Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(18)

Especially since this isn’t a real date.

Right?

I sigh, disappointed, as the flash from the cell goes off.

“Aren’t you going to touch her?” His sisters ask him skeptically, clearly disgusted by our lack of PDA.

A look passes between the two of them; a knowing, secretive glance that’s slightly disturbing and has me narrowing my green eyes.

“I am touching her,” Dexter deadpans, flopping his hand near my shoulder. Near but not on. “See?”

“Dex,” they coax. “This picture is gonna suck if you don’t get your faces closer together.”

“Oh, God forbid.” Sarcasm becomes him.

“Maybe kiss her cheek,” one twin suggests playfully with a simper, holding her phone out. They snap a few more selfies before aiming the cell back towards us. “Ready?”

“Closer.”

Dexter’s chest presses into my back and his hand comes down off the back of my seat. It covers my bare shoulder, solid and big and warm. His thumb caresses back and forth against my skin before he catches himself doing it and stops. Once.

Twice.

I shiver, catching Lucy’s knowing grin.

She winks at me above her iPhone.

Why, that sneaky little…

“Smile!”

“Say cheese!”

I beam until my face hurts. Turn my face. Inhale the woodsy, fresh scent of Dexter’s freshly shaven neck with no shame. I mean—since it’s right freaking there. His jaw is so strong and defined it’s just begging to be sniffed. Begging.

And it smells so…

So.

Good.

Down girl. He’s not into you like that.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Lucy nudge Amelia with her elbow, and the pair of them do another series of head nods and eyebrow raises that I’ve decided must be some weird Twin Speak.

Those two are trouble.

Double trouble.





So far, so good.

My parents haven’t completely embarrassed me; but then again, not wanting to scare Daphne away, they’ve given us a wide berth, twins notwithstanding.

Been on their best behavior.

No questions being fired off at a missile-launching pace. No intrusively personal questions. No uncomfortable or inappropriate statements containing the words marriage, babies, or give me grandbabies.

Well, unless you count my Aunt Tory telling Daphne the reception hall where her daughter Grace is having her wedding has an opening nineteen months from now—if we hurry, we can still book it.

Only three of every ten statements have been intrusive; I consider those very good statistics.

I’ve managed to shuffle my faux date to the dance floor, away from the inquisition but not the prying eyes; if anything, I’ve made us more vulnerable to speculation by hauling Daphne to the middle of the ballroom.

Under the dim lights of the crystal chandelier, joy radiates off her. Or maybe it’s just the reflection from the hundreds of prisms; either way, Daphne lets me hold her close and twirl her around, giggling at my tragic attempts at humor and grinning up at me at the appropriate times.

The urge to touch her intimately and pull her flush against my body is unbearable.

Either she’s truly enjoying herself, or she’s a terrific actress.

My cousin Gracie has hired some fancy cover-band from the city, and they’re belting out some low-rent version of Photograph by Ed Sheeran. Daphne and I sway in synch along to the beat—her hands lock around my neck in a definitively girlfriendy way.

Contemplating me affectionately, she’s acting like she adores me. A pink flush on her cheeks and fresh coat of gloss swiped across her lips. The look makes me—

Stop it Dex, this isn’t real.

The look isn’t real.

Because if it was, I would most definitely be dipping my neck and covering her mouth with mine to discover what flavor those glossy lips are.

But I won’t.

I won’t because that’s not what this is—because I didn’t have the balls to ask her on a real date.

And that’s the pisser of it all.

I scan the room, groaning inwardly at the sight of my Cousin Elliot casually resting his elbows against the wooden counter of the bar. He tips his highball glass and chin as a greeting, his assessment of my date evident all the way across the room. Elliot begins at her feet, his brows raising the longer he studies her perfect figure—her waist, her firm backside. I know the exact moment his perusal reaches her perfect breasts because his lascivious grin widens, dammit.

Our eyes meet.

My cousin gives me another cocky nod as my hands skim Daphne’s bare back, his mouth tipping into a toothy grin as he pushes himself away from the bar top. Turning towards the bartender, he throws down a few singles, says a few parting words, smacks our Uncle Dave on the back, and grabs his glass, weaving his way through the crowded reception room.

Towards us.

Determined.

Shit.

I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

Now, if Daphne was plain and unattractive this would be a different story.

But she’s not.

She’s gorgeous and sexy and out of my league. What’s worse, Elliot f*cking knows it; he plans to take full advantage.

“My cousin is on his way over.” I grumble, impulsively raising my hand to smooth it down Daphne’s long, wavy hair. It feels like I imagine spun silk to feel— like warm water cascading in a languid, steady stream through my fingers—and smells a whole hellova lot better. Like shampoo and honey and baby powder.