Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(14)

Before I can respond, he continues. “You met my Aunt Bethany—did she look like someone who was going to keep our little meeting at the theater a secret? No. The first thing she did from her car in the parking lot was call my mom, who was with my sisters and aunts. So. Yeah.”

When he rakes his fingers through his hair, the ends stick up haphazardly.

“Normally I wouldn’t commit you to something like that—I mean, we just met and who am I, right? A virtual stranger. Not someone you’d want to spend your weekend with, I get that.”

My mouth opens to disagree, but he interrupts.

“I have this cousin Elliot who is a complete douche.” My eyebrows go up—not from the word douche; but from his use of it. Dexter looks too clean cut and proper to be hurling out vulgarities. “It’s getting really f*cking old. When my mom called and put me on the spot, I didn’t tell her no. So there you have it. I’m in something of a bind, and you’re the only one who can help me out of it.”

He unsteeples his hands, clasping them instead. “What do you say? Can you stand to spend the night with me as my fake date?”

Wait. Did Dexter just ask me out on a date? My heart skips a beat and I grin so hard my cheeks begin to ache.

“A date?”

Date? Date!

Oh!

“A fake date,” he clarifies.

Oh.

“A fake date.” I repeat.

“Precisely.” He nods definitively. “Totally fake. Just drinks, dinner, and if I know my cousin Grace, probably some dancing—but nothing romantic on my end.” His hands go up in surrender with a chuckle. “Promise.”

Something inside of me deflates. That flare of excitement distinguishes.

I muster up a weak smile.

Oblivious, Dexter grins. “If you could just do me this one favor, it would be huge. I would owe you a favor. Maybe even manage your retirement account,” he laughs again. “I could probably double your savings in under seven years.”

He peers at me hopefully. Naively.

What idiots.

Him. Me. Both of us.

“So? What do you think?”

What do I think? What do I think?

I think it’s a horrible, stupid, insulting idea. I’m hurt. Pissed. Confused.

So utterly disappointed.

I want to smack him.

He watches me expectantly, his eyes detailing the play of emotions across my face, pushing those black framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He looks so… pleased with his idea that my shoulders sag and I feel myself breaking down and giving in.

God, I’m such a sucker.

I make a show of checking the calendar on my phone, poke randomly at the keypad on my phone, and paste a fake grin on my face before announcing, “I don’t have anything going on this weekend, so yeah. That would work.”

He leans forward. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ll do it.” My brows furrow at his reaction. “Why do you look so surprised?”

The glasses get pushed up again. “I just assumed a girl like you would have plans. A date maybe.”

“Like a real date as opposed to this fake one?” The dig makes those big, chocolate brown eyes widen, so I shrug it off with a joke. “Naw, unless you count me rooted to my couch Netflix and Chilling with my bad self.” I recline back on the sofa and cross my legs. “Okay, we’re doing this. So what’s the plan?”





My palms are sweating.

I glance over at Daphne in the passenger seat of my silver Audi, her eyes scanning the landscape as we roll past; houses and businesses becoming further and further apart as I navigate my way out of the city. The long column of her graceful neck is illuminated by the dim glow of street lights.

It’s on the cooler side this evening, but Daphne’s creamy shoulders are bare beneath a simple, baby blue halter-top thing with a pearl neckline. Tucked into a black, knee-length pencil skirt, the top has a bow at the collar, cream colored ribbons tail down her bare back.

Simple, black strappy heels. Toes painted a shiny dark red I couldn’t help noticing when I picked her up, it’s almost as if she put real effort into getting ready. The kind of effort a woman puts into a real date; a real date she’s nervous and excited about.

That she anticipated.

I don’t know what I was expecting to find when she eagerly swung the door open to her condo earlier, but it’s safe to assume: this wasn’t it.

She looks incredible. Sweet. Undeniably sexy.

Unattainable yet approachable.

My eyes drop to her tan legs. I want to call them glowing—but that’s not right, is it? Glowing? Shit, I don’t f*cking know. They look freshly shaved and must feel smooth if the way she’s running her palms around her knees is any indication; up and down her knees in slow circular motions, probably to torture me for coming up with this dumbass idea in the first place.

I give those legs another sidelong glance, trying to erase the desire I feel for her from altering my expression. It remains pleasant. Passive.

Another quick glance as Daphne idly traces her knee cap with the tip of a forefinger has me hoarsely clearing my throat because, dammit, stop touching your legs.

Tightening my grip on the steering column, I focus on the road and pull onto the highway, blowing out a pent up puff of air.

I should have just told my mom I wasn’t bringing a date. Or been more firm in my resolve that Daphne is just a friend. But can someone be your friend when you’ve only met twice? I might not be a rocket scientist in the female department, but somehow, even I doubt it.