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45

EIGHT MONTHS BEFORE

Becky and I are having lunch at Cosmo’s Diner.

Becky is a good person to have as a friend. Whenever I meet a prospective friend, I evaluate their positive and negative qualities. Becky is incredibly loyal—the sort of friend who might someday help me bury a dead body, if such a thing were required, which, historically, it has been for me. Also, she is far less attractive than I am, so she does not serve as a temptation for my significant other. For that reason, I have cultivated the friendship since my permanent return to this country from Portugal. I even convinced Blake to find her loser husband a job at his company.

“So have you and Blake set a wedding date yet?” she asks as she drags a french fry through the blob of ranch on her plate. “I definitely think fall is the best time to get married. Everybody thinks it’s the summer, but early fall is so much nicer.”

“Blake has been so busy at work,” I say. “We’ve barely had time to celebrate.”

“Oh, I bet you’ve celebrated.” She winks at me. “He can barely keep his hands off you. And he’s so hot . You’re so lucky, Krista.”

I already know Becky thinks Blake is hot, based on the shameless way she flirts with him. But she’s right—I do feel lucky. Blake is, after all, the whole package. He is intelligent, and on top of that, he’s motivated and successful. If I start a family with him, he will provide for us, which will be nice considering I’ve been just barely scraping by on my salary from the dry cleaner. He’s nice but not so nice that people walk all over him. He’s loyal—I never catch him checking out other women. And he has a sweet side, even though he’d never admit it. He gives the best hugs of anyone I’ve known, and when his arms wrap around me, I feel the love emanating from his body.

I can’t wait to marry him and spend the rest of my life with him.

Our waitress approaches our table. She’s very pretty in a fresh-faced sort of way, like I am, and the thought crosses my mind that she is the sort of girl that Blake could have fallen for if he didn’t have me. Too bad for her.

And then I read her name off the tag pinned to her shirt:

Whitney.

My old name. I loved my name when I was younger, and I hate that I had to start over with a new one. But I couldn’t take a risk—Jordan Gallo’s family was not messing around. Still, I feel a flash of nostalgia every time I meet somebody named Whitney. I’ve always thought that in the future, I would be able to go back to being Whitney Cross someday, when things cooled off.

“Can I get you some dessert?” the new Whitney asks us.

Becky raises an eyebrow at me, but I shake my head. “Just the check, please.”

“You got it!” Whitney says.

I applaud her enthusiasm. I’ve worked as a waitress, and it can be exhausting. She’s got a lot of customers, yet she keeps a smile on her face. Although I wonder if she’ll keep up her good spirits now that the manager seems to be coming our way with a sour expression on his face.

“Miss Cross,” he says in a humorless voice. “A word for a moment, please?”

Miss Cross ?

What?

The girl flashes us an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just a moment, and I’ll be back with your check.”

She rushes off, and Becky is saying something to me, but I can’t even focus. Because the manager just referred to her as Miss Cross. Her name is Whitney Cross.

That’s my name.

And it’s not a common one. As far as I know, I was the only one out there. Yet here is a second one. Not only that, but she is approximately my age. My height and build. She even looks like me if you don’t look too closely, and her hair is the color mine was before I started coloring it.

That’s…interesting.

“Krista?” Becky is saying my name. Well, not my name, but the other name I took when I could no longer be Whitney. “Are you okay? You seem totally spaced out.”

“Huh?” I force myself to turn my attention back to Becky’s round face. “Sorry. I just have a lot on my mind.”

“And you’re going to have so much more on your mind when you’re planning your wedding with Blake,” she teases me.

But I can’t even focus on this conversation anymore. I need to know who this girl is. I need to know if she stole my name.

And for that, I need Elijah.