You or Someone Like You Read Online Winter Renshaw

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary Tags Authors: Winter Renshaw Advertisement

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From Wall Street Journal and #1 Amazon bestselling author Winter Renshaw comes a fast-paced, emotional romance about what happens when the wrong twin falls for the right man. Being an identical twin has its perks, but when my sister asked me to sub in for a date with Roman Bellisario, I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Sure, he’s sinfully handsome and successful, but he also got me fired from my dream job three years ago. This time, my sister’s promotion is riding on this date, so I have to say yes. And as it turns out, we’re strangely perfect for each other. I sell art. He collects it. We’re both obsessed with the same obscure, mysterious artist that most people don’t even know exists. Roman is guarded, though, and I can understand why. He’s a widowed single dad. But as one date leads to another, he starts to let me in, and I can’t help but fall for him. The problem is Roman still thinks I’m my sister. Is our twin swap going to be the best thing that ever happened to me and Roman—or the lie that tears us apart?

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

CHAPTER ONE

SLOANE

“Can I just say . . . you make one hell of a me.” My twin, Margaux, eyes my reflection from across the room before flinging her lavender velvet comforter off her legs. “Ugh.”

Dashing to the hall bathroom, my sister’s bare feet skitter and slide against the slick hardwood floors of our Midtown apartment. The clank of the toilet seat hitting the ceramic tank behind it sounds next, followed by god-awful retching that sends a flash of sympathy nausea to my middle. In the midst of everything, my stomach rumbles as if to remind me I haven’t eaten since breakfast—not the wisest move when I’m about to go on a blind date with a total stranger on Margaux’s behalf.

Dating—in and of itself—is hard enough.

Serving as someone’s dating avatar? It’s a whole new level of insanity that’s going to require a substantial amount of liquid courage.

“I’m never eating leftover sushi again,” Margaux says when she returns. Climbing beneath her blankets again, she rests her arm across her forehead like a sickly Victorian woman on a fainting couch. She’s always been a glutton for sympathy, though. Anytime she has so much as a sniffle, you’d think she were dying of the Black Plague. Pointing across the room in my direction, she adds, “And I mean it this time.”

“Sure you do.” I wink and fix my attention on the pearl buttons on the cardigan I’m borrowing from her closet before running my palm along my fresh honey-blonde highlights.

“You should curl your hair,” Margaux says. Food poisoning aside, she can’t help but micromanage me. Despite being a mere two minutes older than me, she takes her big-sister role seriously, often wearing it like a badge of honor. At least that’s what I tell myself. It very well could be that Margaux is just a control freak who lives to call the shots.

“What? No.” I wrinkle my nose and fasten the last button on my sweater. Despite it being June and an agreeable eighty degrees out, she insisted that this is what she had planned to wear.

“I literally curl mine every single day,” she says. “You can’t play the part without dressing the part, and that includes how I do my hair.”

“But if he’s never met you, how would he know you curl your hair every day?”

I was twelve the first time I attempted to wield a curling iron. It was an utter and complete failure of an ordeal, and I walked away smelling like singed hair and sporting a burnt spot the size of a postage stamp in the middle of my forehead. I’ve been curling iron celibate ever since, and I’ve vowed to embrace my stick-straight hair until my dying day.

My sister can pry my flat iron from my cold, dead fingers.

“It’s not about that,” she says. “It’s about authenticity. You’re standing there in my heels, my skirt, and my cardigan. You’re wearing my bracelet and my perfume and my lipstick. Your modern bob just looks low-key jarring with everything else going on.”

She’s not wrong about that last part. The lace and pearls on the sweater juxtaposed with the dainty gold tennis bracelet, hip-hugging wool pencil skirt, and classic red lip would be better served with loose, cascading waves, something romantic and feminine.

But there’s no time.

And even if there were, I’d still give her a hard and resounding no.

“I thought you weren’t trying to impress this guy? I thought you were just going on a date to appease your boss? I don’t see how any of this matters.” I bite my tongue to keep from pointing out that control-freak Margaux has entered the building, and she needs to take a back seat because she’s knee deep in a bad case of food poisoning and I’m five minutes from climbing into an Uber, walking into a restaurant, and meeting some stranger as her.

She’s not exactly in a position to be running the show.

“I just got my hair done this morning,” I add, “which means I won’t be curling a single strand.”

The last time I pretended to be Margaux, I was twenty-one, and we were college seniors back in Ohio. She’d hit the frat parties a little too hard during finals week and all but promised me her firstborn child if I’d take her art history exam as her. Seeing how art history was (and still is) my favorite subject in the entire world, it was an easy yes. Hell, I’d have done it for fun because that’s the kind of nose-in-a-book, head-in-the-clouds girl I was back then. I lived and breathed art in all its forms. Contemporary. Renaissance. Neoclassical. Cinematic. Literary. Undiscovered. Controversial. If it had a creative pulse, I couldn’t get enough.

Meanwhile, Margaux lived and breathed boys, boss-girl besties, and being seen.

We may share facial features and a shoe size, but that’s where our similarities end. Our personalities are night and day. If we didn’t look undeniably identical, I might question our genetic relation.

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