Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(2)

Greyson continues. “Skunks, opossums, squirrels; basically anything dead on the side of the road. Like, who does that?”

“I don’t even know if I can drink any more of this,” Bridget wrinkles her nose and stares down into her wine glass. “I think I just lost my appetite.”

“Don’t say you’ve lost your appetite, because I’m starving.” Tabitha successfully changes the subject, head swiveling around in search of a menu. “I think this place serves food. We should order something.”

My stomach and I grumble at the same time. “It probably only serves bird food to go with this wine. Like cheese and dry fruit and crap.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll just order double.”

Not seeing a menu, I hop down off my stool and dash to the bar to fetch one, returning with a few and setting them in the middle of the table. “Have at it ladies.”

I crack one open. “Okay, this looks good: brie wedge and warm raspberry compote.”

“Let’s also do the artichoke dip, and the bruschetta.”

Bridget rubs her hands together gleefully. “Yes and yes. And look, they have crab cakes, but you only get three, so we’ll have to order two.”

“We’re going to look like slobs,” I say, closing the menu and signaling the bartender with the flick of a wrist in the air, eying our round table dubiously. “Is this table big enough for all this food?”

“Do you care?”

I shrug, the pretty lavender scoop neck sweater I’m wearing falling down off my shoulder. “Well, no…”

Samantha pokes me with the corner of a menu. “Because I don’t see any guys here about to sweep you off your single feet. We’re free to do as we please. This is girl’s night.”

Disgruntled, I wrinkle my nose. “You’re all either engaged or in serious relationships. Being single sucks. Must you point out my deficiencies?”

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t my point! I’m just saying…”

Bridget throws her hands up to stop our banter. “Hold that thought. Rewind! A group of guys just entered the building, three o’clock.” We all crane our necks to get a good look, Bridget—the only one of us who’s engaged—straining the hardest to catch a peek. “One of them is pretty hot.”

“Um… what are you doing?” Greyson asks, shaking her pretty blonde head with a grin on her face.

Bridget winks and tosses her long, brown hair with a flip. “I’m scoping them out, of course. For Daphne.”

The bartender walks over with her stylus poised above her tablet to take our order and Greyson rattles off our selections, adding two more appetizers, along with another round of drinks.

“That should hold us over for a little bit,” she says, handing back the menus. “Thanks.” The bartender taps away on her tablet before nodding and walking off.

Bridget’s eyes are glued across the room, her wineglass poised at her cherry red lips. “What do you think those guys would say if they saw a shit ton of food show up at this tiny table?”

“What guys? Those guys?” Greyson’s hazel eyes widen with surprise, and she cranes her head to look around the dimly lit club. “Why are you staring over there so hard? You’re engaged.”

If anyone should be ogling that hard, it should be me.

“Jeez, don’t everyone look!” Samantha demands. “Yes, the guys who walked in before. They’re at the bar now and totally checking us out.”

Surreptitiously, we covertly sneak glances towards the front of the wine bar. Sure enough, on the far side of the room, seated along the rails, a small group of guys is in fact checking us out, doing nothing to conceal their interest.

One of them even points.

I do a quick count of the math: four of them. Five of us. Unfortunately for them, I’m the only single one in this group. Well, I suppose we could technically count Samantha as single because she broke up with her boyfriend just days ago; her status might be single, but emotionally she’s in no place to be picking up guys at a bar, sophisticated clientele or not.

We figured dragging her out tonight and plying her with alcohol would take her mind off Ben & Jerry.

“Crap, they look like they’re going to come over.” Greyson groans miserably; if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Grey, it’s that she might be outgoing and friendly, but despite her stunning beauty, she’s modest, private—and hates getting hit on.

I however, do not. And apparently neither does—

“Samantha keeps staring!” Bridget accuses with a scowl. “You’re going to give them false hope if you don’t knock it off.”

“I wasn’t staring!” She huffs. “Alright, so what if I was? There’s no harm in window shopping.”

While they argue back-and-forth, not gonna lie; my ardent green eyes wander, seeking out the group of young men seated at the bar. They’re not a large group, but they’re loud and boisterous, with several flights of wine lining the counter like shots.

In my age range.

Several of them gather up their stem less wine glasses, their course of action to head in our direction. I stand taller, assessing.

The leader is a few paces ahead of the rest, his laser-like focus hell bent to reach us first. Undoubtedly so he can control the situation, or have first pick. Or both. I know his type—cocky swagger, lopsided grin meant to be captivating, tight white tee, and straining muscles that can only be obtained with hour-upon-hour at the gym. If that weren’t enough, a visible tattoo snakes up the side of his neck and disappears into his hairline. An arrogant grin with blaring white teeth complete the unappealing package.