Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(25)

I push the glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Night.”

Watching as she pulls out of the drive and her taillights slowly fade into the dark distance, I turn, glancing up towards the twins’ bedroom window. Arms crossed, their double disappointment is palpable even from two stories up.

Fuck.





“Sir?” Vanessa’s voice crackles out of the intercom sitting on my desk. Sir? It still makes me cringe every time she or anyone from the office calls me that moniker. I’m twenty-six for Christ Sake; I might be one of the youngest junior traders for my company, but when Vanessa calls me Sir, I always expect my dad to come waltzing into the room.

“I have Brian Sullivan on hold from Nordic Acuities.” Vanessa prods. “He hasn’t heard a response on the email he sent through yesterday, and called to verify you’d responded. Can you check your outgoing messages and get back to me?”

I lean forward, tapping on the TALK button. “Yup. I’ll do it now.”

Tapping on my mouse, I open Outlook and go straight to the outgoing mail.



Sent to: Collin Keller, Calvin Thompson. Subject: Joke of the day.

Sent to: Brian Sullivan. Subject: Merger

The wheels of my desk chair swivel as I roll back towards the intercom button. “Vanessa? It’s still in the queue. Please call Brian and tell him I’m re-sending it right over.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Please stop calling me Sir—I’m only fifteen years younger than you.”

“I’ll stop calling you Sir when you head back to being an intern on the lower floors. Sir.” I can hear her smirking.

Smart ass.

“Fine.” I shift in my seat, hand hovering about the mouse pad. “I’m going to take forty-five minutes for lunch today, but I’m eating at my desk. Hold any correspondence until,” I glance at my clock. “Until one thirty, please.”

The intercom continues to crackle. And chuckle. “Got it.”

My fingers move the cursor over my screen, moving to the corner of the monitor to close the window, eyes continuously scanning the screen. They land on the joke I’d sent Collin this morning, the brief memo mentioning a clients no-contact policy.

My message to Daphne.

As I—

Wait.

Rewind.

My eyes do a double take, my head actually swiveling despite the screen being dead center in front of me.

Message to Daphne? What the shit is this?

Clicking the message open, my heart actually begins rapidly palpitating—so strong I can feel it beating in my neck.

Holy Christ.



To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject:



Hello Daphne. I hope you had a lovely evening the other night after making cookies with my awesome sisters. They had a blast with you. I’m sorry I suck and let you drive away without asking you on a date. I was wondering if you’d be at their actual birthday party in two weeks. It’s on a Sunday. I’m too shy and lame to tell you in person, but I think you’re beautiful. I have horrible luck with girls because as you noticed I’m kind of a geek but not as boring as people think I am. For example, I love hiking in the mountains and ski trips. I would never say this to your face.

Yours Truly,

Dexter Ryan



I squint at the screen, reading and re-reading, praying to God that I’m not seeing what I’m actually seeing.

Too shy and lame?

What in the actual shit is this?

WHAT IN THE ACTUAL SHIT IS THIS?

Not only did I not send this, it sounds like a f*cking fifteen-year old teenager wrote it—specifically two of them—and makes me look like a freaking moron. My face burns scarlet and my knuckles, which aren’t touching any keys, are white.

White.

This positively reeks with the stench of Lucy and Amelia. Those nosey, meddling, conniving little brats have done some really stupid shit in their lives—like the time they switched places so Lucy could take an Algebra exam for Amelia but forgot to swap outfits.

They’re constantly trying to Parent Trap unsuspecting people.

And I have no clue what that even means.

Those pranks were bad, but interfering in my personal business is going too far. I’m going to ring their scrawny, pubescent necks when I get my hands on those two.

I cannot even control my breathing, and although I don’t have asthma, it feels like I’m having an asthma attack. Or a panic attack.

Daphne read this shit. Fucking read it.

How do I know? My reads are on. Read: 10:37am She probably thinks I’m a blabbering idiot.

My stomach drops.

I take a few calming breaths—then a few more—before cracking my knuckles and suspend my hands above the keyboard, at the ready. How do I reply? What the hell do I say that’s not going to sound asinine? Do I apologize? Explain that my darling sisters hacked my phone when I was home and sent the email for me? Yeah. Cause that’s not going to sound idiotic and implausible.

My hands get buried in my hair and I tug.

How did they even manage it?

Those little…

Without further ado, my fingers nimbly fly over the keyboard, tapping out the following, professional and apologetic reply to Daphne.



To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: My sincerest apologies