Strictly Friends (The Twin Dare #1)

Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

Mark

“I don’t look like Hugh Jackman,” I groaned, studying my reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror. I was in decent shape, but no movie star.

“You don’t have to,” my father responded from the phone on the counter. His tone was deep and steady, as always. “See this as the opportunity it is. Events like this draw people from all over, even internationally. Mingle. Work your hot maple syrup into the conversation.”

“That sounds like a stellar conversation opener.” I pulled on the black button-down shirt my mother insisted was something Jackman would wear. Agreeing to it was a small concession to make her happy, and the older my parents got, the more it mattered. They were in their early forties when they had me. My friends with younger parents never understood my reluctance to take long vacations.

In recent years, my parents had become increasingly unpredictable. The man who had guided me with a calm but firm hand could now be talked out of a hundred dollars by a scammer on the phone. My parents were never the type to discuss finances, but lately, I’d taken on the uncomfortable responsibility of double-checking their bills. If I could have gotten a refund for this event, I would have. Instead, I reimbursed them and tried not to let them see what a complete waste of time I considered it.

A soft laugh sounded in the background—my mom. “You’re so handsome, honey. Remember to smile, and you may even come home with a girlfriend.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “Thanks for the pep talk, Mom. I do fine with the locals.”

“No, you don’t,” she said sadly. “You could. I could have you married by next week if you let me do a little matchmaking.”

“I’m not interested in getting married. I’m happy living on my own.”

“We won’t be here forever,” my father chimed in. “We don’t want you to die alone.”

“Ooo-kay. Let’s switch topics. Paul promised to come play cards with you both tonight. Gerry will be by in the morning. If you need anything, I wrote both their numbers on the fridge.”

“We’re not children,” my father said, his tone hardening. “The babysitters are unnecessary.”

“I worry. It’s part of who I am.” I could have reminded him that last week when he and Mom went to church, they left the front door wide open, but I didn’t. They were proud people. Caring for them wasn’t something I resented. They took care of me; I’d do the same for them.

“Forget about us for the weekend,” my father said. “Focus on networking. And don’t underestimate how interesting running a sugar shack can be to someone who doesn’t know about them.”

“I’m in Vermont, Dad. They tap maple syrup here too.”

“But they don’t have your recipe.”

“Or your charm,” my mother added.

“A few good connections, and you could stop working side jobs and make a good income from syrup sales.”

Our family’s Sugar Shack and syrup recipes had always been a work of passion rather than a source of profit. Each year, we participated in New Hampshire’s Maple Weekend, opening our doors to visitors who wanted to see how syrup was made. For us, it had always been about community and sharing something we loved.

Was my father beginning to worry that his savings wouldn’t be enough? “Dad, if this is about money, I can move back in and cover the bills.”

“We’re fine,” my father answered firmly. “This is about you. Where do you want to be in five years... ten years?”

My mother’s voice softened. “We want grandchildren while we’re still young enough to enjoy them.”

“Single or married,” my father continued, “rich or poor, we just want to see you excited about something.”

“Okay, tap the brakes, guys. First, I’m not poor. The handyman lifestyle works for me, and I can always pick up more jobs if we need the cash.”

“All we’re asking,” my mother said gently, “is for you to believe you’re capable of more.”

Ouch.

The silence that followed was painful. It was proof she hadn’t misspoken and my father agreed.

My silence came from the uncomfortable knowledge that my parents were two of the kindest and most loyal people in the world. They were also steadfastly nonjudgmental. If they thought I wasn’t living up to my potential, there was a good chance they were right.

Had focusing so much on their future kept me from planning for my own? It was a difficult question, and one I didn’t have an answer to.

I cleared my throat. “Thank you for setting this up for me. I’ll do my best to make my time here worthwhile.”

“We know you will, honey,” my mother said warmly.

“Remember who you are,” my father added. “Look everyone in the eye. Listen more than you talk. Ask questions. Everyone’s favorite subject is themselves. When you talk, talk about things you love, and people will remember your passion.”

I picked up the phone and walked out of the bathroom, marveling at how my father could be someone I felt I needed to watch over while also spouting the kind of wisdom it takes a lifetime to acquire. “Thanks, Dad. I will.”

“You’ve got this, honey,” my mother said. “Also, I put a little something in your luggage.”

After ending the call, I dug into my suitcase until I found it—a glass bottle in a plastic ziplock bag tucked between my socks. The golden amber syrup was warmed by the sunlight streaming through the window. A neatly tied ribbon and a folded note were attached.

I smiled and groaned. “Oh, Mom.” I pulled the note free and unfolded it, the familiar handwriting tugging at a long-buried memory.

“Mark, we know you’ll do amazing. Your dad and I believe in you. You’re a miracle, and so is your syrup. Don’t only think about networking. I double-dog dare you to come home with a story you can’t tell me and your father. Love, Mom.”

I chuckled. Whatever tension had been lingering in me fell away. That’s my mom. Supportive. Grateful. Sweet like our syrup, with a similar, unexpected spice. She used to stick notes in my lunchbox with similar messages, and I’d always share them with my friends—except for the ones about someone she knew I had a crush on. Those, I kept to myself.

I set the bagged bottle with the note on the nightstand. Lanie. I haven’t seen her in years. Thoughts of her always hit me harder than they should. I pushed them out of my head.

Focus.

I paid to be here.

I promised to promote myself and my syrup.

And I’ve been challenged to live it up a little.

I could stay in my hotel room, but a dare is a dare.

Here goes nothing.