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

  He unsteeples his hands, clasping them instead. “What do you say? Can you stand to spend the night with me as my fake date?”

  Wait. Did Dexter just ask me out on a date? My heart skips a beat and I grin so hard my cheeks begin to ache.

  “A date?”

  Date? Date!

  Oh!

  “A fake date,” he clarifies.

  Oh.

  “A fake date.” I repeat.

  “Precisely.” He nods definitively. “Totally fake. Just drinks, dinner, and if I know my cousin Grace, probably some dancing—but nothing romantic on my end.” His hands go up in surrender with a chuckle. “Promise.”

  Something inside of me deflates. That flare of excitement distinguishes.

  I muster up a weak smile.

  Oblivious, Dexter grins. “If you could just do me this one favor, it would be huge. I would owe you a favor. Maybe even manage your retirement account,” he laughs again. “I could probably double your savings in under seven years.”

  He peers at me hopefully. Naively.

  What idiots.

  Him. Me. Both of us.

  “So? What do you think?”

  What do I think? What do I think?

  I think it’s a horrible, stupid, insulting idea. I’m hurt. Pissed. Confused.

  So utterly disappointed.

  I want to smack him.

  He watches me expectantly, his eyes detailing the play of emotions across my face, pushing those black framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

  He looks so… pleased with his idea that my shoulders sag and I feel myself breaking down and giving in.

  God, I’m such a sucker.

  I make a show of checking the calendar on my phone, poke randomly at the keypad on my phone, and paste a fake grin on my face before announcing, “I don’t have anything going on this weekend, so yeah. That would work.”

  He leans forward. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll do it.” My brows furrow at his reaction. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  The glasses get pushed up again. “I just assumed a girl like you would have plans. A date maybe.”

  “Like a real date as opposed to this fake one?” The dig makes those big, chocolate brown eyes widen, so I shrug it off with a joke. “Naw, unless you count me rooted to my couch Netflix and Chilling with my bad self.” I recline back on the sofa and cross my legs. “Okay, we’re doing this. So what’s the plan?”

  My palms are sweating.

  I glance over at Daphne in the passenger seat of my silver Audi, her eyes scanning the landscape as we roll past; houses and businesses becoming further and further apart as I navigate my way out of the city. The long column of her graceful neck is illuminated by the dim glow of street lights.

  It’s on the cooler side this evening, but Daphne’s creamy shoulders are bare beneath a simple, baby blue halter-top thing with a pearl neckline. Tucked into a black, knee-length pencil skirt, the top has a bow at the collar, cream colored ribbons tail down her bare back.

  Simple, black strappy heels. Toes painted a shiny dark red I couldn’t help noticing when I picked her up, it’s almost as if she put real effort into getting ready. The kind of effort a woman puts into a real date; a real date she’s nervous and excited about.

  That she anticipated.

  I don’t know what I was expecting to find when she eagerly swung the door open to her condo earlier, but it’s safe to assume: this wasn’t it.

  She looks incredible. Sweet. Undeniably sexy.

  Unattainable yet approachable.

  My eyes drop to her tan legs. I want to call them glowing—but that’s not right, is it? Glowing? Shit, I don’t fucking know. They look freshly shaved and must feel smooth if the way she’s running her palms around her knees is any indication; up and down her knees in slow circular motions, probably to torture me for coming up with this dumbass idea in the first place.

  I give those legs another sidelong glance, trying to erase the desire I feel for her from altering my expression. It remains pleasant. Passive.

  Another quick glance as Daphne idly traces her knee cap with the tip of a forefinger has me hoarsely clearing my throat because, dammit, stop touching your legs.

  Tightening my grip on the steering column, I focus on the road and pull onto the highway, blowing out a pent up puff of air.

  I should have just told my mom I wasn’t bringing a date. Or been more firm in my resolve that Daphne is just a friend. But can someone be your friend when you’ve only met twice? I might not be a rocket scientist in the female department, but somehow, even I doubt it.

  And yet here we are, on the way to an engagement party.

  Where I’ll no doubt make an ass of myself.

  Her voice jolts me out of my contemplations. “Do you want to go over any details before we get there? Just in case anyone decides to grill us about how we met.”

  I stare out the windshield, nodding. “Sure. Great idea.”

  “Alright. I’ll start.” She pauses with a secret smile. “Let’s say we met at a wine bar through mutual friends? That part at least is true… and our first date was the movies.”

  “StarGate?”

  “Yes! Exactly. StarGate.” Daphne is quiet for a few seconds, and I can tell that she’s thinking. Can see it on her face when I chance a glance her way in the dark cab of my car. Biting down on her lower lip, she hums to herself before asking, “Where should our second date be?” Her head gives a shake, her long, loose brown hair swaying. “Wait. I meant, where should we say it was?”

  I might be wicked smart, but I’m a guy, so I say, “Uh…”

  Daphne laughs and her hand hits my thigh with a teasing tap. It lingers there before returning to her lap. “Uh? You’re hopeless, do you know that?”

  I stare down at my pants, at the thigh that’s now singing beneath my dark gray slacks from her touch.

  “Do you really think anyone is going to ask where we had our second date? I mean, a continuous line of questioning is kind of rude, don’t you think?”

  I snort. “That’s not going to stop my cousin Elliot from asking shit tons of inappropriate questions. He has no boundaries.”

  Daphne tilts her head and studies me back in the dark. The lights from the center median on the highway illuminate the cab, her glossy lips shining—and like beacons in the night, my eyes are drawn to them. She licks them.

  “Elliot sounds charming.”

  “He’s not a bad guy—not really. He just has no filter.”

  “What about your other family. I’m kind of nervous to meet your mom and sisters. I’m going to feel horrible lying to them.”

  “Sorry about dragging you into this. I just think my mom wasn’t in the frame of mind to believe me, and instead of arguing with her about having a girlfriend, it’s seriously just easier to bring you. My mom hears what she wants to hear. As awkward as it’s going to be for you, this is the story of my life.”

  “Awkward for me?”

  “Yeah.” I glance at her. “Faking it. Pretending to like me. Pretending to be attracted to me.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, my finger pushes my black glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Let’s see how good an actress you are.”

  I find the exit ramp.

  Take a right at the light.

  Pretend not to be affected by the downturn of her lips.

  Stupid boy.

  I should tell him I don’t have to pretend.

  That I am attracted to him.

  That I do like him.

  That if he’d only asked me on a real date, I would have said yes.

  Yes, Dexter, I’d love to go to dinner with you!

  Yes, Dexter, I’d love to see another movie.

  Yes, Dexter, I’d love to…

  But instead, he asked me to be his fake girlfriend for one night. Nothing really but an escort—and an unpaid one at that.

  I scoff miserably, wondering if he’s thought of it that way at all.

  Probably not.

>   I sigh, glancing over at him, the reflection from the street lights whizzing past us reflecting off his glasses, taking note of the way he’s concentrating on the road. How he keeps checking his blind spots. How he turns his blinker on every time he changes lanes. How he steals glances at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.

  But that’s where he’s wrong.

  I am paying attention.

  Have been since I swung open the door of my apartment earlier, eyes damn near bugging out of my head at the sight of him standing there. Preppy. Professional. Nervous.

  Wanting to rip his clothes off, beginning with his buttoned up blue dress shirt, I’d start by running my hands up under the rolled up cuffs of his shirt—over his pale but toned forearms.

  Tucked into a pair of black pressed slacks, nothing has ever made me hotter than the site of a guy in…

  Suspenders.

  Yeah. Suspenders for God’s sake.

  I want to snap them.

  Run my hands up his chest, under the length of them.

  Slowly unbutton his shirt and push the suspenders down his arms—just to see the look on his face.

  I train my lecherous eyes back out the window. “What did you tell your mom about me?”

  His deep voice fills the cab of his spotlessly clean car. “Nothing much, to be honest. She was too busy chastising me for keeping you my dirty little secret—she didn’t ask for specific details. All she knows is what my Aunt told her.”

  A dirty little secret sounds… delightful.

  I sigh, wishing I had one.

  In the quiet cab of his fancy car, I hear Dexter shrug. Turning so my head faces him, I brush a lock of hair out of my face. Beneath the lamplights on the street, his eyes follow the motion when my hand caresses the side of my face, swiping at my long curls. “Which is what? What did your aunt tell her?”

  “Just the facts—that you were polite.” Dexter hesitates. “That you’re beautiful.”

  Beautiful; the word lodges itself in my brain and takes root there at the same time my stomach does a summersault; an unexpected, pleased, little flip-flop.

  Beautiful. No one has ever called me that before.

  Cute? Yes.

  Wholesome? Yes.

  Girl-next-door adorable? Unfortunately.

  Does Dexter think I’m beautiful, too? I’m not asking to sound conceited, but it crossed my mind after he didn’t ask me out that perhaps… he’s not attracted to me. Maybe I’m not his type. Maybe he does truly just want to be friends. Play the doting boyfriend for one night—and one night only.

  “And head’s up—they all think you’re Southern, so good luck with that.”

  “Trust me, I can manage to throw a few y’alls into the conversations. Give Aunt Bethany a cheap thrill.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can.” His grin is lopsided and amused.

  “Sugar, y’all are in for a treat.”

  Dexter clears his throat. “So she knows that, but not much else. And of course, she thinks we’ve been dating awhile. Which… I apologize for.”

  I find myself saying, “It’s okay,” as we pull into the parking lot of a country club. Find myself nervously fussing with the hem of my skirt as he purposefully strides around to my side of the car after we park. Find myself go a little weak in the knees when his hand presses politely into the small of my back, guiding me towards the crowd of people inside.

  And when I remove my jacket and he passes it to the coat check, that hand wraps itself around my waist.

  I stiffen; but not from displeasure.

  From the opposite.

  Dexter notices.

  “Is this okay? I think it would be weird if I didn’t touch you, don’t you?”

  I do my best to nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “It’s fine. You’re right, it would be weird. I mean, if I was your… girlfriend you would touch me. Act familiar.”

  He blows out a puff of air—like he’s psyching himself up. “Yes. Alright. Good.” He babbles. “Just so we’re on the same page.”

  “Dexter, it’s fine. I don’t mind you touching me.” It’s going to drive my hormones absolutely ca-ray-zy but, “Truly. I don’t mind.”

  Hell no I don’t mind. Not at all—quite the opposite actually.

  My eyes roam back to the suspenders.

  Ugh.

  Excited with this new development, Dexter’s stiff arm relaxes, his hand resting on my hip. “You can call me Dex if you want. That’s what my friends and family call me.”

  Nope. Not gonna do it; not when the name Dexter rolls off the tip of my tongue like the last drop of wine from a glass, and gets me hot and bothered in all the wrong places.

  I shoot him a cheeky grin. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Is our brother romantic?” One of Dexter’s twin sisters asks, leaning on her elbows towards me as dinner plates are set in front of us by the servers. We arrived casually late and were immediately seated at a table for ten, except the rest of his family hasn’t joined us yet; it’s just myself, Dexter, and his enthusiastic little sisters.

  “Tell us the truth.” The twins request at the same time, in the same playful voice.

  The twins—Lucy and Amelia—are mirror image identical and almost indistinguishable; dark blonde hair, cut into jaunty, matching bobs. Identical almond-shaped eyes. Freckles across the bridge of their noses. Identical smirks with identical dimples.

  You get the picture.

  Tonight they’re wearing the same dress, in different colors, and watching me across the table with such intensity I squirm in my seat. It’s disconcerting and a tad bit creepy.

  Especially since there’s two of them.

  “Is he romantic?” I exaggerate a blissful sigh. “Yes. So romantic, aren’t you babe?” I pat his hand.

  Dexter visibly swallows. “Totally.”

  “Mom is right.” Lucy says. Then, at the same time, they both enthuse, “You’re much prettier than Charlotte was.”

  Charlotte? Was?

  “Was? Does that mean she’s…” Dead? I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

  I’m guessing it’s Lucy who laughs. “His ex-girlfriend, silly. She was—”

  “—Awful.” Amelia finishes.

  “Boring.” Both twins roll their brown eyes.

  “Do you like Star Wars?” Amelia asks at the same time Lucy says, “Dex likes Star Wars.”

  “Charlotte hated it,” they parrot.

  Dexter meets my inquisitive gaze, before silencing them. “Guys, stop with all the questions. You’re being rude.”

  To their credit, both twins blush. “Sorry Daphne. We meant it as a—”

  “—Compliment.” Lucy pokes at the chicken on her dinner plate before shoving it aside and crossing her arms on the tabletop. “So how is our brother romantic? Tell us. He works so much he hardly comes around.”

  Amelia sets her napkin on the table and scoots her chair closer to mine. “Tell us.”

  Crap. They’re like a tiny twin mafia; they’re not playing around. I’m going to have to make something up. “He, well. Dexter is…”

  Amelia interrupts with a gasp. “Oh my god, did you hear that? She calls him—”

  “—Dexter.”

  “So cute.” They’re like an echo.

  It’s freaky.

  A smile tips my lips, and I’m honest. “Your brother is so sweet, and… such a gentleman. One of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.”

  Beside me, Dexter lets out a painful groan. “Sweet? Nice? That’s horrible.”

  I nudge him with my knee. “Oh stop. It’s a compliment.”

  He’s not convinced. “Sweet and nice—exactly what every warm-blooded American guy wants to be called. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘nice guys finish last?’ Story of my freaking life.”

  His sisters are watching us now, wide eyed. The one in pink take a long sip from her water glass, while the other one pokes at the chicken on her plate. For once, they’re silent.

  “Nice guys finish l
ast? That’s not true,” I argue. “If they finish last, then what am I doing here?”

  Dexter’s lips purse. I can tell exactly what he’s thinking: you’re here because you’re doing me a favor.

  I give my head a tiny shake. That’s not true—not true at all.

  He raises an eyebrow skeptically.

  I raise mine.

  “Someone outgoing and beautiful doesn’t do dull and predictable.” His voice is low.

  “How are you dull?”

  Across the table, the twins lean forward in their chairs, hanging on our every word. Every syllable.

  Dexter crosses his arms. “I work a lot.”

  Pfft. “Big deal, so do I.”

  It’s then that Dexter removes his glasses… Transfixed, I watch as he wipes under his eyes before he meets my wide-eyed stare, his gaze boring into me. Long inky black lashes that should be outlawed on a man. Deep brown irises surrounded by tiny flecks of amber.

  With his glasses he’s adorkable.

  Without them, Dexter is… is…

  Holy. Hot.

  I gaze.

  I stare.

  I gape at him stupidly.

  One of the twins coughs to cover a snicker.

  The other titters.

  My date uses a linen napkin to wipe the lenses, oblivious to my enamored gawking, gives his head a shake, the moment fleeting when he places the glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

  “So Daphne, where did my brother take you on your first date?”

  I take a sip of wine then to occupy my hands, and buy myself a few extra seconds before responding. “We went to see StarGate,” I say truthfully. “Sat in the theater after it was over talking until they kicked us out, didn’t we?”

  Dexter nods, glasses firmly back in place.

  Amelia scrunches up her nose. His sisters are not impressed. “You took her to see StarGate? Lame!”

  With a laugh, I add, “Yes, but I happen to be a huge Sci-Fi junkie. So I wasn’t horrified—not like you are right now.”