Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(17)

“—Dexter.”

“So cute.” They’re like an echo.

It’s freaky.

A smile tips my lips, and I’m honest. “Your brother is so sweet, and… such a gentleman. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.”

Beside me, Dexter lets out a painful groan. “Sweet? Nice? That’s horrible.”

I nudge him with my knee. “Oh stop. It’s a compliment.”

He’s not convinced. “Sweet and nice—exactly what every warm-blooded American guy wants to be called. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘nice guys finish last?’ Story of my freaking life.”

His sisters are watching us now, wide eyed. The one in pink take a long sip from her water glass, while the other one pokes at the chicken on her plate. For once, they’re silent.

“Nice guys finish last? That’s not true,” I argue. “If they finish last, then what am I doing here?”

Dexter’s lips purse. I can tell exactly what he’s thinking: you’re here because you’re doing me a favor.

I give my head a tiny shake. That’s not true—not true at all.

He raises an eyebrow skeptically.

I raise mine.

“Someone outgoing and beautiful doesn’t do dull and predictable.” His voice is low.

“How are you dull?”

Across the table, the twins lean forward in their chairs, hanging on our every word. Every syllable.

Dexter crosses his arms. “I work a lot.”

Pfft. “Big deal, so do I.”

It’s then that Dexter removes his glasses… Transfixed, I watch as he wipes under his eyes before he meets my wide-eyed stare, his gaze boring into me. Long inky black lashes that should be outlawed on a man. Deep brown irises surrounded by tiny flecks of amber.

With his glasses he’s adorkable.

Without them, Dexter is… is…

Holy. Hot.

I gaze.

I stare.

I gape at him stupidly.

One of the twins coughs to cover a snicker.

The other titters.

My date uses a linen napkin to wipe the lenses, oblivious to my enamored gawking, gives his head a shake, the moment fleeting when he places the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

“So Daphne, where did my brother take you on your first date?”

I take a sip of wine then to occupy my hands, and buy myself a few extra seconds before responding. “We went to see StarGate,” I say truthfully. “Sat in the theater after it was over talking until they kicked us out, didn’t we?”

Dexter nods, glasses firmly back in place.

Amelia scrunches up her nose. His sisters are not impressed. “You took her to see StarGate? Lame!”

With a laugh, I add, “Yes, but I happen to be a huge Sci-Fi junkie. So I wasn’t horrified—not like you are right now.”

The twins peer at us warily, giving each other sidelong glances. “What about your second date.”

“Our second date?”

Shoot, Dexter and I discussed this in the car on the way here, didn’t we? Crap, where did we say we went on our second date? With his sisters aiming their focus on me with laser beam accuracy, suddenly I can’t remember. Or we hadn’t thought this far ahead.

“We… our second date?”

Lucy’s eyes are definitely narrowed doubtfully. “You can’t remember where your second date was?”

Dexter pushes out a laugh. “Was it so boring that you’ve already forgotten?” His hand brushes my palm affectionately—the way a real boyfriend would do. “We went to a wine bar.”

The twins scrunch up their noses. “You said you met at a wine bar. So did you meet there, or take her there on your second date?”

They wait.

“You know what? I’m twenty-six years old—you don’t get to cross-examine me, questioning my motives. You’re fifteen.”

“Sixteen in less than three weeks,” they clarify.

“That’s not my point—”

“Aww Dex, you should see yourself, all flustered.” Amelia cuts him off, preening happily before whipping out her cell and snapping a duck face selfie. “You’re—”

“—So adorable.”

“Dex, are you going to dance with her after dinner?” Amelia asks at the same time Lucy says, “They’re setting up now and starting after dinner.”

They both sigh. “Before dessert is served.”

They sigh again. “Cake.”

I can hardly keep up with their conversation.

Lucy pulls out her phone, checks the time, and then gestures us closer together. “Okay you little lovebirds. Scootch so I can get a picture.”

“Can we post this on our Instagram?” Amelia asks.

“Hashtag our brother’s hot new girlfriend.” Lucy adds while Amelia chastises, “Nobody uses hashtags anymore, Lucy. Nobody.”

Lucy ignores her. “But can we?”

“Scoot closer,” the voices probe.

We do. We scoot closer, Dexter extending his arm and resting it on my chair back. I lean back, into the crux of his elbow, the heat from his body brushing the skin of my exposed back.

I shiver.

My hand finds his upper thigh—like it would if I was his real girlfriend—and without hesitating, I rest it there and fight the impulse to give it a good squeeze. It would be tacky to feel him up at the dinner table, wouldn’t it?