More Than Lies (More Than #1)(4)

“Fiction. I write romantic stories.” I lean forward, grabbing the large wine glass next to the plate of food I polished off twenty minutes ago, downing the remains. When is our waiter going to bring the darn check so we can leave? Please, God, have mercy on me already.

“Oh.” Shocker . . . not. Like everyone, he’s thinking smut. Not that that isn’t accurate. It’s just not the whole picture. I say romance book, people think sex book. Just because there is sex in a book doesn’t make it a sex book. That is just plain rude. It’s romance people, in as many different shapes and forms as the human body.

About the same time as Princeton, oh I mean, Preston, is trying to find something to say, my phone chimes telling me I have an incoming text message.

I quickly retrieve it from the table, welcoming the distraction. When I see it’s my brother, Trent, my face lights up like Christmas. He always has that effect on me. Trent is the one and only person I’m related to that I actually like and get along with. He gets me, always has, even when no one else did. And being the big brother he his, Trent always shows up when I need him the most, just like now, even if it’s via text message.

Trent: Hey you. What’s up?

Me: Boredom, clad in a cheap suit from TJ Maxx thinking he’s a big shot. You?

Trent: Judgmental for someone whose favorite store is Target.

Me: Touché.

Trent: Mom said you were on a date. Figured I’d see if you needed an excuse to leave. Ky’s on her way home and should be heading through Oxford in the next few minutes.

Me: It’s practically over; just waiting on the check. Is she stopping or heading straight to Tupelo?

Trent: Tupelo, unless you need her.

Me: I’m ok, just ready to get out of here.

Trent: Still coming down in a few weeks?

Me: Of course, I’m ready to party in Jack-town.

Trent: You seem to think there’s shit to do down here. I assure you, there is not.

Me: Whatever . . . it’s where you are. That’s all that matters.

Trent: Awww . . . my little sister misses me. Shucks, I’m touched.

Me: Shut it, butthead.

Trent: Get home safe. TTYL Sis.

Me: K, love you!!

Trent: Love you more, brat.

That isn’t possible.

I place my cell phone back down on the black linen tablecloth before looking up to see a set of eyes masking a shade of irritation. When our eyes meet, he casts his to the side, looking out into the restaurant briefly.

What the fudge is his problem? I am not about to apologize for having a quick conversation with my brother. With Trent in his second year of residency at the medical center in Jackson, I don’t get much time with him. I’ll take what I can get when I can get it. My brother comes first to me and I don’t see that changing any time soon—not for this bloke anyway. Bloke . . . ha, I love that word. I crack myself up. Why couldn’t I have been born British? They have the coolest slang words.

He speaks, bringing me out of my inner thoughts. “I paid the check while you were on the phone.”

Yep, that’s the source of his sour attitude. He tips his wine glass back, polishing off the rest of his drink. I don’t respond. I don’t care to. He stands, so I stand too, and we make our exit from the restaurant.

The ride home is quiet, which is more than okay with me. I have zero in common with this guy except the economic and social status of our parents. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t go that far. I mean, it’s not like I know his parents. Maybe they aren’t snobby douchebags, but . . . let’s be real. They probably are.

Within ten minutes we arrive at my house. I say my house, but in reality, I just live there. For the past three and half years I’ve called it mine, but it’s Shawn’s house. Actually, it’s his grandparents’, but they retired and moved to Florida close to fifteen years ago. They kept the house because they had hoped their only two grandchildren would attend the University. They almost got their wish. Their eldest, Shane, did, along with my brother. Those two had been friends since childhood, and shared the house about six years ago. Shawn, the younger grandchild and current “owner,” only attended for the first semester of our freshman year. He decided college wasn’t for him, but evidently the house is since he still lives here.

We have two other roommates, Mason and Matt. Matt and I have been best friends since ninth grade. Shawn and Mase . . . well, they’ve been thicker than thieves since we were little kids. Mason’s family moved into our neighborhood about a year after my family did when I was five years old.

“Nice house,” Preston comments as he shuts off the engine. I’d have to agree with him. The place is pretty stellar, especially for a group of college kids living here rent-free. It’s a four-bedroom, three-bath house, and being the only female, I somehow lucked into getting the master bedroom. I’m still not sure why Shawn let me have it, but I’m not complaining and certainly not going to rock the boat to inquire.

There’s a nice size backyard with a pool and an amazing kitchen on the backside of the house. I love to cook. Next to reading, it’s one of my favorite things to do. It’s relaxing and a great way for me to unwind. In all honesty, it’s probably the reason Shawn allowed me to live here. His mom taught me everything I know about cooking. I’m not a jealous person—at least I don’t think I am—but when it comes to Shawn and Shane’s parents, I’m a little envious. They are nothing short of amazing.