Reeve clears his throat, looking at me with one brow raised in question. He must have heard us come into the room, yet he has made no move to turn around, which is a little rude. Perhaps he’s a bundle of nerves too. “Hello,” Reeve says so there can be no doubt we are here.
The man turns around and walks toward us. Everything blurs, and it happens as if in slow motion. My heart speeds up, and I hope Reeve doesn’t notice how clammy my hand is in his grasp or hear how loud my heart is banging against my rib cage. I am rooted to the spot, staring at his brother in confusion, wondering what kind of mind fuckery this is.
The guy looks like Reeve. He’s not exactly identical, but there is more than a strong enough resemblance to easily identify them as brothers. However, that’s not why my legs are threatening to go out from under me and my heart is galloping like a racehorse just let out of a gate.
The guy looks like Dillon.
If Dillon had blue eyes instead of green and brown hair instead of blond. He has the same scar over his eyebrow, the same ridge in his nose—from when he got in a fight in school—and identical piercings, and when my gaze lowers and I see the familiar ink on his arms, I know who I’m looking at, but I can’t make sense of it.
“I’m Reeve Lancaster,” Reeve says. “And this is my wife, Vivien.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” His husky Irish voice confirms any last flicker of doubt. “I’m Dillon O’Donoghue.”