Admittedly, when Chloe pictured making an entrance, this wasn't what she had in mind.

She huffed, balancing on her left foot as she rang the doorbell. Bloody hell, it was freezing. Was London always this cold in December? She wiggled her bare toes. Damn that grate in South Kensington. Her high heel was probably still there, smugly wedged between two iron bars. It wasn't her fault that it chose to abandon her.

Chloe stumbled slightly.

Ah, bollocks.

This part was her fault.

She hadn't meant to get pissed, exactly; it was really Rosie's fault for buying her shot after shot at the pub, and also the client's fault for making her boss do it. Working in marketing, Chloe reflected morosely, was the quickest path to liver failure.

But they had managed to close the deal, and Chloe was now £500 richer.

Admittedly, she was also monumentally pissed and shoe-less.

But she would deal with that later.

The door swung open. A tall, young blond man stood in the threshold, blinking at her. His face was shadowed, but Chloe could make out a reindeer jumper.

"Jack," she croaked.

She knew it was Jack. He might look identical to his twin brother, Logan, but she could always tell which Winters boy it was. Jack slouched more. And this boy smelled like orange hot chocolate, which was a dead giveaway; Jack was addicted to the stuff.

"Oh, for god's sake," Jack sighed. "You're pissed, aren't you?"

"No."

"Chloe Cartwright." He looked at her sternly. "Don't lie to me."

She rolled her eyes. "Look, are you going to let me in or not?"

Mariah Carey spilled into the street, filling the frozen air with sleigh bells and melodious crescendos. Chloe scowled. Stupid Mariah Carey and her stupid song. Forget men — all Chloe wanted for Christmas was a new liver.

And about twenty mince pies.

"Jack," she whined, clutching her bare foot. "It's freezing."

Jack cast his eyes to the heavens. Then he ushered her inside, half-carrying her up the stairs and into the toilet. Chloe knew better than to protest as he thrust a bottle of mouth wash towards her, along with a pair of wool socks.

"Thanks," she muttered.

Jack eyed her dirty bare foot. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not." Chloe pulled a face. "Are my parents here?"

"They just arrived."

Chloe groaned, trailing Jack back downstairs. Oh, god. This just got worse and worse. She usually looked forward to the Winters' annual tree-trimming, but in recent years, her parents had turned it into a game that Chloe liked to call "Nothing Much." It was their favourite game post-divorce.

It usually went like this.

"Amanda, darling!" her father would say. "What have you been up to lately?"

"Oh, nothing much, John; I've just been in Cannes. Yourself?"

"How lovely! Oh, nothing much; I just bought a new yacht."

"A new yacht?"

"Oh, but it's small; nothing much, really."

And on and on it went until her parents ran out of oxygen or Chloe had sufficiently drank enough to forget that the game was even going on.

Alas.

It seemed tonight, she was cut off.

"No," Jack hissed, swatting her hand away from a wine glass. "Not in your state."

Chloe pouted. "What if I mixed it in with hot chocolate?"

"That's rank."

"Not the wine," Chloe said, exasperated. "Bailey's." She nodded at his hot chocolate. "I presume that's what you have?"

"I'm impressed you can still say presume."

Chloe scowled at him. Jack, unfortunately, took no notice. They had arrived in the living room, and even now — after two decades of helping the Winters decorate their tree — Chloe was in awe of it. The 15-foot pine tree was already decked in ski lift passes, popcorn strings, and playdough ornaments that the twins made growing up.

And there, underneath it, was Logan.

Chloe's mouth went dry.

He was chatting amiably with her mother, swirling a glass of port. His black polo made his blond hair look especially bright, and square glasses were perched on his nose. Chloe  gritted her teeth. Damn those sexy Clark Kent glasses.

They should be outlawed.

He looked up and caught her eye.

"Chlo-ster!"

Logan bounded forward, ruffling her dark hair. Chloe felt a little faint. Admittedly, that could also be the tequila — it was hard to say.

"Where's your Christmas jumper?" she asked, smirking.

"Where's the rest of you?"

Chloe flushed. "I'm not that short."

Logan rested an elbow atop her 5'1 frame, as if to prove a point. Jack scowled at the pair of them. Or maybe it was just Chloe; she suspected he hadn't forgiven her for showing up to their house in a right state.

"Why don't we hang some ornaments?" he said tightly.

Logan did the brunt of the work, scrambling up and down the ladder with ease. Jack was in charge of topping up drinks. Chloe politely listened as Richard Winters railed against the Labour Party, glancing longingly towards the red wine; she was only saved by the arrival of his wife, Laura.

"Chloe!" She swooped in, giving her a hug. "You look so beautiful, darling."

"Thanks."

"What's that scent?" Laura demanded. "Vanilla?"

"Jasmine," Chloe said innocently.

And tequila. Mixed with Rosie's cigarette smoke.

It took Chloe a minute to realize that Laura was still speaking.

"...and you'll be coming to the party on Thursday, won't you?"

Chloe blinked. "Er, what?"

"Our party," Laura prompted. "On December fourth?" She glanced at Jack. "You told her, darling, didn't you?"

Jack frowned. "I think so."

"No," Chloe said, twisting to face Jack. "No, you definitely did not." Her heart was galloping faster than a reindeer on cocaine. "But you always have the party on Christmas Eve," she told Laura weakly. "That's ages away."

Three weeks, in fact.

Chloe had circled the date in red on her calendar. With Logan's name beside it, because she was psychotic. And she knew it.

"Oh, we're still having the big do then," Laura said cheerfully. "This one is more of a festive cocktail party."

Oh, god. That gave her — Chloe did the mental math — seventy-five hours to get her legs waxed and her nails painted before the cocktail party. Oh, and she needed a new dress. Obviously.

Her eyes flicked to Logan.

He liked red, didn't he? He had complimented her red bikini once, during a family holiday in France. But that might be too commonplace. Everyone would be wearing red.

Gold?

Navy?

Oh, god. She was spiraling.

Jack gave her an odd look. "You okay, Chloe?"

"Mmmhmm."

"You sure?" Jack frowned, setting down an ornament. "Because you look like you did in Amsterdam, after you ate that bad cheese and you—"

"Okay," Chloe said. "More decorations, I think!"

She lunged for Jack's discarded ornament — a rock-climbing Santa Claus — and swung blindly towards the Christmas tree. She didn't particularly like rock-climbing, but, you know; it was better than discussing her bowel movements.

Logan appeared at her shoulder.

"I forgot about this," he said fondly, tapping the ornament. "I got it during my competition in Canada two summers ago."

Scratch that.

Chloe loved rock-climbing. She always had.

"I love climbing," she blurted, and Jack gave her an odd look.

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"You hate sports."

Chloe gritted her teeth. She was going to kill him. Really, she was. She grabbed the ladder, ignoring the way the room spun slightly.

"I love sports," she declared, hopping on to it. "In fact, I—"

The ladder rocked sideways. Chloe let out a little shriek, toppling sideways, and Logan shot forward to catch her. His warm hands pressed into her white jumper. Smirking, Logan plucked the ornament out of her hand.

"Let me," he murmured. "I don't want to risk breaking your pretty face."

Chloe abruptly forgot how to breathe. Had he just said—?

Did Logan Winters call her pretty?

Her heart was still racing as Logan set her down. Come to think of it, maybe tree decorating wasn't so bad.

"Hang on," her mother said, eyeing the overturned ladder. "Have you been drinking, Chloe?"

Chloe flushed.

Oops.

"So you're going the party, right?" Rowan demanded.

Chloe's flatmate was slumped on the sofa, a laptop in one hand and a bowl of Prawn Cocktail crisps in the other. Technically, Rowan was supposed to be finishing up some accounting work. But given the severity of the situation, they had broken out the snacks.

"Obviously," Chloe said dryly.

"And you still fancy Logan?"

"Correct."

Rowan hugged her knees into her chest. Her red hair was pulled up in a scrunchy, and she was wearing pink fuzzy socks. They made her feet look like candy floss.

"What about Jack?" she asked.

Chloe wrinkled her nose. "What about him?"

"Well, do you fancy him, too?"

Chloe spat out several crisps. Rowan gave a shriek, scrambling backwards, her hands folded protectively in front of her white jumper. Cashmere, too, Chloe noticed regretfully. Shame. That stuff was expensive.

"Sorry," she said hoarsely. "I'll pay for the cleaning."

Rowan waved her off. "I take it that's a no to Jack, then?"

"That's a no."

"Don't they look the same?"

"Well, yes," Chloe admitted. "But they're totally different. Logan is charming and funny and handsome. Jack is..." She trailed off. "Well, he's Jack."

She couldn't think of how else to describe him. Jack was a pug-loving, high-strung biology student obsessed with orange hot chocolate. She knew him so well that it was impossible to describe him. Like trying to sum up your favourite book in a single line.

Rowan smiled slyly. "So you find Jack attractive, then."

"Rowan!"

"What?" Rowan raised her hands defensively. "I'm just saying, on a physical level, it's impossible to fancy one Winters boy without fancying the other. That's all."

Chloe sighed. She supposed Rowan was right; Jack and Logan were identical. Their blond hair, blue eyes, tall, lean frames — they were a cookie-cutter version of each other. But that didn't make them the same.

"I don't like Jack," Chloe said firmly. "It's always been Logan."

Chloe was certain of it. She had spent most of her childhood chasing after Logan on a bicycle, or scribbling his name on her doll house when nobody was looking. It drove Jack mad. She once caught him cutting Logan's picture out of her yearbook.

Bit dramatic, really.

She had him on Instagram, after all.

Things had calmed down when Chloe went to an all-girls secondary school; she had dated a few other men when she left for university, and she managed to convince Jack that she no longer wanted to marry Logan and have his babies. But bloody hell; when she saw Logan looking like he had today...

Well, it was a good thing Chloe no longer owned a doll house.

Or permanent markers.

"You'll do my hair?" Chloe asked. "For the party?"

Rowan scoffed. "Of course."

"And my make-up?"

Rowan sighed, but made a noise of assent. The poor girl worked split her time between the jewelry and make-up counters in Harrods, which meant she spent most days applying eyeliner to crabby middle-aged women. But it came in handy. Like now, for example.

"And you'll pick out my dress?" Chloe asked hopefully.

Rowan considered this. "Fine. But only on one condition."

"Name it."

"You have to tell Logan how you feel," Rowan said smugly. "I mean it, Chloe," she warned, clearly sensing that Chloe was gearing up for a row. "I've had enough of your whinging. Just tell the poor bloke that you're in love with him."

"I'm not in love with him," Chloe muttered.

"Liar."

"Oh, shut-up." Her cheeks were warm. "At least I don't have a poster of Lewis Capaldi in my bedroom."

"It's a canvas print," Rowan said, horrified. "As if I'd sink to putting Lewis on paper." She shuddered. "He deserves far better."

Chloe collapsed back into the sofa, staring mutinously at the empty bowl of crisps. For god's sake; she was 23 years old. She had a kickass career, great friends, and she could make a shockingly good smoked trout with crème fraîche.

She could bloody well tell Logan Winters that she fancied him.

And she would.

At the party.

A/N: Hello, hello! Welcome to "No Two Are Alike" :)

I'll be posting this story like an advent calendar, with one new chapter appearing every day from December 1 to 25. The story basically unfolds in real life (e.g. Dec. 1 for the characters is also Dec. 1 for us) so you can follow along in the run-up to Christmas.

Until tomorrow!

Affectionately,

J.K.