Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(12)

Buttoned to the collar in a blouse, she’s leaning against a stone building, arms crossed. Black blazer and pressed slacks, profile shot is classy, conservative and professional.

I read her bio; Age, 26. Graduated from State with a BA in Business. Alum of two professional fraternity organizations. Volunteer coordinator for a women’s shelter. Hobbies: travel, skiing and reading.

It says nothing about StarGate, alternative Universes, or fangirling over vintage Sci-Fi movies. In fact, everything about her bio reads as ‘my usual type.’

Exactly my type.

Only I know differently.

My hand hovers over the mouse, and I scroll until I find her contact information. Eight seconds later I’m staring, in color, at her phone number. Should I call? Text? Or send an email?

What the hell am I going to say? Hi Daphne, this is Dexter Ryan. Remember me from last night? I’m going to need you at that engagement party my aunt was yammering on-and-on about. Turns out my family is riding my ass. They’re driving me crazy, and you’d be doing me a huge favor if you pretended to be my girlfriend for an evening…

Right; because that doesn’t sound f*cked up.

And yet, I don’t abandon the idea entirely—not with my buddy Collin running around in my head shouting ‘Balls to the wall, Dex. Balls to the f*cking walls!’ Collin, who pursued his girlfriend relentlessly, and who doesn’t give a shit what people think of him.

He’d call her without hesitating and expect me to do the same. Shit, he’d dial the phone for me.

But unlike Collin’s girlfriend Tabitha, this gorgeous girl is not going to want me to call her.

No way.

I palm the phone in my hand and push the glasses up the bridge of my nose, leaning back in my desk chair and swiveling it around a few times before setting the phone back down. My computer pings with an email notification and I rotate my chair back towards the desktop, click open the message, scanning it absentmindedly.

Noting that it’s just a follow up on an account I just picked up from a competitor’s firm, I flag it as priority, but close the window.

I can’t focus.

Frustrated, I raise both hands and run my fingers through my thick brown hair, shake my head and let out a loud groan.

“Dammit!” I curse loudly.

Loud enough that my secretary Vanessa sticks her head in my office door.

Shit.

“Is everything okay in here, Sir?” Worry is etched across her face, but that’s nothing new. A few weeks ago, Vanessa f*cked up some client files and almost lost us a major account; these days her paranoia with the risk of being fired is at an all-time high—despite my constant reassurances that her job is secure.

For the moment, anyway.

“No. Sorry about that. Everything is fine.”

Vanessa stands idly for a few seconds, her heavily mascaraed lashes sticking together briefly as she blinks rapidly at me from the doorway. Tapping the steel doorframe with the palm her hand, so nods slowly. “Sir, do you need anything while I’m up?”

My lips compress in a thin line; I hate when she calls me Sir. It makes me feel like an old man. “Nope. I’m good.”

Her coal rimmed eyes narrow. “Alright, if you say so…”

Grabbing my phone, I click open the NEW MESSAGE tab and hit COMPOSE. Then I stare at the small screen, thumbs hovering above the touch screen keypad far too long.



Me: Daphne, this is Dexter. This might seem really random, but I was hoping you’d be available this week at some point for a quick lunch or coffee?



Before second-guessing myself, I hit SEND, tap out more messages to random co-workers, switch the ringer to ‘vibrate,’ and push the phone to the corner of my desk in an attempt to forget about it. It lays there, unmoving for the next six minutes.

I flip it over to check the display screen.

Nothing.

Three seconds later, I check it again.

Still nothing.

This is ridiculous—what the hell am I doing? Not only is this sudden onslaught of nerves uncharacteristic, I have shit tons of work to do with little time to waste. Stacks of paperwork with millions of dollars at stake, and here I sit, staring at my goddamn cell phone as if I’m expecting it to sprout wings and fly.

Frustrated by my own insecurities, I pull the top drawer of my desk open and toss the phone in, slamming it shut with resounding bang.

Another four minutes go by and I’ve accomplished nothing but listening in the silence for my phone’s telltale rumble.

Another three, and I’ve manage to wad up eight pieces of printer paper and basketball toss them to the corner trash can.

Five of them land on the carpet.

I’m about to stand and toss them in the garbage when a low buzzing inside the drawer halts my actions, the vibrating sends my phone thumping spastically inside the hollow wooden interior.

Dammit. I forgot to silence it.

My pulse accelerates.

I lean back in my desk chair, looking into the hall for Vanessa, paranoid— like I’m about to do something criminal and don’t want to get caught—before pulling the drawer open and retrieving my sleek phone.

One new message.

It’s her.

A bead of sweat actually forms on my brow, and I wipe it with the sleeve of my white dress shirt before swiping open the message center.



Daphne: Will today work?