Things Liars Fake: a Novella (a #ThreeLittleLies novella Book 3)(5)

“Great,” I joke, more for my benefit than his. “I’ve rendered you speechless.”

I follow the line of his jacket, down to the hand tightly gripping his winter hat.

“No! Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean… I don’t know what I mean.” Deep breath. “I’m here alone, too.”

Suddenly, his mouth twitches into a goofy grin, and my green eyes make a beeline to his lips as they form the words, “Which movie are you here to see?”

Those lips.

Huh?

Instead of formulating a response, I find myself trying not to stare at a perfectly sculpted upper lip and a full mouth surrounded by a days’ worth of five o’clock shadow. Strong jawline. Straight, white teeth. And is that line in his cheek a dimple?

Dexter clears his throat, and I watch transfixed as the chords in his neck flex when he reprises, “Which movie are you here to see?”

Huh?

“Huh?”

Jesus, I have some serious issues. And if Dexter thinks I’ve gone space cadet on him, he doesn’t let on; his brown eyes are kind. Friendly. Sincere without a trace of egotism. “What movie?”

Oh god. Could this be any more humiliating? The guy’s asked me the same question three times.

“Uh… StarGate?”

Don’t judge me! Don’t judge me, Dexter! I want to shout. I want to hide behind my massive bucket of popcorn. Yes, it’s true! I am at a nine o’clock screening of StarGate, the twenty-year-old movie turned nerd cult classic of all time.

By myself.

As in: alone.

On a Saturday night.

A pleased grin quirks, his thick brows shoot up for a second time in surprise before he clears his throat. “Me too.”

Dexter briefly glances down at his ticket stub, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. God, it’s such a sweet gesture I actually cock my head and stare.

Truth be told, I could probably stare at him all night.

It’s been all of three minutes and I find him charming, adorable, and unassumingly handsome. The kind of handsome that sneaks up on you.

He clears his throat again. “It’s, uh, in theater twelve. Let me just…” He reaches around me then to grab a few napkins for himself, though he’s only carrying a medium soda.

No popcorn. No candy. No snacks.

Wait. No snacks?

Who doesn’t get snacks at the movies? Who?

Self-conscious of my gluttony, I back away, wielding my embarrassing armload of junk food, face flaming hot. “I guess I should go find myself a seat. Yeah. I should go do that. The previews have probably already started and those are my favorite part…”

Stop talking Daphne!

Dexter nods and grapples for a few more napkins.

Oh brother; between the two of us, we have enough napkins to last us through Armageddon.

“Alright, well…” We both move gracelessly at the same time, in the same direction, doing that awkward sidestepping dance you do when you’re trying to get around someone, but failing miserably.

“Here, let me at least carry something for you,” Dexter offers, reaching to take the beverage tray out of my hands.

“Thank you.” I laugh nervously, a horrible hot, furious blush creeping up my neck. “We go this way, I guess.”

Walking towards the same hallway, it’s obvious neither of us knows what the proper etiquette is when you run into someone at the movie theater when you’re flying solo, and seeing the same movie. I’m aware of his every movement; every sidelong glance he surreptitiously gives me along the way.

Without speaking, we lumber down the endless, empty hallway, kernels from my popcorn bucket occasionally falling weightlessly to the carpet below. I look behind me down at the trail; I’m such a Gretel.

When we reach theater twelve, Dexter beats me to the door, his arm shooting out to grab the door handle, pulling it open, and waiting for me to walk through first. It’s such a gentlemanly thing to do.

Something a date would do, I can’t help but muse with longing.

The theater is packed, dark and—dammit, the previews have started! Disappointed, my eyes scan row after occupied row, seeking out in the dim one empty spot—any empty spot not near the front. I would rather poke my eye out with a stick than sit in the front row, and luckily, I find several halfway up.

I feel Dexter hesitate on the steps as he approaches me from behind, just as I sense him internally debating his options; should he say good-bye and go in search of his own seat? Or should he tag along and sit with me, not knowing if he’ll be welcome?

How do I know he’s thinking this? Easy. Because I’m feeling it, too. Should I invite him to sit next to me? Would that be awkward? Probably, but wouldn’t it be worse knowing he’s a few seats behind me, staring at the back of my head?

Slowly, guided by the illuminated track lighting on the stairs, I climb step after step. Ascending to the middle row, eyes seeking—scanning in the dark, until…

There, three rows up, are two seats.

Together.

What were the odds?

Over my shoulder I softly whisper, “Those?”

“Sure.”

Together we shimmy our way towards the empty seats, making apologies, sidestepping purses, popcorn buckets, and legs in the dimly lit space.

Once we’re seated, settled in, Dexter removes his pea coat, and I watch him unhook each double toggle button from the corner of my eye. His heavy coat comes off and the woodsy, male smell of him reaches my sensitive nose.