Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(13)

My eyes damn near bug out of my skull. Today?

She wants to meet today?

I recall a lecture given to me by my twin, fifteen-year old sisters about the hazards of responding to a text message immediately: you just, like, don’t do it unless you’re a loser.

I disregard their instructions.

It’s stupid advice.



Me: Yeah, today is great. What time and place work best for you?



Her reply, too, is almost immediate.

I grin stupidly.



Daphne: I can probably cut out of work early and bring some things home. So how does two o’clock sound? Do you know where Blooming Grounds is?



Blooming Grounds is the coffee shop where my childhood friend, Collin, and his girlfriend Tabitha, first began their relationship. It also happens to be less than a block from the offices of Halyard Capitol Investments & Securities.

It will take me five minutes to walk there.



Me: Two works fine. I will see you at Blooming Grounds.

Me: Wait. What can I have waiting for you when you get there?

Daphne: How about an iced latte and a blueberry scone?

Me: Will do. See you at 2

Daphne: LOL



I stare at that last message from Daphne: LOL.

LOL?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is she laughing at something I said? Does she not want me to meet her at two? How the hell am I supposed to interpret L-O-freaking-L?

Shit.

I’m twenty-six f*cking years old and I need a goddamn girl translator. A nervous knot forms in my stomach; she’s either going to laugh in my face when she hears my proposal and tell me to f*ck off, or…

I don’t even want to think about the alternative.





I can’t stop watching the clock and counting down the minutes.

One o’clock.

One fifteen.

One twenty-three.

At one forty-five, I shut down my computer. Gathering my belongings, I stuff them in the leather tote I use as a briefcase, and head out to meet Dexter.

There’s a carefree little spring in my step as I walk out to my car—a pep that only intensifies with my heart beat when I make the quick drive to the coffee shop, sliding into a tight little parallel parking spot like a champ.

Nervously, I run a hand over my hair, smoothing down the fly-aways. Staring at my reflection in the mirrored sun visor, I wonder what it is about me that had Dexter hesitating to ask me out after the movie—I don’t usually get push back from men when I want them to take me out; quite the opposite in fact.

I snap the mirrored sun visor down and grab my purse—a few brisk steps later I’m stepping through the door of Blooming Grounds. The funky interior assails my senses as I take in the eclectic vibe; miss-matched couches line the walls, large green velvet wing back chairs flank the fireplace that’s the focal point of the room, and small intimate tables take up the rest of the space.

It’s warm. Cozy.

I brush a few tendrils of my long, brown hair out of my face; it’s pulled back in a loose chignon, an old-fashioned style that’s messy yet sophisticated. Classy yet fun. It looks a whole hell of a lot more complicated than it actually is, and looks amazing.

I pat the back of it confidently letting my green eyes scan the coffee shop, easily finding Dexter seated at a sofa in the corner. Our eyes connect.

He rises.

I take him in from head to toe; a starched, white button down shirt is tucked into slate gray slacks, a slim blue/black and white necktie falling crisply to his waistline. He rakes a hand down that silk tie before adjusting a pair of black glasses; a move I’ve come to recognize as a nervous habit.

His lips tip into a crooked smile at my approach, and I weave through empty tables towards him.

“Hi,” comes my breathless salutation.

“Thanks for coming.” Dexter shoves both his hands in the pockets of his pants, then removes them—fidgeting as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. I find a spot on the sofa and sit, resting my purse on the worn, patchwork cushions.

Comfy.

He sits in the overstuffed chair across from me, spreading his legs wide and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He steeples his fingertips.

I try not to look between his legs—I really, really do—but I’m not gonna lie to you; I sneak a covert peek at his crotch, my face engulfed in flames when my eyes land on the outline of his… junk.

Holy shit, I can actually see it through the fabric of his pleated, conservative dress pants; the telltale bulge of his… Oh my god.

I am the absolute worst.

The. Worst.

A horrible, perverted human being.

Yup, it’s official: Tabitha isn’t the only one with a dirty mind.

Although… I am a single, warm-blooded female—one that likes guys and relationships and sex. Definitely sex.

Shooting Dexter a guilty smile, I busy myself, taking large sips from the straw in my latte, mentally chastising myself for having such a depraved mind.

I give the ice in my plastic cup a shake, unable to look him in the eye.

Poor guy doesn’t have a clue.





“I’m just going to put this out there to save us time.” Dexter takes a deep breath, and exhales. “I told my mom that you’d be at my cousin Grace’s engagement party.”