oink, bro. I got this.”

  I nod. “Thanks for your help,” I say simply, knowing anything more will make it awkward.

  “What are brothers for?”

  “To make it glaringly obvious that I’m the best looking Harris Brother.”

  “Oh, Tanner, your delusions never cease to amaze me. You better watch your tongue or I’ll tell Vi on you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I gasp with a genuine smile lightening my mood.

  “I’ll save it for when I’m there to witness the beating she’ll give you.”

  We hang up and I’m grateful he didn’t try to get deep with me about why I screwed up this time. I’m not ready to talk it out. Right now, I’m ready to pass out for as long as real life will permit.

  I walk out of the loo and look around to see that I’m all alone. Belle’s flat is an expansive two-level loft inside a former factory. One whole wall is completely covered with industrial windows from the first level to the second. It’s got a cool, modern feel, but the dark wooden floors give it a rustic vibe. The colour scheme is completely white washed aside from the plastic chairs around her glass-top table. They are each a different solid colour and look like they belong in a nursery school, not at a grownup’s dining table. She has an enormous grey sectional that takes up the entire living space with a red, barnwood coffee table centred in the middle. Her kitchen is walled off with a door and a large cutout that overlooks the connected living and dining areas. The only décor to speak of are multicoloured canvases anchored prominently on various walls.

  “I see Indie found you some clothes.”

  I turn to see Belle standing at the base of the large wooden staircase with a blanket and pillow in her hands.

  “Better than nothing,” I reply with a shrug.

  Belle’s eyes move down my chest and linger on the trousers for a moment. This is the second time she’s looked at me with such brazenness. Completely unapologetic. And I really wish I didn’t like it.

  When she’s finished her perusal, her eyes snap back up to my face and narrow. “Blanket, pillow, sofa.” She points to the sectional. “It’s all I’ve got since Indie squats in the guestroom now.”

  “It’s fine.” She drops the stuff off on the coffee table and turns to head back upstairs. Before she’s gone, I add, “Thanks again for helping me tonight.”

  She stops halfway and turns, gripping the railing tightly with her black tipped nails. “You owe me one, Harris. A big one.” Her voice is back to the same punishing tone she’s been using on me for weeks.

  My brows lift. “Just say the word and I’m yours.”

  Her glower morphs into confusion and my nerves shoot up my back over how that must have sounded.

  “I didn’t mean…I just meant…” I stammer.

  She moves to jog up the rest of the stairs without another look back.

  4

  LATE NIGHT OBSESSION

  Belle

  “Night,” I call out to Indie as I pass her door at the top of the staircase and turn left to hurry off to my room.

  “Wait!” Indie replies, leaping off her bed and bounding toward the door in all her cuteness. Her curly red hair’s in a standard topknot and she’s sporting some fiercely wild zebra-print specs. “I didn’t have a chance to say thanks.”

  I frown. “Whatever for?”

  She bites down on the sweet in her mouth and then answers, “For getting Tanner. I could have done it. You didn’t have to.”

  “It was nothing.” Even though Tanner Harris still has my blood boiling. “It was actually somewhat amusing…at times.”

  She smiles. “Well, I really appreciate it. You’re kind of an epic roommate, you know. Had I known, I would have stopped resisting ages ago.”

  I laugh at that comment. The only reason Indie finally broke down and moved in with me is because her gig with Bethnal Green doesn’t pay very much and she refuses to accept any money from her disgustingly wealthy boyfriend. Camden’s contract with Arsenal was monstrous. The papers reported it at one hundred fifty thousand pounds per week. But I’m not about to complain about her morals. Indie is a genius and doesn’t need to be kept by any man. I pay for my flat with my trust fund so it’s really no bother.

  Plus, I love having her here. We’ve been friends since the first day we met in med school, and she’s as close to what I think a normal family should feel like. In fact, I wish we were family. She’d make a hell of a lot better sibling than my brother who’s a barrister just like my father. If she needs somewhere to stay, she belongs with me.

  Indie smiles once more and turns to go back into her room, but I shock her with a hardy smack on her arse. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you succumbed to your desperate love for me.”

  “Oh yes, I am your kept woman and proud of it,” she says, wiggling her butt at me as I chortle and turn to walk away.

  It takes all of my willpower not to look down over the railing to the lower level where Tanner’s lying shirtless on my sofa. His stupid, nappy beard and half naked presence in my home is like a sweet calling me in the night when I’m on one of my ghastly diets.

  Maybe just a quick peek.

  Bugger, he was looking right at me.

  My face heats with annoyance and I storm into my master suite, slamming the door behind me and flopping down onto my bed in utter frustration. I’m typically not one to run away from a fight, but Tanner is one person I do my best to stay far away from.

  I stare up at the ceiling fan. It rotates slowly above me and, instead of cooling me down like it’s meant to, it only stokes the thoughts of Tanner running wildly through my mind. What he did for Sedgwick tonight was extremely generous. Did he mean what he said about popping over to pay Sedg a visit? I can’t envision Tanner Harris having tea with a homeless man. I just can’t. I’ve never seen him do anything charitable before. If he had, I would have read about it somewhere, surely. Did he do it to save face in front of me? No, that can’t be it. He hates me, and the feeling is mutual. Perhaps he was just extremely grateful. Perhaps I should remember that when I ask for payback.

  I hop out of bed and pop into my attached loo to brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I am in serious need of sleep. Arguing with Tanner is more exhausting than a twelve-hour surgery at the hospital. Thank God I’m not on call tomorrow.

  My face heats when I look at myself in the mirror and recall how Tanner looked in those joggers downstairs. Christ, they were riding so low, his V-line was on perfect display for me, pointing to the area I remember with absolute clarity. He probably did that on purpose, the cheeky bastard. But the damage is done. Tanner Harris’ cock is burned into the penis vault of my mind, whether I like it or not. Why couldn’t it have been crooked? Or bald? Or overflowing with so much pubic hair you couldn’t see where his hair ended and his dick started? That seems like the kind of penis he should have been swinging. It enrages me that it had to look better than all the others I’ve had before.

  And I’ve had plenty.

  I’m not a whore, per se. I’m experienced. I’m twenty-seven years old, I’m unattached, I have a stressful job, and I like to have fun. Indie and I have our tradition called Tequila Sunrise that we started when we both first became doctors. It basically involves us going out and partying our arses off, and that level of commitment usually coincides with a good amount of blokes.

  Tequila Sunrise began when we got a harsh dose of reality at the hospital one night. We thought life couldn’t look any grimmer. It essentially became our version of carpe diem, which is survival to get through the bad days of being a doctor. We make it a priority to take advantage of all sorts of experiences life has to offer. As a result, this is the lifestyle I’ve chosen for myself: Single, ready to mingle, and happy to have a dingle on a regular and satisfactory basis.

  I don’t date seriously because I don’t have the bloody time. My fellowship with Dr. Miller at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital is gruelling. Dr. Miller is so talented and smart that I’m constantly on my toes, trying to keep my head above water. She’s devoted her life to saving babies before they’re born, and I want to soak up everything I can while I have her. It’s important to me to feel I’ve made an impact on this world and I can’t think of a better way to do so.

  As I slip into a pale blue, satin cami with matching shorts, I argue with myself that I’m not wearing these because of the fact that Tanner is here. Rather, I’m wearing them in spite of the fact that Tanner is here. I’m not going to change what I want to wear just because we have an unruly boy in the flat. No indeed.

  By the time I snuggle into my bed and allow myself to drift off to sleep, I’ve forgotten all about the obnoxious man downstairs and am very much feeling completely secure with my place in this world.

  But I don’t sleep for long because, nearly every single night, I wake up out of nowhere and see three a.m. on my digital clock. My body has developed an annoying internal clock that thinks three a.m. is a great time for a snack. My great Aunt Doris was afflicted with the same syndrome. She used to say, “Oh, honey, I have the same trouble. It’s those biscuits. They call to me in the night! Bloody well scream until I get up and eat them.”

  Except my biscuits come in the form of dark chocolate. I’ve been snacking in the middle of the night since I was twelve years old. My mother even had me see a sleep specialist to try to break me of the habit. I used to say I never remembered eating the snacks, so the doctor told her that I was sleep eating and not much could be done for it.

  But that was a bald-faced lie. I knew exactly what I was doing when I sunk my teeth into the gorgeously bitter chocolate that exploded in my mouth with a riot of sweet, zingy comfort. My late night indulgence is a large reason why I have trouble with my weight. But my indulgence is louder than my vanity so chocolate always wins.

  My nighttime snack is not an accident; it’s a commitment.

  “I deserve it.” I say my three little magic words and toss off my duvet. I pad out the door of my bedroom and glance over the railing to see a sleeping Tanner still down on my sofa. The bluish security light from outside illuminates his bare chest enough for me to assess he’s breathing heavily. He’s just coming off of a match and with all his extracurricular activities last night, he has to be out cold.

  I tiptoe down the stairs, doing my best to avoid all the creaky spots when I walk by Tanner’s chiselled abs that are mercilessly taunting me. I make it past my dining room table and through the door into the kitchen without a peep. I open the cubby that hides my secret stash of Cadburys and begin nibbling on a dark chocolate bar. It tastes divine. It’s smooth and creamy with fruity notes that makes my inner fat girl purr with satisfaction. I’ve never understood the women who prefer salty snacks like crisps. Get me a lump of chocolate any day and you have me begging like a sex addict in a strip club.

  The only thing that could top off this treat is a dash of milk. I open the fridge and am rummaging around for the carton when a voice from behind me says, “Well, hello, hello. Mind if I have a bite?”

  I jump straight up and knock my head into something hard and hear a groan of pain. I turn to find Tanner stumbling backwards, holding onto the refrigerator door for balance with one hand and clutching his chin with the other.

  “Bollocks, my head,” I moan and rub the spot beneath my topknot that whacked into him. “You scared me half to death, you arse!”

  I prop myself against the counter next to the fridge, my hand over my chest as I try to slow my heart rate. It’s racing partly because I didn’t hear him, but mostly because my guilty conscience is waking up more fully and scolding me for sneaking chocolate at three in the morning.

  “I just wanted a bit of whatever you’re nibbling on,” he says innocently while draping his forearm on the open door. The light from inside is blasting straight on him, casting extreme shadows over every single ridge of muscle.

  I tear my eyes away from his body and reply through clenched teeth, “Did you have to drape yourself over the top of me to ask? God, you were practically mounting me!”