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I’m amazed that neither Penelope nor Mrs. Rhodes look even remotely flustered about the fact that I just found out there’s another Rhodes daughter that no one knows about. The more I think about it, the more shocked I am that I didn’t know. Izabella was at school today, and so was Penelope. I’m fairly certain that Penelope was in chemistry and that she was the one I walked to the nurse’s office with, so why was Izabella there? Is she a student too? If she is, how the hell did I not realize there were two of them? Does everyone else know, and I’m the only one in the dark?
A thousand questions circle through my thoughts, but the more I think about it, the more certain I am that I was not aware of Izabella’s existence, and neither is anyone else.
“Can I get you a drink, Gulliver?” Mrs. Rhodes asks me brightly.
“No, thank you,” I say shortly. “I think your time might be better spent explaining what the fuck is going on.”
She titters nervously, and I’m pleased to finally see some kind of reaction from her. “Darling, there’s really nothing to explain. Izabella is Penelope’s sister.”
“I gathered that,” I say acerbically. “That doesn’t explain why, until today, I had no idea Penelope had a sister, let alone an identical twin.”
“My sister is an introvert. She doesn’t enjoy company,” Penelope sneers as she sits primly on the couch, clad in a form-fitting white dress and black Louboutin sky-high pumps.
As I’m about to respond, the door silently opens, and Izabella enters. A breathy, silent laugh falls from my parted lips as she pads into the room in bare feet, fitted jeans with rips at the knees, and a baggy white T-shirt that’s cropped just above the waist, showing an inch of bare flesh above her jeans. Her hair has been pulled up into a ponytail on the top of her head, and her face is bare of any makeup.
My cock twitches beneath my school pants, and I tilt my head to the side, shaking it slightly as I take in the girl who’s so similar yet so incredibly different from her sister. “Hello, Izabella,” I say, noting the way she doesn’t even glance at her mom or sister.
“Hello, Gulliver,” she says quietly, taking a seat on the empty couch, curling into the corner, and pulling her legs up beneath her.
I’d suspected it, but seeing her now, I’m confident that it was Izabella who had dinner with us on Friday, not her sister. “It was you who came to our house for dinner on Friday, wasn’t it?” I ask her.
Her eyes dart to her mom, then her sister, before moving back to me. “No,” she says. “I was here on Friday night; I’ve never been to your house.”
“Bullshit,” I snap angrily. Pushing out of my chair, I move to the center of the room, positioning myself so I’m standing over Izabella. Staring at her intently, I wait for her to admit the truth, but she just looks back at me, her eyes giving nothing away. Spinning around, I smile at Penelope. “What did we do after dinner on Friday?”
Her echoed smile is innocence personified. “We went for a stroll around the gardens.”
“And what did we talk about?”
“Not much, you ignored me for the most part,” she says smugly.
“What else did we do? What did I call you?” I ask, taking a step closer to her.
She falters, and I have to say she’s an impressively good actor. “You made some inappropriate suggestions that I’d rather not talk about.”
Smiling, I chuckle softly. “Before that. What did we do before my inappropriate suggestions?”
She parts her lips, glances at her mom, then to Izabella.
“You have no idea, do you? Come now, it was only three days ago. Surely you can’t have forgotten in that short space of time,” I taunt.
“For goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Rhodes sighs. “Fine, Penelope was ill on Friday night, so Izabella stepped in and took her place. Penelope was worried you’d think she didn’t want to go if we canceled.”
I scoff. “And how many times has Izabella stepped in?” I drawl condescendingly.
“That was the first time,” Izabella says quietly. “I’ve never pretended to be my sister at an event before.”
Turning around, I take a step away from Penelope and move closer to Izabella again. It’s eerie how identical they are. “Why don’t I know you?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, and she looks at her mom again as if she needs someone to tell her what to say.
“Do you go to GAA?”
“Yes,” she replies.
“Then why don’t I know you? Why, if we’ve been at the same school for the last three-and-a-half years, don’t I know you?” I demand, my voice getting louder as frustration fills me.
“Surely you don’t know every single senior?” Penelope says drolly.
