The Parent Trap Read online

  The Parent Trap

  Jasinda Wilder

  Copyright © 2021 by Jasinda Wilder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Delia

  2. Matthais

  3. Delia

  4. Delia

  5. Matthais

  6. Delia

  7. Matthais

  8. Delia

  9. Matthais

  10. Delia

  11. Matthais

  12. Delia

  13. Matthais

  14. Delia

  15. Matthais

  16. Delia

  17. Matthais

  18. Delia

  19. Matthais

  20. Delia

  21. Matthais

  22. Delia

  Dell

  Sign Up!

  Also by Jasinda Wilder

  Chapter One

  Delia

  I still live with my parents. Now, when I say that, I don’t mean the same bedroom I had at nine or sixteen. A couple years ago, I built, by hand, all by myself, a cabin in the woods on my parents’ property. The only things I contracted out were running electricity and plumbing to the spot. I dug the foundation myself, put up the framing, wired, plumbed, roofed, and finished the whole thing. I’m pretty damn proud of my place. It’s one bedroom, one bathroom, a living room and kitchen, but it’s mine and I built it. It’s half a mile from my parent’s house, tucked into the woods, with a short gravel driveway peeling off from their mile-long one. I’ve got natural gas-lit lamps lining the drive, an actual working antique hand-pump well outside—with modern plumbing inside, of course.

  I built the cabin with a nice deep porch, and I have a rocking chair I made myself, and I like to sit out on the porch in the evenings, sipping wine and watching the fireflies wink and flash. Sometimes, yeah, I wish I had someone to share the peace with, but…that’s not my life.

  I’m essentially running a multi-million-dollar construction company. Dad is pulling back, handing more and more of the operations and decisions to me. And despite what I said to him earlier, I have a sick feeling in my gut that he’s right about not being around much longer. The thought makes me panic—Daddy is my…my everything. I’ve spent my entire life wanting to be him, to make him proud. And I have. And without him…? I don’t know what I’d do.

  We had dinner at my parents’ house. Delicious salmon, potato salad, and a couple rounds of 5-hand pinochle with the Bristows from next door—their lifelong best friends.

  I’m ruminating, now. Brooding, is more like it.

  Of course, the Bristows talk about their son like he’s a golden egg-laying goose. They still call him Matty, which I presume drives him nuts. Dell, during a rare visit home a few months ago, said Matthais has been going by Thai, now. Which is weird, and pretentious.

  Of course, he’s always been weird about his name. Typically, the name is spelled Matthias, as in M-A-T-T-H-I-A-S. But according to the Bristows, someone made a spelling mistake on the birth certificate—the argument is whether it was Mr. Bristow or Mrs., an argument which has never and will never be settled—and his name is officially spelled M-A-T-T-H-A-I-S, with the A and the I reversed. Same pronunciations—Muh-THIGH-ass.

  If you ask me, the emphasis should be on the last syllable. But what do I know?

  Going by Thai, pronounced TIE, like the thing that goes around a man’s neck, or the people from Thailand, just seems…douchey.

  Classic Matthais.

  Why am I thinking about him? I’ve done pretty well putting him behind me, since he left home. I don’t think about him at all, honestly, unless my twin brother Dell is around. Those two are still peas in a pod, Dell and Matt. They drive, and I shit you not, matching Lamborghini Aventador hypercars. Matty’s is red, Dell’s yellow. They vacation in Greece together every summer, sailing on rented or borrowed superyachts and posting douchey pics of themselves with their stupid abs, drinking eye-waveringly expensive scotch straight from the bottle, always surrounded by sleazy, trashy, beautiful women wearing not much if anything at all over their plastic beachball tits.

  At least they don’t live together, thank god. Dell spends most of his time in LA, while from what I can tell, Matt is all over the place. I don’t follow him on IG or anything, because the last thing I want in my life is to know what Matthais Douchebag Bristow is doing day to day.

  Getting venereal diseases, if one should be so lucky.

  I haven’t seen him in person since that day in the woods—the last day I saw him before he left for college. High school graduation day, a big party in the woods behind our houses. It was a who’s who of River Gulch popularity, hosted by the kings of the town, Dell and Matt. I was there…because I’m Dell’s twin. I’ve always hated parties, especially the ones hosted by my idiot brother and his asshole best friend. See, Matt always went out of his way to bully me and torture me and make my life hell. The day of our high school graduation was just the crowning achievement of his douchery. What did he do? The most childish thing he could think of: he threw a garter snake on me. A big, pissed-off snake, right on my shoulder, slipping down my chest, writhing and hissing and twisting and looking for something to bite. Now, it wasn’t fear—I’m not afraid of snakes. I’m not one of those girls that dissolves into paroxysms of screams at the sight of a snake. Do I like them, do I want one for a pet to snuggle and carry around everywhere? No. But when a four-foot-long, pissed-off snake is trying to crawl down my boobs, I feel like it’s understandable that I react rather explosively. I grabbed the snake behind the head, whirled around to face Matt, who wasn’t prepared for instant retaliation. He was wearing joggers, the drawstring untied so they hung low around his hips; being vain, he was shirtless, showing off his stupid, perfect, chiseled abs and stupid, perfect, sculpted pecs. I yanked the waistband of his joggers away from his stupid, sexy, perfect V-cut and tossed that big, pissed-off snake down his pants. And, I walked away. The sound of his angry, frantic yells turning to downright screams of pain as the snake bit him—hopefully on the dick, but I was too committed to my badass slo-mo-walking-away-from-an-explosion swagger to find out for sure—was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.

  And that, while not the revenge I might hope for, was still a pretty nice send-off, being the last time I laid eyes on Matthais Bristow.

  Thank the good Lord for small favors, am I right?

  I groan out loud. “Stop thinking about that asshole,” I scold myself out loud. “He’s not worth a single moment of thought.”

  “Who’s not?” a familiar voice says.

  Dell.

  I huff. “You.”

  He emerges from the woods, from the direction of the main house. “You wound me, sis.”

  “You annoy me, bro.” I flick a finger at him. “Go away. I’m relaxing.”

  There are two rocking chairs in the set I made, with a matching side table between them. He sits in one, rocking. Pulls a joint from behind his ear and lights it up. “What? I can’t come spend a few minutes with my only sister, my twin?”

  “No.” I eye him through the haze of acrid, pungent smoke, waving it away. “I know that look. You want something—what.” It’s a question, but it comes out more as a statement.

  He just holds the smoke in his lungs. “You’re crankier than ever. Jesus.”

  “I’m NOT fucking CRANKY!” I shout.

  Dell just lifts an eyebrow. We’re not identical twins, but we might as well be. We both have thick jet-black hair, which he styles in that a
rtfully messy thing douchey asshats do, spending hours trying to look like he just woke up like that. His eyes are as blue as mine, like Dad’s. Sharp cheekbones. We share DNA, but somehow, he has a jackrabbit metabolism. He eats like he’s sixteen, still, and yet has visible abs and perfect skin and he doesn’t do shit to look like that.

  Me?

  Strict keto, no cheat days. I run a hard five miles every morning, on top of being on my feet for work sixteen hours a day. And yet, nothing I do makes my hips any less wide. One bite of something not on the infinitesimal list of approved foods, and my ass balloons two sizes. Granted, I’m in way, way better shape than I was at eighteen. I just have to fight for it tooth and nail, while my dick-bag brother can eat pizza and ice cream and tacos and drink beer by the gallon and stay looking like a goddamn model. Not fair.

  And he’s taller.

  Twins, yet I barely clear five-six, while he gets to be an even five-ten. It’s stupid.

  “Fine. I’m cranky. Dad told his stupid little receptionist that I’m uptight and have no sense of humor.”

  “Because you are, and you don’t.” He exhales smoke through his nose. “Is that the new receptionist? What’s her name? Flossie? Barbie? Something dumb.”

  “Candy.”

  He nods. “Yeah, Candy.” He grins, nodding. “She’s hot.” A glance at me. “I nailed her.”

  I gag. “Of course you did.”

  He shrugs. “Perks of the job, right?”

  I turn slowly to stare at him. “Perks of the job? What job, Dell? You’ve never worked a day in your useless fuckboy life.”

  “Again, you wound me,” he says, miming an arrow hitting his chest over his heart. “I’ll have you know I got you guys the Oak Glen contract. I was nailing the daughter of the guy who owns the property, and talked McKenna Construction up to her, and she mentioned it to her dad, and he hired you. So, you’re welcome. Consider me your marketing department in the wild. A traveling salesman, you might say.”

  “Nailing. Why nailing? Why do you always say you nailed this girl or that girl? It’s so…gross. Demeaning, and immature, and just…gross.”

  He frowns at me. “What do you want me to say?” His voice takes on a deep, mocking tone. “I’m making love to them? Fuck that. They’re hookups. I’m nailing them. It’s what it is.” He points at me. “Not my fault you’re a sexless prude, Dee-Dee. Some of us actually like to live a little, unwind, enjoy life.”

  His words are an echo of Daddy’s from earlier, except coming from Dell they sound douchey rather than wise.

  I swallow the last of my glass of wine before I throw it in his face. Go inside, pause before shutting the door. “You can see yourself home, Dell. And next time you think about dropping by to spend quality time with me? Don’t.” I slam the door and lock it.

  Do I pour myself another glass of wine? Yes I do. Have I had more than my usual allowance of two glasses? Yes I have.

  Am I sorry? Only a little.

  Sexless prude? SEXLESS PRUDE? Who the fuck does he think he is?

  A fist pounds on the door. “Dee-Dee.”

  I ignore it.

  Tell my Alexa to play Justin Timberlake very loudly.

  “DEE-DEE!”

  “God help me,” I mutter to myself. I pause the music and open the door a crack. “What, Dell?”

  He’s sheepish. “I, uh.”

  “What could you possibly want from me?”

  “Do you have any spec homes done enough that I could crash in one for a few days?”

  I blink at him. “No. And even if I did, I wouldn’t let you. Also, why? You have a three-million-dollar condo in LA.”

  The trademark Dell grin, sheepish, sarcastic, and gloating all at once. “I sort of told this model I’m…uh, dating…that I own my own home up here. I just need it for a weekend. I have a guy who can come in and furnish the place all pimped out, and I’ll have it cleaned out and empty again by Monday at noon. Promise.”

  “A model.”

  “Yeah. Amber Jane. You may have heard of her.”

  “Does she have a last name, or just two stupid first names?”

  “I dunno. That’s her stage name. I don’t think it’s her legal name.” Another of those grins. “We’re not quite at the sharing personal information stage.”

  I cackle. “You’re screwing her, but you don’t know her actual name?”

  He sighs. “I actually like her. I want to impress her.”

  “Oh, you actually like her. Meaning she’s not just a wet hole with fake tits?” I roll my eyes. “If you want to impress her, maybe you should do something with your life. Like, say…learn to read. Get a job. I’ve heard the Wendy’s in town is hiring. You probably can’t fuck that up too bad.”

  He blinks at me. “Jesus, Dee. That was actually really harsh.”

  “You need a Kleenex to dry your tears?”

  A sigh. “What did I ever do to you, Delia?”

  I boggle at him. “You want a list? I mean, off the top of my head…nothing. You’ve never done a damn thing for me. Including stopping your shithead friend Thai from making my life a living hell for eighteen years. Other than that? Let’s see…oh! I know! Mooching off the family business, never being around to help Mom and Dad. Not working, ever. Let’s see…what else? Oh, I know! The one friend I ever had, you screwed. Remember Vivian Harris? My best and only friend from seventh grade? Whom you fucked in the back of a limo on prom night? Yeah, that comes to mind as something you did to me.”

  “She came on to me!” he protests.

  “Did it occur to you to, oh, say, turn her down? Like, ‘no, Viv, you’re my sister’s best friend, maybe we shouldn’t have unprotected sex in the back of a rented limousine.’”

  “I wore a condom,” he mutters.

  “Not what she said. And you wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the face.”

  He shakes his head. “I dunno why I bothered. Sorry to have wasted your time, Delia.” He turns to walk away.

  “I’ll make you a deal.”

  He turns around. “Okay?” A lift of an eyebrow. “I’m not apologizing to Vivian.”

  “Work for the company for one month. Thirty business days, not including weekends. I don’t care what you do. Pick up nails at a jobsite. Drive supplies around—actually, no, I don’t trust you with any actual responsibility. You could work with the marketing department—you do have an actual college degree, I think. Pick something and do it for thirty days. Or shit, do a different thing every day. I don’t care. Just don’t fuck anything up.”

  “If I agree to that, you’ll let me have a house for the weekend?”

  I cackle. “Dell, if you can work thirty whole days in a row without fucking anything up, I’ll give you the house, to own.”

  “Will I get paid?”

  A disbelieving laugh bursts out of me. “Paid? You have a twenty-million-dollar trust fund!”

  “I just…”

  “No, Dell,” I snap. “You will pitch in to earn a fraction of a fraction of the money you spend in your useless, idle, frivolous little life.”

  He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, they’re wounded. “You really don’t think much of me, do you?”

  “Not even a little bit, brother.”

  He extends his hand to shake mine. “It’s a deal. Loan me the house for the weekend. I’ll work for the company for thirty days, and then you’ll sign a spec house over to me.”

  I ignore his hand. “And if you do fuck up or give up?”

  He shrugs, dropping his hand when he realizes I have no intention of shaking it. “You’ll get a lifetime of I-told-you-so out of it? Hell, I don’t know.”

  I grab my phone off the table near the door, dial a number.

  It rings twice, and then Cal, my lead project foreman, answers. “Hey, boss. What do you need?”

  “Hi, Cal. Sorry to bother you this late on a weekend, but I need a quick favor.”

  “Sure, boss. Shoot.”

  “Is 2120 in Oak Glen liv
able?”

  Cal hums thoughtfully. “Eh, it’s not sellable, but yeah you could live in it. It just needs some cabinet pulls, touch-up paint, some switch plates and outlet plates. I think one of the bathrooms still needs the vanity installed.”

  “And it’s not spoken for?”

  “Negatory, boss. We had a nibble, but they ended up wanting something already done and we still had a good bit to finish at that point.”

  “Okay. My brother is borrowing it for the weekend. He says he’ll be out by Monday at noon. Can you meet him with the key?”

  Cal pauses. He doesn’t like Dell any more than I do. “Doesn’t he own—”

  “Yeah, Cal, he does,” I cut in. “It’s a long story. Or, actually, it’s not long, it’s just stupid and I won’t bore you with the details.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure. Twenty minutes?”

  “Sounds good, thanks, have a good weekend.”

  “No problem-o, and you too.”

  “2120 Oak Glen Circle,” I tell Dell, setting the phone aside. “You’re welcome.”

  “I, uh…”

  “You don’t know where the Oak Glen subdivision is,” I say. “God, you’re useless. We’ve been working on that sub for two years, Dell. How do you not know where it is? You literally pass it to get here.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, Dell, that. The two hundred spec home subdivision your family’s business is building, the project that has added literally an entire fucking zero onto your net worth.”

  “Got it. 2120.” He offers a wobbly grin at me. “Thanks, Delia.”

  “Yeah, well, try not to trash the place.”

  “I’m not throwing a kegger, Jesus.”

  “You never know, with you.”