Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(11)

“Just make sure you tell her it’s formal. I assume you’re wearing a suit?”

Silence.

“Dexter, are you listening?”

I glance down at the Blue Chip stock portfolios stacked on my desk. The three million plus dollar contract, open to its annual shareholder’s report, sits atop another one point five-million-dollar portfolio I manage.

Millions of dollars, dividends, and reserves; all whose investment future earnings rest in my capable hands while my mother lectures me on the phone about a girlfriend I don’t even have.

This irony is not lost on me.

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Formal attire.” Pause. “And Dexter?”

“Yeah?” The pen in my hand stops drawing circles, and I flick it across the desk. It hits the hard surface of the wall, ricochets then falls off the far edge with a satisfying clatter.

“We’re happy for you honey.”

I can only grunt out a reply.





This is ridiculous.

I’ve been staring at my phone for the better half of an hour, debating my options about whether or not to call Daphne.

I mean, other than the fact that this is a horrible f*cking idea, why not pick up the phone and call?

So:

I hunt her number down online and call her at work to propose this ridiculous scheme.

Or.

I can not call Daphne, inventing an elaborate explanation for her absence to appease my meddlesome family.

Or.

I can do the honorable thing and show up to the engagement party alone; tell everyone the truth. There would be no shame in that, simple misunderstanding that it was.

But if I’m being honest…

I want to see her again.

Not gonna lie.

Fucked up as it sounds, I’m willing to concoct an elaborate charade and look like an ass just to see her again.

I think about my mom and my sisters, then my dickhead cousin Elliot, whose guaran-goddamn-tee’d to have his ex-girlfriend Kara at the party hanging all over him, even though he’s broken up with her a few times.

See, Elliot subscribes to the motto man-kind isn’t meant for monogamy. His past girlfriends, historically, eventually find issue with this motto, and once they do—they typically begin the process of trying to change him (ie. get him to be faithful). Immediately getting themselves dumped.

Elliot has dumped Kara twice, once at a family function, and once before Valentine’s Day just so he wouldn’t have to pay for a fancy dinner on the 14th.

They got back together on the 15th.

Kara, who has huge surgically enhanced tits, bleach blonde hair, and applies her make up with a painter’s palette knife. Kara, who has the IQ of a plastic Barbie doll—maybe even lower. Kara, who giggles like an eight-year-old. My point is: Elliot thinks he’s hot shit because he’s dating a woman that looks like a Playboy centerfold.

Kara’s elevator might not go all the way to the top floor, but Elliot thinks she’s smoking hot and his opinion is the only one that counts.

I guess I’d feel like hot shit too if I liked parading around cheap looking woman.

Which I do not.

My last girlfriend, Charlotte, was a paralegal at a law firm whose offices occupy the top floor in our building. Classy and serious, we both ultimately wanted the same things out a relationship—marriage, kids, and a house outside of the city.

But there was always something missing; something exciting.

Everything with Char was… fine. Predictable.

Vanilla.

Boring?

Missionary sex, buttoned-up cardigan sweaters—even on the weekends—unless she was wearing her Northwestern sweatshirt to do her gardening. Yawn.

Char was cute, if not a little… plain. Straight brown bob trimmed exactly every six weeks, serious brown eyes, she reserved her mega-watt smiles for the partners in her law firm, her close friends, and occasionally—me.

Bottom line: the sight of her entering a room didn’t get my dick hard.

The staid climate of our relationship wasn’t doing it for me anymore. There was never any anticipation. Never any spontaneity.

Never any fun.

Sure, I’ve been on a few dates since breaking it off with Charlotte; with more quiet, serious girls. Girls who sipped wine and stopped at one glass. Girls who counted networking as a hobby, drank three double shot Starbucks a day so they could work late, and gave tight smiles instead of laughing.

Fucking depressing.

And for whatever reason, my * cousin finds it hilarious to bring up my relationship status at every opportunity. No idea why. Like having a date is supposed to define my character. Like having a date makes me more masculine.

Honestly, I’d rather be completely alone and a decent guy, than a douchebag with a shitty date.

Elliot is a dickhole.

My thoughts stray to Daphne, her long silky hair and green eyes. The black framed glasses. Her glossy pink lips tipped up into a sly smile. Her sexy, easy, musical laugh.

I palm the computer mouse, scrolling it around its pad, waiting for my Dundler Mifflin screensaver to disappear, and pull up Google.

Type in Dorser & Kohl Marketing.

The firm’s website pops up in the search results, and I click on the link, scrolling through the site for employee profiles until I find hers.

Daphne Winthrop: Junior Vice President of Public Relations.