The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(22)

I raise my hand to knock when Ethan stops me and pulls me away from the door. “Are you sure you want to do this?’ he whispers. “Think about it. She could ruin your career.”

“More than I’m ruining it myself, you mean?”

He frowns. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I have to find that script, and I’m counting on you to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, okay? You’ve babysat me my whole life. You can take care of one nerd girl for two days. It won’t be that hard.”

He rakes his fingers nervously through his thick black hair. “Okay. If you’re in this, I’m in this—but at the first sign of trouble, we’re out. Swear?” He holds up his right pinky finger.

I hook mine through his. “Pinky swear.”

We kiss our thumbs and the deal is sealed.

Ethan marches over to the door. He gives it a knock and Imogen appears. She gives him one quick look before diverting her eyes to me. Oh that’s harsh.

She really does detest him.

Though the feeling looks pretty mutual.

“Oh thank God last night wasn’t a dream!” she blurts out in relief. “I was kinda afraid you wouldn’t come back. Not that I think I’m imagining things but my moms do say I have a pretty good imagination and some of my dreams recently have been super whack so—”

“You’re babbling,” Ethan interjects.

“Anyway,” she says tightly, “come in.”

I follow her inside. It’s clear that someone else shares the room with her—two other someones, by the looks of it—but just like last night, they’re not here.

She sees me staring at the two suitcases and says, “My brother and his boyfriend won’t be around much this weekend. They might come in to take a shower or something, but Bran’s a film nerd so he’ll be in movie showings all weekend or at panels, and my brother’s dedicated to him.”

“Ah.”

I glance around at her suitcase strewn across half of her bed. Again, just like last night. Clearly, she’s not a tidy person. But she seems to like space operas and fantasy shows, by the looks of the graphic T-shirt collection strewn on the ground. And she wears Converses.

I pick up the SPACE QUEEN beanie on the nightstand.

“It’s kinda weird, right?” she says. “How we got mistaken because of that beanie? It’s funny, I got that beanie from my—”

“Artists’ Alley,” I interrupt. “Ethan got mine there, too.”

“Oh.” As if Ethan even stepping into that area of the con seemed unbelievable to her. “Well, I was thinking we could just keep using it. Since it worked the first time?”

“Someone’s bound to catch on,” I reply dismissively, “which is why we brought a wig.” And as if on cue, my assistant produces a plastic bag out of his satchel. “It’s brown, almost the same color as my natural hair, a good enough dupe if you don’t look too closely. I had my housekeeper overnight it from LA.”

Imogen blinks at the wig Ethan’s holding. “You just have a wig lying about? That’s convenient.”

“I bought it to disguise the awful Amara-red I had to dye my hair,” I reply.

“And what about you?” Imogen says. “Will you cut your hair to look like me or something?”

“I’ll wear the beanie,” I say.

“Can you imitate my voice?”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

“Because you’re going to be me,” Imogen says, startling me with the sound of my own voice. I’d forgotten she could mimic me so well. “So you need to be convincing,” she says, sounding like herself again.

“To who?”

She stares at me, blinking, and then looks away. “Never mind. You’re right.”

I roll my eyes and fish an extra pair of Ethan’s glasses out of his bag. I’d popped the lenses out of them (promising him I’d pay for a new pair). I put them on. “See? I barely look like myself.”

It’s not like she has anything to worry about. I’m a fantastic actress. I’m Oscar worthy. Pretending to go along with Imogen’s side of this switch should be easy enough, and I can just casually dip out of that Artists’ Alley booth and find my script.

I swirl my hair up inside the beanie. “Okay, now let’s make you me.”





THIS IS SOME SERIOUS Twelfth Night meets The Parent Trap kind of weird.

Jess Stone and I are roughly the same size (I definitely I have bigger boobs) so most of her clothes fit me, even her shoes. She opts to keep on her boots, and though I’d rather stick with my dependable sparkly Converses, she won’t let me. Instead she shoves a pair of two-inch heels in my direction.

“Heels?”

She gives me a testy look. “What about them?”

I decide not to bring up that time she faceplanted on the red carpet. It was the GIF seen round the world.

Instead, I take the shoes and pray that there’s an ER nearby in case I accidentally wipe out on the stairs.

We exchange everything—con badges, schedules, wardrobe—agreeing to change back by Saturday evening, before the ExcelsiCon ball. Although Jess doesn’t think we’ll need to switch places that long. She puts on my makeup and wipes hers off. The assistant—Ethan Tanaka is his name, apparently—reminds me of an overbearing German shepherd, the kind my neighbors used to have. Eager to please whoever feeds him and overprotective to a fault. He would totally be hot if he wasn’t glowering at me the way the Rebel forces look at Kylo Ren.