A MELODY INVADED JOSIE’S SLEEP. IT WASN’T familiar, just a soft fragment of song that was getting louder and louder by the second. Ugh. Where was she?
Josie opened her eyes, and found nothing but darkness. Panic gripped her. Was she blind? She reached her hands up to her face and felt the silken mask over her eyes.
Right. Jo’s sleep mask. Jo’s alarm. Jo’s life.
She pushed the mask up to her forehead and was instantly blinded by the harsh overhead lights. With her eyes pinched closed, she reached out a hand and flailed around for the alarm until she inadvertently slapped the right button to silence its annoying tune.
Well, that’s one way to wake up in the morning.
It took several minutes for Josie’s eyes to adjust to the brightness, but eventually she was able to pry her lids open and roll out of bed. Dawn was just breaking; early rays of light peeked into the room through the slats in the blinds, duller than the artificial illumination overhead, but comforting somehow. Josie tiptoed over and pulled the blinds open.
The first blush of sunrise tinged the sky, promising a bright, cheerful spring morning. Unlike in her house, Jo’s bedroom was on the second floor. Josie gazed down onto manicured hedges and painstakingly maintained rosebushes, a far cry from the overgrown, gopher-infested mess that Josie’s bedroom looked out upon.
Josie yawned. She was tired, excited, and nervous for how the day would unfold. Could this charade actually work, or was she going to get called out as an impostor exactly thirty seconds into breakfast?
Calm down. She could do this. As long as she looked like Jo, no one was going to question if she didn’t exactly act like Jo.
After shower, hair, and makeup, Josie donned the outfit she’d chosen and looked at herself in the old mirror. She’d tried to do her hair as much like Jo’s as she could—parted on the left and tucked behind one ear—and she hoped the effect was close enough. Same with the makeup. Jo’s medicine cabinet looked like a Sephora display case. Josie tried to remember Jo’s face and applied foundation, blush, eye shadow, liner, mascara, and gloss accordingly.
It was more effort than Josie had put into her appearance in weeks, but as she admired the effect in the mirror, she smiled. She looked like Jo.
Josie studied Jo’s cheat sheet, then turned back to the mirror. She looked like Jo; she could act like Jo. No one would know the difference, especially not Nick.
Time to find out.
6:30 A.M.
“Good morning, Miss Josephine.”
A short, wiry woman with jet-black hair and thick, old-fashioned glasses was placing a thermos carafe on the table as Josie entered the dining room. According to her cheat sheet this was Teresa, the Byrnes’ housekeeper. Teresa saw Jo every single day and didn’t hesitate in greeting Josie as “Miss Josephine.” This was going to be easier than she thought.
“Good morning,” Josie said, hoping the fluttering in her stomach didn’t make its way into her voice.
Teresa didn’t look up but continued setting the table for breakfast. Two place settings. Only two.
“Why are there only two plates?” Josie asked. Did Jo not eat with her parents? That wasn’t in the cheat sheet.
Teresa tilted her head to the side. “I’m sorry, Miss Josephine?”
Crap. From Teresa’s reaction, Josie was clearly supposed to know why there were only two places set for breakfast. One of Jo’s parents must be away from home, or maybe went to work earlier. Or maybe just didn’t eat breakfast? Ugh, she had no idea.
Josie forced a laugh. “Sorry,” she said lightly. “I . . . I forgot.”
Teresa lifted an eyebrow—an almost imperceptible millimeter—then turned and walked out of the room without another word.
Josie sat down at the table and bit her lip. Hopefully she hadn’t just blown everything with her misstep. Her hand shook as she reached for the carafe and poured herself a cup of coffee. She needed to get a grip. She was fine. No one was going to assume she was an impostor, especially not based on one—
“What are you doing?”
Josie looked up from the table and saw a man standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. She knew the face: the pale blue eyes, tanned skin, and streaked blond hair so like her own. It was her dad.
Only not quite. They had the same boyishness about them—a crinkle at the corner of each eye from excessive smiling, a softness about the mouth—but Jo’s dad was a slightly more put-together version of her own. Slicked-back hair, designer suit, and carrying a tablet in one hand, this Mr. Byrne looked significantly more professional.