Faces of Love: A Penbrooke Ridge Story

By Imogen Markwell-Tweed

As far back as he can remember, Dean has been cursed to wake up in the body of a person destined to die.

Or, not their body, but in an exact replica: according to legend, Doppelgangers are ghosts that bring death omens. Dean thinks that’s a bit of an unfair description, considering it’s not like he chooses who is going to die. Also, he’s not a ghost. He’s just a regular guy who, if he gets too close to a person marked for death, will wake up looking like them. It’s wrecked extreme havoc on his job security but otherwise, Dean’s making do. Hell, he’s even happy.

Sure, his boss sort of sucks and his dating life is abysmal, but he’s happy and healthy and who needs a boyfriend when he’s got Wesley? Best friends for going on ten years, Dean thinks there’s no one quite as great as Wes. And, sure, sometimes he thinks about it being more. But Dean’s not kidding himself: a guy would have to be Mr. Darcy and Han Solo all at once to catch Wes’s eye. And Dean’s just… Dean. And that’s good enough for him. At least, it is until Dean wakes up in the exact replica of Wesley’s body with only one thought in mind: he’s got to prevent Wesley’s fate-destined, impending death.

This contemporary paranormal romance is the third in the Penbrooke Ridge series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Jan 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094415055

Imogen Markwell-Tweed

Imogen Markwell-Tweed is a queer romance writer and editor based in St. Louis. When she's not writing or hanging out with her dog, IMT can be found putting her media degrees to use by binge-watching trashy television. All of her stories promise queer protagonists, healthy relationships, and happily ever afters. @unrealimogen on Twitter and Instagram.

Book preview

Faces of Love

Dean is sick and tired of waking up like this.

The stretch of his muscles and lengths of his bones feel wrong, like he’s been thrown off-center and gravity itself is threatening to give up on him. His lungs hurt—his lungs didn’t hurt yesterday. Does he have asthma now? He groans and the sound is too high-pitched, too nasally, for it to be his own voice. The vocal cords inside his throat don’t belong to him.

He opens his eyes, sighing heavily with his twitching, aching new lungs, and rolls to his side. He can see himself in the mirror now, positioned in this way specifically for moments like this.

Dean’s body looks to be about thirty, maybe thirty-five. It’s got short blond hair and a growing beard, like he hasn’t shaven in a week. Since Dean shaved his own face yesterday, the scruff is an annoying reminder of his own existence’s futility.

Who are you, then? Dean asks his reflection.

The man doesn’t look familiar. Penbrooke Ridge is a fairly small city, with only twenty thousand residents, but he doesn’t interact with more than two dozen people on average. After all, being cursed from childhood to wake up in the body of a person destined to die can sort of circumvent meaningful relationships.

Dean is a Doppelganger and today — as he has hundreds of times — he’s woken up in the exact replica of a stranger’s body. This stranger, wherever he is, will die soon, and Dean’s haunting figure is the only omen the poor guy’s got.

According to legend, Doppelgangers are death omens. Dean thinks that’s an unfair assumption considering he doesn’t bring death or choose who dies; it’s just, if he so much as bumps into someone who’s on Death’s List, he’ll wake up the next morning looking just like them.

Dean groans again and ignores the unfamiliar way his throat quivers. He stands up and decides, well, hell. Day’s got to start anyway. He is good at this part. He pulls open his closet and squints down as his new body, taking a guess. His pajamas have stretched thin over the curve of his gut and spread of his hips, so his regular-day clothes probably won’t fit on this body. That’s okay, though; he keeps a pretty wide range of clothing sizes available for situations like this.

He dresses in his favorite wide legged jeans and a T-shirt, donning a large flannel button-down. He doesn’t get to wear these jeans often, since they’re too big for him during his regular-days, and the worn-out denim is at least comfortable. It’s worse when he’s in a body that’s much shorter; he struggles all day when he’s in those.

He grabs a spare toothbrush and cleans his face with cleanser and toner before shaving — it’s pointless, he knows that, it’s just going to bug him all day if he doesn’t — and by the time he’s done, he’s starving.

Dean holds his chin between his fingers, tilting his face left to right. He looks at it closely in the mirror. His mom had taught him how to survive: Don’t let anyone find out, be careful, be cautious, be prepared. And, most importantly, don’t touch anyone.

Only thing is, Dean is just a regular person outside of this weird ability, and sometimes people brush against him. Public transport is his own personal hell. And yesterday, he clearly touched someone, because the poor guy in the mirror is going to die and Dean’s got to wear his face until he does.

He wants to go get breakfast at Wesley’s coffee shop. But Wes’s is the place he goes to the most and if he did bump into someone, it was probably there. Running into the guy whose body you’re wearing has proven to be a complete and total shitshow. It’s the time he feels closest to the death omen he’s supposed to be.

Plus, if he’s being honest, seeing Wes in a different body always freaks him out. He’s always worried that he’ll slip up and say something wrong. Or that Wes will just… know. He’ll just take one look at Dean and know that he’s him, no matter what body he’s wearing.

Or, worse, that he’ll look at Dean and he won’t be able to tell at all.

It’s just best for Dean to avoid the whole situation and hope, however terrible it is, that the guy passes before tomorrow.

Dean calls his boss, coughing heavily, and agrees that, yes, it is weird that one of the flare-ups of his weird, chronic, bed-ridden fatigue syndrome involves voice fluctuations. He’s grateful that his mom had the foresight to forge the proper documentation and doctor’s notes to get him a lifetime of excuses, even if he can’t get proper insurance now. And, too, he’s grateful his boss isn’t so much of an asshole that he hasn’t fired Dean for all these random call-offs. Sure, it’s mostly the fear of being sued, but Dean knows the guy’s not all bad.

I’ll work extra when I feel better, Dean promises.

Jefferson lets out a small laugh that’s only half distracted by trying to fill his next shift. You always do. Feel better.

Dean puts his phone back on the charger and sighs. He’ll have to do double shifts the next two nights at the auto shop if he’s going to not get behind; he’s the best small engine mechanic they’ve got and, for some reason, all of Penbrooke Ridge seems to be extremely preoccupied with having the smallest, most expensive cars possible.

He makes breakfast and coffee, discovers in the most unpleasant way that this new body is seriously allergic to gluten, and flips on that new cooking show that Wesley recommended to him.

He can’t go see his best friend at his coffee shop, not looking like this, but texting is fine. He grabs his phone so hard it unplugs the charger from the wall and he’s grateful to be in the apartment alone so no one sees him flushing.

Wesley has been Dean’s best friend since the two of them ran into each other — literally — ten

Reviews for Faces of Love

[Kelsey Laurent · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was such an interesting concept! I loved how this unfolded and could read 200 more pages of this story.