You or Someone Like You by Winter Renshaw EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Winter Renshaw
- Language: English
- Genre: Contemporary Romance Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
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 godawful 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.
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