grip. He’d known once, with certainty, who he was: the son of William and Marion Duncan, from California. Life, apparently, had other plans for him. Plans that had sent him careening, grappling to understand how he’d become the son of William and Marion Duncan, right around the same time the woman who was supposed to marry him had walked away.
I can’t do this, Tate, Claire had told him, her delicate features screwed into an expression of regret. Then she’d given back the engagement ring. That was two weeks ago. Since then, he’d become a ripe bastard.
The rhythm of his breath paced the time along with his steps. Rainwater beat drumlike on his head and soaked into his Italian leather shoes.
On his side of the street, he came upon a building that held an array of businesses, including an acupuncture office, a family doctor and a yoga studio. The yoga studio was the only one lit inside, by a pair of pink hued salt lamps glowing warmly on top of a desk. He peered through the window, wishing he’d have accepted the damn umbrella. Wishing he could absorb the warmth emitting from the place. It was orderly, homey, with its scarred wooden floors and stacks of cubbies for storing shoes and cell phones during class.
He’d been inside once before, to greet the new owner who’d leased the space. Yoga by Hayden was run by Hayden Green, a new resident who’d been in SWC a little over a year now. He saw her around town sometimes. She was the equivalent of looking at the sun. Bright, glowing, joyful. She had a skip in her step and a smile on her face most days. He wondered if yoga was her secret to being happy, if maybe he should try it—make that his new therapy. God knew he wasn’t heading back to Dr. Schroder any time soon.
The first-world problems he used to bring to his therapist were laughable considering the actual drama surrounding him now. He could imagine that conversation, his doc’s eyebrows climbing her forehead into her coifed dark hair.
Yeah, so I found out I was kidnapped when I was three, adopted out for a large sum of money and my real parents live in London. No, my adoptive parents didn’t know I was kidnapped. Yes, London. Oh, and I have a brother. We’re twins.
Eerie. That’s what this was. Like a scary story told around a campfire, there was a large chunk of him that wanted to believe it was false. That the repressed memory of big hands cuffing him under the arms and dragging him away from his and his twin brother’s birthday party had been a nightmare he could awaken from. That George and Jane Singleton were no more related to him than the Queen of England.
Though he was from the UK, so God help him, he could be related to the Queen of England.
Ice-cold raindrops soaked through his hair to his scalp, and he shuddered. His mind had been bobbing in the atmosphere like a lost balloon for going on two months now. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get back to normal at this rate. Wasn’t sure if he knew what normal was any longer.
This entire situation was surreal. And after living an organized, regimented, successful life, a shock he hadn’t been prepared to deal with.
What were the odds of two estranged London-born twin brothers bumping into each other in a Seattle coffee shop nearly thirty years later?
Astronomical.
He let out a fractured laugh. “You’re not well enough to be in a wellness community.”
Overhead, he admired a streetlamp like the others lining the sidewalks, remembering how a formerly sane version of himself had commissioned a welder to design them. They resembled tree branches, complete with curling leaves along the top, the lights encased in a bell-shaped flower. Tate mused that they had a fairy-tale quality. Like that smoking caterpillar or the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland could appear perched on one at any moment.
“You’re losing it, Duncan.”
But his smile was short-lived when he abruptly remembered that he wasn’t a Duncan. Not really.
He was a Singleton.
Whatever the hell that meant.
The sharp whistle of the teakettle pulled Hayden Green’s attention from her book. She made the short trek to her kitchen, flipped the gas burner off and reached for her waiting teacup.
Through the driving rain, she could barely make out the shape of the market across the street and yet her senses prickled. Stepping closer to her upstairs window, she squinted at the street below and found her senses were, as usual, spot-on.
In the deluge lurked a figure. Right outside her yoga studio. It was a man, most definitely, his dark leather jacket unable to hide the breadth of his shoulders.
She pressed her forehead against the pane to get a better look, confident he couldn’t see her since the kitchen light was off. He tilted his head back; the street light overhead illuminating him as the rain splashed his upturned face and closed eyelids.
Hayden recognized her unexpected visitor instantly. “Tate Duncan, what are you doing?”
Tate’s reputation had reached almost mythical proportions on Spright Island. He owned the island, so everyone knew him or knew of him, anyway. Hayden was somewhere in between. She knew of him—of his legendary pushbacks on the laws that stated their community had to have standard streetlamps and ugly yellow concrete curbs. Tate had fought for, and won, the right to design streetlamps that were art sculptures and to install curbs of sparkling quartz. He’d personally overseen every detail because to him, the details mattered.
Hayden had been romanced by SWC. It was a relaxing, serene place to live—a retreat from bustling city life. She had been born in Seattle into a busy, distracting, dysfunctional household, and had longed her entire adult life to be somewhere less busy and distracting.
When she’d learned about Spright Island’s wellness community a year and a half ago, she’d come to visit. Days later, she’d taken out as big a business loan as the bank would give her and leased the space for her yoga studio. She’d quit her job at the YMCA, finagled her way out of her Seattle apartment’s lease and moved here with minimal belongings.
It’d been her fresh start.
Shortly after, Tate had stopped by her studio to personally welcome her to the neighborhood and invite her to a wine tasting happening that weekend at Summer’s Market. It was a kindness she hadn’t expected, and without it, she might never have met and grown to know her neighbors.
She rarely saw a suit and tie step foot into a yoga studio, so Tate’s presence had garnered every ounce of her attention. One of his signature quick, potent smiles later, she’d promptly lost any train of thought she’d had. As it turned out, the legendary Tate Duncan was also stupidly attractive, and when he smiled, that attractiveness doubled.
She’d grown used to his presence around town, if not his mind-numbing male beauty. She and Tate had bumped into each other several times in town, from the market to the restaurant to her favorite café. He’d always offered a smile and asked her how the studio was doing. Come to think of it, it’d been a while since she’d spoken to him. She’d seen him in recent weeks—or was that a month ago?—when she’d left the post office. He’d had his cell phone to his ear and was talking to someone, a deep frown marring his perfect brow.
He’d scanned the road and she’d waved when his eyes reached her, but he didn’t react at
