Two wrongs make a right, p.1
Two Wrongs Make a Right, page 1
Berkley Romance
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2022 by Chloe Liese
Readers Guide copyright © 2022 by Chloe Liese
Excerpt from Better Hate than Never copyright © 2022 by Chloe Liese
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Liese, Chloe, author.
Title: Two wrongs make a right / Chloe Liese.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Romance, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021061992 (print) | LCCN 2021061993 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780593441503 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593441510 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3612.I3357 T86 2022 (print) | LCC PS3612.I3357 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220118
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061992
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021061993
First Edition: November 2022
Cover design by Rita Frangie
Cover illustration by Kelly Wagner
Book design by Kristin del Rosario, adapted for ebook by Kelly Brennan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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· CONTENTS ·
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Playlist
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
Excerpt from Better Hate than Never
About the Author
For the strength inside me that I found when I had to.
And indomitable hope.
For which of my bad parts
didst thou first fall in love with me?
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado About Nothing
Dear Reader,
This story features characters with human realities who I believe deserve to be seen more prominently in romance through positive, authentic representation. As a neurodivergent person with (frequently) invisible chronic conditions, I am passionate about writing feel-good romances affirming my belief that every one of us is worthy and capable of happily ever after, if that’s what our hearts desire.
Specifically, this story explores the realities of being neurodivergent—being autistic, having anxiety—and navigating the vulnerable gift of life and relationships. No two people’s experience of any condition or diagnosis will be the same, but through my own lived experience as well as the insight of authenticity readers, I have striven to create characters who honor the nuances of their identities. Please be aware that this story also touches on the topic of recognizing and healing from a toxic relationship.
If any of these are sensitive topics for you, I hope you feel comforted in knowing that only healthy, loving relationships—with oneself and others—are championed in this narrative.
XO,
Chloe
· PLAYLIST ·
Chapter 1: “Modern Girls & Old Fashion Men,” The Strokes and Regina Spektor
Chapter 2: “Cold Cold Cold,” Cage The Elephant
Chapter 3: “Prom Dress,” mxmtoon
Chapter 4: “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” Handsome and Gretyl
Chapter 5: “Honest,” Tessa Violet
Chapter 6: “Nantes,” Beirut
Chapter 7: “AGT,” Mountain Man
Chapter 8: “Hello My Old Heart,” The Oh Hellos
Chapter 9: “I Don’t Wanna Be Funny Anymore,” Lucy Dacus
Chapter 10: “Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked,” Cage The Elephant
Chapter 11: “Coffee Baby,” Nataly Dawn
Chapter 12: “Roma Fade,” Andrew Bird
Chapter 13: “Us,” Regina Spektor
Chapter 14: “Move,” Saint Motel
Chapter 15: “Yes Yes I Can,” Rayelle
Chapter 16: “Lost Day,” Other Lives
Chapter 17: “Feel Something Good,” Biltmore
Chapter 18: “Constellations,” The Oh Hellos
Chapter 19: “La Vie En Rose,” Emily Watts
Chapter 20: “A Question,” Bombadil
Chapter 21: “Slack Jaw,” Sylvan Esso
Chapter 22: “Talk,” Hozier
Chapter 23: “Your Song,” Ellie Goulding
Chapter 24: “Fine Line,” Harry Styles
Chapter 25: “Subway Song,” Julianna Zachariou
Chapter 26: “No Plan,” Hozier
Chapter 27: “Said and Done,” Meiko
Chapter 28: “Kiss Me,” Vitamin String Quartet
Chapter 29: “Let the Light In,” MisterWives
Chapter 30: “Human,” dodie and Tom Walker
Chapter 31: “Crane Your Neck,” Lady Lamb
Chapter 32: “Power over Me” (Acoustic), Dermot Kennedy
Chapter 33: “Halo,” Lotte Kestner
Chapter 34: “Sweet Creature,” Harry Styles
Chapter 35: “Honeybee,” The Head and the Heart
Chapter 36: “Left Handed Kisses,” Andrew Bird
Chapter 37: “Love You So Bad,” Ezra Furman
· ONE ·
Bea
A word to the wise: don’t have your fortune read unless you’re prepared to be deeply disturbed.
Wrong is right and right is wrong.
I foresee war—merry or misery, brief or long?
A mountain looms built on deception.
Surmount it and then learn your lesson.
See what I mean? Disturbing.
I tried not to get anxious. But the morning after my grim fortune reading, I woke up to an ominous daily horoscope email. The cosmic warning was loud and clear. Duly noted, universe. Duly noted.
Quaking in my Doc Martens boots, I decided to beg off the party. That didn’t go so well, seeing as this party is my twin sister’s doing and my twin is hard to say no to. And by “hard” I mean impossible.
So even though the universe has all but warned me to buckle up, buttercup, and the air crackles like ozone before a storm, here I am. I reported for duty at the family home—wore a dress, donned my crab mask, made a cheese-and-cracker plate. And now, like any self-respecting scaredy-cat, I’m hiding in the butler’s pantry.
That is, until my sister sweeps in and blows my cover. The swinging door flies open, and I’m caught in a beam of light like a crook cornered by the cops. I stash the peppermint schnapps behind my back and slide it onto the shelf just in time to prove my innocence.
“There you are,” Jules says brightly.
I hiss, throwing my arms across my face. “The light. It hurts my eyes!”
“No vampires in this costumed animal kingdom. That crab mask you’re wearing is scary enough. Come on.” Taking me by the arm, she tugs me toward the foyer, into the jungle menagerie of masquerading guests. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“JuJu, please,” I groan, dragging my feet. We pass an elephant whose trunk clips my shoulder, a tiger whose eyes hungrily trail my body, then a pair of hyenas whose laugh is spot-on. “I don’t want to meet people.”
“Of course you don’t. You want to drink in the butler’s pantry and eat half the cheese-and-cracker plate before anyone else can. But that’s what you want, not what you need.”
“It’s a solid system,” I grumble.
Jules rolls her eyes. “For eccentric spinsterhood.”
“And long may those days last, but I’m talking about my anxiety.”
“Having been your twin our entire lives,” she says, “I’m familiar with your anxiety and its bandwidth for socializing, so trust me when I say this guy’s worth it.”
The peppermint-schnapps-and-hide trick is my social anxiety lifesaver. I’m neurodivergent; for my autistic brain, engaging strangers isn’t easy or relaxing. But with the trick of a couple of covert swigs of schnapps—buzzed, calmer—I find the experience less overwhelming, and my company finds me not only passably sociable but minty fresh. At least, that’s how it typically goes. Not tonight. Tonight I have grim cosmic warnings hanging over my head. And I have a bad feeling about whatever she’s dragging me into.
“Juuuuules.” I’m that kid wailing in the grocery store. All I need is a smear of chocolate chip cookie on my cheek, a rogue untied shoelace, and I am typecast.
“BeeBee,” she singsongs back, glancing my way and failing to hide how disturbing she finds my papier-mâché crab mask. She tugs it up off my face and nestles it into my hair. I tug it back down. She tugs it back up.
I glare at her as I tug it back down again. “Lay off the mask.”
“Aw, c’mon. Don’t you think it’s time to come out of your shell?”
“Nope, not even for that dad-level pun.”
She sighs wearily. “At least you’re wearing a hot dress—oops, hold on.” We stop at the bottom of the steps before she yanks me behind the banister.
“What?” I ask. “You’re letting me go?”
“You wish.” Jules cocks a smooth dark eyebrow as her gaze dips to my dress. “Wardrobe malfunction.”
When I peer down, I see my dress gaping along my ribs. Thank you, universe! “Pretty sure it’s busted. I should go check it out in the bathroom.”
“So you can hide again? I don’t think so.” She slides the zipper up my ribs, the sound of my fate being sealed.
“It could be on its last little zippery legs. Shouldn’t chance it. A boob might pop out!”
“Uh-huh.” Clasping my hand, Jules launches me forward. I’m a meteor hurtling toward catastrophe. As we approach our destination, sweat breaks out on my skin.
I recognize her boyfriend, Jean-Claude, and Christopher, next-door neighbor, childhood friend, surrogate brother. But the third man, who stands with his back to us, a head above them, is a stranger—a tall, trim silhouette of dark blond waves and a smart charcoal suit. The man turns slightly as Jean-Claude speaks to him, revealing a quarter of his profile and the fact that he wears tortoiseshell glasses. A molten ribbon of longing unfurls inside me, curling toward my fingertips.
Distracted by that, I catch my toe on the carpet. I’m saved from a face-plant only because Jules, who’s used to my body’s abysmal proprioception, grips my elbow hard enough to keep me upright.
“Told you,” she says smugly.
I’m staring at a work of art. No. Worse. I’m staring at someone I want to make a work of art. My hands crumple around the fabric of my dress. For the first time in ages, I ache for my oil paints, the cool polished wood of my favorite brush.
My artist’s gaze feasts on him. Impeccably tailored clothes reveal the breadth of his shoulders, the long line of his legs. This man has a body. He’s the jock of your dreams who forgot his contact lenses and had to wear his backup glasses. The ones he wears at night when he reads in bed.
Naked.
The fantasy floods my mind, red-hot, X-rated. I’m a walking erogenous zone.
“Who is that?” I mutter.
Jules stops us at the edge of their circle and takes advantage of my stunned state, lifting up my mask as she whispers, “Jean-Claude’s roommate, West.”
West.
Oh shit. Now, thanks to my recent deep dive into hot historical romance, I’ve got even higher expectations for the guy, with a name like West. I picture a duty-worn duke, thighs stretching his buckskin breeches as he walks broodingly across the windswept moors. Braced for ducal grandeur, I fight a swell of anxiety as Jules breaks into the trio, as West turns and faces me.
Stunning hazel eyes lock with mine and widen. But I don’t linger on his eyes long. I’m too curious, too enthralled, my gaze traveling him, drinking in the details. His throat works as he swallows. His hand grips his glass, rough at the knuckles, his fingertips raw and red. Unlike nonchalant Jean-Claude, whose stance is arrogantly loose, his tie looser, there’s nothing relaxed or casual about him. Ramrod-straight posture, not a wrinkle to be seen, not a hair out of place.
His eyes travel me, too, and while I’m poor at reading facial expressions, I’m excellent at noticing when they shift. I observe the record-scratch moment as his features tighten. And the heat previously flooding my veins cools to a chilly frost.
I watch him register the tattoos swirling over my body, starting with the bumblebee’s dance down my neck, across my chest, beneath my dress. His gaze drifts upward to the frizz of my just-showered hair and messy bangs. Finally, it wanders over the family cat Puck’s white hair stuck to my black dress. There’s a rather aggressive tuft on my lap area, where Puck parked himself before I nudged him off. Mr. Prim and Proper looks like he thinks I forgot the lint roller. He’s absolutely judging me.
“Beatrice,” Jules says.
I blink, meeting her eyes. “What?”
After twenty-nine years of twinning coexistence, I know that her patient smile plus my full name means I zoned out, and she’s repeating herself. “I said, this is Jamie Westenberg. He goes by West.”
“Jamie’s fine, too,” he says, after an awkward beat of silence. His voice is deep yet quiet. It hits my bones like a tuning fork. I don’t like it. Not a bit.
He’s still scrutinizing me, this man I’ve decided most definitely doesn’t get to ruin hist-rom Wests and is instead getting called Jamie. Judgy Jamie suits him much better.
His eyes are back at it, traveling the tattoos along my neck, over my collarbone. His critical gaze is an X-ray. Heat flares in my cheeks. “See something you like?” I ask.
Jules groans as she steals Jean-Claude’s drink and throws back half of it.
Jamie’s gaze snaps up to mine as he clears his throat. “Apologies. You looked . . . familiar.”
“Oh? How so?”
He clears his throat again and slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “All those tattoos. They reminded me of . . . I thought you were someone else for a moment.”
“Just what someone who busts their ass on designing highly personal tattoos wants to hear,” I tell him. “They’re so unremarkable, they’re easily mistaken for someone else’s.”
“I’d think you’re accustomed to being mistaken for someone else,” Jamie says, glancing toward my twin.
“Thus the highly individual tattoos,” I say between clenched teeth. “To look like myself and no one else.”
He frowns, assessing me. “Well, no one can say you lack commitment.”
Christopher snorts into his drink. I rub my middle finger along the side of my nose.
“Maybe West recognizes those tattoos because you two have bumped into each other in the city . . . somewhere . . . at some point?” Jules says hopefully.
“Doubtful,” I tell her. “You know I don’t go out much, and definitely not to places that someone as stuffy—I mean, serious—as him would like.”
Jamie narrows his eyes. “Considering that club Jean-Claude dragged me to last year was a den of chaos, complete with an inappropriately handsy woman who projectile vomited on my shoes, I’m reassessing. Perhaps it was you.”
Jean-Claude rubs the bridge of his nose and mutters something in French.
I smile at Jamie, but it’s more like baring my teeth. “Chaos dens aren’t my speed, but whoever the poor soul was that bumped into you, then upchucked, I imagine puking was an involuntary response to the misfortune of making your acquaintance.”
Jules elbows me. “What’s gotten into you?” she hisses.
“I remember that night and it definitely wasn’t her,” Jean-Claude tells Jamie, before he directs himself to me. “West is determined to die a miserable old bachelor and has grown crotchety in his solitude. You’ll forgive his rusty manners.”
