Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Mark
T his was the kind of event that shouldn’t work. Hundreds of people competing to look like someone else, posing with cardboard cutouts on tiny red carpets, but somehow, it didn’t feel chaotic. It was seamless. Polished.
I leaned against the wall, sipping the last of my mulled wine, and watched the event coordinators guide guests like clockwork. Each person got their moment—pictures taken with the same care you’d expect at a wedding or, I don’t know, the Oscars. The crowd wasn’t just posing for photos; they were beaming, laughing, preening.
It was ridiculous, but it was working.
I wandered closer to get a better look at the setup. Every red carpet led to a life-size cutout of some movie star. One guy in a tux struck the same pose as the cutout beside him, holding a prop martini glass as if he were auditioning for the next Bond movie.
All around the room, influencers held up their phones, live-streaming their experiences. Rings of light bounced off their faces as they filmed themselves moving through the crowd, narrating every step with enthusiasm. Normally, that kind of thing would have been disruptive—people stumbling into each other, arguing over angles. But here, even that was managed perfectly.
People with badges escorted the influencers as if they, too, were celebrities, making sure they captured their shots without slowing the flow of guests or causing a scene. I couldn’t help but smile. The setup was smart.
Guests lined up for photos—one for themselves, one for the judges. Staff printed them on the spot, and the excitement was palpable. Whoever had planned this had nailed it.
“This’ll be the kind of event movie stars will wish they’d attended,” someone said behind me.
I didn’t turn, but caught the edge of the conversation as two men stopped a few feet away.
“That’s DeVoss for you,” the other man said. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of admiration. “He doesn’t wait for permission. He makes things happen, and then people beg to be part of whatever he’s doing.”
“Think he’ll be here tonight?”
“I hope so. I’ve got a proposition for him.”
I shifted slightly, keeping my face turned away.
So, this DeVoss guy was important. And I looked like him. The bartender. The woman at registration. The lady in the hallway who thought I was using the VIP entrance. It was starting to make sense.
That sure was an odd spin on what was already a bizarre weekend. Should I leave before I caused an issue? Or stay and see how this played out?
I couldn’t leave before seeing this guy. I had to know if I actually looked like him. I smiled again at the irony of coming to an event like this and discovering I look exactly like some random other guy. That would be a story worth telling everyone back home.
I scanned the room, watching as people stepped onto the red carpets. For a moment, I marveled at how the lighting was just right, how the judges’ table was tucked neatly to the side, and how the staff moved like shadows. Yes, I could see how people would speak so highly of the experience that the event would be even larger next year, especially since the proceeds were going to charity. I placed my empty mug on a tall table as I passed.
When I looked up, I saw him—a man in a charcoal-gray suit with my face. Our hair was strikingly similar—thick, dark, a little tousled in the front. For me, it was the only cut that worked. The damn natural curl in the front necessitated this length and style. Shorter, it stuck up. Longer, I looked disheveled. Did DeVoss have the same issue?
I don’t normally gawk at men, but this guy was me —only in a suit and looking like he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed. His expression stayed guarded as he scanned the room. When someone greeted him, he smiled. It was a smooth smile, one that the woman speaking to him melted for, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
I guess what they say about money not making a person happy is true. That guy doesn’t like his life.
It could have been because I was outwardly staring at DeVoss, but his attention shifted from the women to me. I smirked and gave a small wave. His gaze stayed locked on me as he excused himself from the conversation and strode in my direction. People intercepted him a few times, each getting a brief nod before he continued toward me. A tall, beefy man joined him. I didn’t know what words they exchanged, but neither of them appeared happy about my presence.
Am I about to be thrown out?
I should have paid for that drink.
“Come with me,” DeVoss said in a low, clipped tone, his gaze cutting through me like a blade. He didn’t pause or glance back, but the giant shadow of his bodyguard nodded for me to follow him. I felt like I wouldn’t be given a choice, so I did. We exited through a side door so quickly and smoothly I doubt we caught anyone’s attention, which I suppose was the point.
The conference room we entered was full of props for the event but otherwise empty. DeVoss told the man beside him to make sure it stayed that way.
I laughed, then caught myself when the sound gained a glare from DeVoss. He was wound tight, like a guitar string tuned three octaves too high. I’d met serious people before, but this was a whole new level.
“Who sent you?” he growled. “If this is some kind of prank, it’s not working. I don’t like surprises—especially not work-related ones. Before you try to give me the runaround, I’ll pay you double whatever you were paid to come here. Triple if you take off the mask and disappear without being seen.”
“I’m not wearing a mask,” I said with amusement. “You can’t tell that just by looking at me?”
DeVoss let out an impatient sigh. “I’ve seen convincing ones.”
That had me chuckling again. Seriously? I pinched my cheek. “Sorry. This is the face I was born with. Mother Nature isn’t all that creative because she seems to have given you the same one.” I shrugged. “Genetics. Who can figure them out, am I right?”
He didn’t even crack a smile. “Why are you here?”
I thumbed toward the conference room we’d just left. “Hugh Jackman potential look-alike.”
“You look nothing like him.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t either.” When he didn’t respond, I cleared my throat and added, “My parents signed me up.” Should I bring up why? Why not. “We own a small Sugar Shack in New Hampshire, and they were hoping I could network this weekend and leave with some potential clients for my hot maple syrup.” After a painful, heavy moment of silence, I added, “They’re getting older. I really only came to appease them because they’d already paid the entry fee.”
DeVoss blinked a few times slowly. “You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
Eyes cold, he inhaled deeply, clearly still suspicious. I felt a bit bad for him in that moment. Weird shit happens to people all the time. Most of us accept it, shrug it off, and go on. Imagine feeling so important that your first assumption when encountering the unexpected is to assume it must be a negative experience or that people are lying to you. That’s sad.
After a moment, he said, “Look, if this was meant to be some kind of stunt, it didn’t work. I won’t allow it.” His tone was crisp and firm. “So, tell me what you hoped to gain, and we’ll see if we can resolve this amicably.”
“Resolve this?” I asked, my amusement fading. “What is there to resolve? You’re the only one upset that we look alike, and I already told you why I’m here.”
DeVoss’s brows pulled together, his expression hardening as he folded his arms across his chest. I tensed as well. See, that’s the problem with sour people—their mood is contagious.
“Whatever,” I said impatiently, taking a step to leave. “You can try to make this about you, but I’m the one losing out. Your face ruined my chances of going home with potential buyers. I didn’t come here to mess with you or your event. I came here for my family. And now I’m out my entry fee, my gas money, and apparently on your bad side simply for existing.”
He seemed caught off guard. “You’re worried about four hundred dollars?”
The way he said it, like dollars were pennies, made my blood boil.
“Yeah, I am,” I snapped. “Because I’m a normal person with normal bills, and four hundred dollars is a car payment and gas money. Sorry if you can wipe your ass with that kind of cash and flush it away, but I live in the real world.” I gestured vaguely toward the door. “I’ll go because I don’t want to cause trouble, and by tomorrow, you’ll just be the main character in a story I tell my friends about how self-absorbed rich people are. You, on the other hand, will still be here, walking around like you have a stick up your ass, wondering why you didn’t find it the least bit incredible to come across someone who looks exactly like you.” I waved a hand. “Oh, and have to live with being a cheap bastard who tosses a person out of an event without reimbursing them.” I turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said firmly, then in a lower tone added, “Prove to me that anything you’re saying is true.”
I turned back. He was rude and full of himself, but damn, he looked just like me—eerily so. I scratched my chin before answering. “You can look at the photos on my phone.”
His expression was unreadable. “Okay.”
After pulling out my phone and opening my photos, I handed it to him. “Scroll around. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
He did, for quite a long time. He paused now and then over certain photos before handing me back my phone. “You’re really just someone from New Hampshire who happens to look like me?”
“I don’t know what to say—this is as weird for me as it is for you.”
“Hot maple syrup,” he echoed, his tone flat, like he was testing the words. “Where’s your operation based?”
“A large shed in my parents’ backyard.” The way his eyebrows rose was a bit offensive, but I let it slide, mostly because the novelty of meeting him was gone. “They’d like to see me expand our sales base and increase production.”
“Is it any good? This hot syrup of yours?”
“People love it. They come back, year after year, from all over the world.”
“Did you bring any with you?”
“Of course, I did.”
“I’d like to sample it.”
“Refund my entry fee, and I’ll let you.”
He barked out a laugh. “Deal.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I’ll go get my sample.”
He raised a hand. “Tell me where it is, and I’ll have someone get it. Meanwhile, I could use a drink. How about you?”
“Not if it’s more of that warm wine. I wouldn’t turn down a beer, though.”
“Done.” He took out his phone and sent a message. “There’s a pub back at the main building that’s closed tonight. I’ll have it staffed, and we can talk there.” He paused. “Where’s the syrup?”
I told him, then said, “There’s a note beside it; tell them to be careful with it.”
He gave me a long look.
I shrugged. “It’s from my mom, telling me I’m a miracle. Silly, but I don’t want to lose it. I’m sure you understand.”
His eyes darkened. “I haven’t spoken to either of my parents in years, but I’ll tell my staff to leave the note.”
“Damn,” I muttered. “No wonder you’re miserable.”
He inhaled sharply, sent off another message, then dropped his phone back into his suit pocket. After looking me over again, he waved for me to follow him. “Let’s get this over with.”
As I followed him, I smirked. Sunshine. That should be his nickname. I can’t wait to see his face when I call him that.
I’ll go with him to the pub because—free drinks.
And I’m reasonably certain he’ll refund my entry fee.
But I won’t agree to be his body double even if he offers to pay me. Something tells me this guy has more enemies than friends.