My Fake Boyfriend Is My Ex‑Fiancé’s Twin Brother

A motion sensor clicked somewhere above us, and the hallway light buzzed on.

I squinted up at him.

And my stomach turned over.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw. That same little dip in the upper lip I'd kissed on the forehead-only nights when Evan finally let me get close enough.

It was Evan's face. Exactly Evan's face.

I jerked back so hard my shoulder smacked the wall.

"Don't." My voice shook. "Don't touch me."

He let his hands fall. "Relax. I'm not him."

"You're—"

"Eli." He tilted his head. "The other one. The one nobody puts on posters."

I'd heard the name maybe twice in three years. *My brother and I don't talk*, Evan had said once, and changed the subject so fast I'd never asked again.

Now I knew why. Looking at Eli felt like looking at a photo of a car crash. Same eyes. Same mouth. The same mouth that had just been all over Celine Marchetti.

Bile rose in my throat.

"Good for you," I said. "Excuse me."

I pushed off the wall and turned toward the exit.

He stepped sideways. One easy step, and he was in front of me again, hands in his pockets like he had all night.

"Move."

"In a second."

"I said *move*."

"And I asked you a question." His eyes flicked down to my wet cheeks, then back up. "Are you going to let it end like this? You crying in a hallway while he's in there with his tongue down a violinist's throat?"

I flinched. "How do you know that?"

"Because I was coming to see him." He shrugged. "Family business. I heard the door. I heard *fan*."

Heat crawled up my neck. "So you came to laugh at me."

"No." For the first time, something sharp cut through his calm. "I came to make you an offer."

I folded my arms across my chest so he wouldn't see my hands shake. "I don't want anything from a Rourke."

"You'll want this." He leaned one shoulder against the wall. "One month. Be my girlfriend."

I stared at him.

Then I laughed. It came out cracked and too loud, bouncing down the concrete.

"You're insane."

"Probably." He didn't smile. "Think about it, Ivy. Three years he kept you in a closet. No photos. No dates. No touching. Because his *image* mattered more than you did."

"Stop."

"The golden boy of classical music. Clean. Untouchable. The label loves him because he's never had a single scandal." Eli tapped his own cheek. "But this face? This face can give him one."

I went still.

"Pictures," he said quietly. "You and me. Close. Intimate. Leaked in all the right places. Nobody will know it's me. They'll see Evan Rourke wrapped around the secret girlfriend he swore never existed."

"While he's out parading Celine," I whispered.

"While he's out parading Celine."

My pulse thudded in my ears. I thought of the cufflink lying on that vanity like garbage. *Close the door on your way out.*

"Why?" I asked. "What do you get?"

His jaw ticked, then smoothed out. "That's my business."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting tonight." He pushed off the wall. "So? Yes or no?"

I should've walked away. I knew that. Any sane woman would've shoved past him and called a cab and cried into a pint of ice cream for a week.

But I'd been sane for three years. I'd been patient. I'd been good.

Look where good got me.

"One month," I said.

"One month."

"No feelings. No funny business. When it's over, we never see each other again."

Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. "Deal."

"Then yes."

He held out his hand. I hesitated, then shook it. His palm was warm and rough. Not like Evan's at all. Evan's hands were soft. Pianist's hands, he always said, too precious to risk.

"Car's out back," Eli said. "We start tonight."

---

His apartment was on the twenty-third floor, all concrete and glass and almost nothing else. No photos on the walls. A single coffee mug in the sink.

Eli pulled a camera out of a drawer and screwed it onto a tripod.

"You just *have* that?" I asked.

"I take pictures for a living."

"Of what?"

"Things people don't want photographed." He adjusted the lens without looking at me. "Take off your jacket."

My fingers froze on the zipper. "Excuse me?"

He glanced over. "The jacket's from a department store in Midtown. Evan's people know he'd never date a girl in that jacket. They'll pick the photos apart. Every detail has to sell it."

Slowly, I peeled it off and draped it over the couch. Underneath, I wore a thin black camisole. Goosebumps rose on my arms.

Eli set the timer. A small red light blinked.

"Ten seconds," he said. "Come here."

I didn't move.

He crossed the room instead. He stopped close enough that I could smell cedar again, and he looked down at me with Evan's eyes.

"You flinch on camera, this doesn't work," he said.

"I'm not flinching."

"You're shaking."

"It's cold."

"Liar." The light blinked faster. "Pretend I'm him."

"That's the problem," I snapped. "I don't want to."

He paused. Then, oddly, his voice went soft.

"Then don't. Pretend I'm someone who actually wanted to touch you."

Before I could answer, his hand slid into my hair and he kissed me.

The shutter clicked.

I stiffened. His mouth was warm and patient, nothing like the dry peck Evan used to press against my forehead. My hands were fists against his chest.

*Click.*

He pulled back an inch. "Again. Hold onto me this time."

"Bossy."

"Effective."

The timer reset. I gritted my teeth, grabbed his collar, and dragged him down to me.

*Click.*

His arm locked around my waist and lifted me against him. I gasped into his mouth. He walked me backward until my legs hit the arm of the couch.

*Click. Click.*

Somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped counting. I stopped thinking about the camera. My fingers curled into his shirt, and his thumb traced the line of my jaw like he was memorizing it.

*Click.*

When he finally stepped back, we were both breathing hard. My lips felt swollen. His shirt was half untucked, and I didn't remember doing that.

Neither of us said anything.

He walked to the camera and scrolled through the screen. His face gave away nothing.

"Well?" I asked. My voice came out hoarse.

He turned the screen toward me.

There I was, tangled up in a man's arms, my eyes closed, my hand fisted in his hair. And the man holding me was Evan Rourke. Anyone on earth would swear to it.

My throat went tight. "It's perfect."

"Almost." Eli scrolled to the last shot and zoomed in on my bare shoulder, then on his own wrist.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing yet." He set the camera down and looked at me for a long moment. "But Evan has a scar right here." He touched the inside of his left wrist. "I don't."

"So?"

"So someone's going to notice." His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "Unless you help me with one more thing."