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

  It turns out, I don’t have to make the first move. Instead, the opportunity to see Dexter falls into my lap in the form of two brown haired, mischievous teenage twins.

  Who apparently really, really like me.

  A lot.

  Enough to steal my number out of Dexter’s phone during the engagement party and message me on the sly behind his back, bless their heartless, black little souls. Was it inappropriate for them to text me without telling their brother? Without a doubt—so inappropriate.

  Was it inappropriate for them to invite me to their Mom’s house for their annual birthday cookie bake? So inappropriate.

  Do I care?

  Um, no.

  Why? Because I want to see him again—and if Dexter Ryan isn’t going to make a move on me, I’m not above resorting to my own brand of passive aggressive man-hunting.

  Besides, I was invited.

  Sure, I’ll probably regret the decision to randomly show up at his mom’s house, but as I reach behind my waist to tie the dainty, yellow polka dot apron strings in a bow, all I can think is the possibility that Dexter will walk through that front door.

  I know the twins said they hadn’t told him I was coming, but… a girl can dream. Plus, I’m no expert on twins, but these girls are pretty shady; I’m pretty sure they plan sketchy plots like this on a regular basis.

  Mrs. Ryan—Georgia—has all the ingredients set on the counter by the time I arrive; everything pre-measured, eggs counted out, bowls at the ready. She’s even separated the buttercream frosting into three metal mixing bowls, in the twins’ three favorite colors: pink, lavender, and lime green.

  Fluttering around the kitchen, Georgia hands me a pot-holder, directing me to check on the twelve sugar cookies shaped like the number sixteen, already in the oven.

  They’re a light golden brown and ready to come out.

  They smell divine.

  “You know, we’ve been baking birthday cookies for the twins for five years,” she explains, sliding one cookie sheet out of the oven and another one in. “We stopped doing cake after their eleventh birthday—the year they got into a huge fight over which flavor; marble or red velvet.”

  Amelia laughs. “What a dumb thing to fight about.” I know it’s her because there’s a monogram with her initials on the pocket of her baby blue tee shirt.

  I make a mental note: Amelia—blue monogrammed tee shirt and jeans. Lucy: pajama bottoms and tank top.

  Got it.

  “Tossing sprinkles everywhere,” Lucy adds.

  “My husband was furious. Cake all over the kitchen,” Georgia laughs at the memory with a smile, handing me a spatula. “Anyway, we decided that year to make cookies the birthday tradition. Easier and cleaner. Their friends love them during lunch, and I don’t have to listen to the bickering.”

  “It’s not bickering,” Amelia disagrees. “It’s—”

  “—Debating.”

  “Well it’s obnoxious,” their mom says as we start to remove the cookies from the cookie sheets. Mrs. Ryan has a cooling rack on the counter. “Sweetie, would you hand me the wax paper?”

  I mentally choose a cookie from the rack, anticipation making my stomach growl.

  “She’s talking to you,” Lucy says, nudging me in the ribs with her pointy adolescent elbow. “Wax paper.”

  “Oh, sorry!” I apologize, springing into action.

  “Shake a tail feather,” Amelia teases. “No slacking on this job. We’re known for our freakishly delicious birthday cookies.”

  “Freakishly large.” Lucy smiles, going in to dip her finger in the pale pink frosting. Amelia slaps her hand away, pure disgust etched on her face.

  “Stop. That’s gross.”

  “Chill out, I washed my hands,” Lucy rolls her eyes. “Hey, did you know Dex always complains because Mom never baked him special cookies—”

  “—What did he want with cookies, anyway? He’s a guy.”

  “Girls!” Georgia laughs. “I made him cake! Besides, when he was younger, we didn’t have the money. All these ingredients you’re throwing on each other for fun aren’t cheap.”

  She’s right; flour and sugar are everywhere, including on me. In my hair, on my clothes. I run a hand down the dainty, vintage apron wrapped around my waist, flattening out the wrinkles.

  I love this stupid thing; I wonder if I could get away with wearing an apron on a regular basis as I lean against the counter, fingering several thin, charms on my necklace—one is a tiny, gold wishbone my sister bought me when I graduated from college two years ago, and I’m seldom without it.

  When we were younger, my dad was big into duck hunting.

  He would come home with the birds (gross, I know) and my mom would dress them for dinner, saving the wishbone for my sister, Morgan, and I to pull apart after our evening meal.

  A friendly little competition, if I was lucky enough to snap off the wishbone, I usually said a prayer for stupid, trivial things; new clothes. A cool car. But the older I grew, my wishes became more altruistic; a steady job. Healthy family. Loyal friends.

  I adore wishbones, just like I love throwing pennies into a wishing well, and making wishes when the clock strikes eleven-eleven.

  Childish? Maybe.

  But something so small has always filled me with tremendous hope; and I always hoped for love. No, not hoped—wished. Wished it from the depths of my soul.

  Yeah, I get it; we’re living in a world where feminism and female independence is a valuable asset. Two values that women have fought for centuries to obtain—but that doesn’t make me want someone to share my life with any less.

  Coming home to an empty apartment with no cat, no dog, or companionship sucks.

  The twins’ squabbling interrupts my daydreaming.

  “We know the ingredients aren’t cheap, Mom.” The twins emphasize the same word, and reach for the jar of tiny purple candies at the same time, too.

  “Then stop wasting sprinkles,” Georgia chastises.

  The twins exchange bemused glances. “But it’s fun.”

  Inside the back pocket of my jeans, my phone vibrates, its chirpy little buzzing. I excuse myself to use the bathroom.

  Tabitha: Hey, what are you doing today?

  Me: Playing baker—making delicious, gourmet cookies.

  Tabitha: Shut up. LOL. For real though, what are you doing today?

  Me: Why are you laughing?! That’s what I’m doing!

  Tabitha: This I gotta see; Collin’s taking Greyson to pick out their parents’ anniversary gift, then they’re going to dinner. I’m bored. Let me jump in the shower quick and I’ll be over in 20 minutes.

  Tabitha: I wanna eat COOKIES!!!!

  Me: NO! Don’t! I’m not home…

  Tabitha: Ugh, well that sucks! So where ARE you?

  Me: I’m… at Dexter’s, um… Mom’s house?

  Tabitha: WHAT??? Stop it, you are not.

  Me: Shit, I shouldn’t have told you.

  Tabitha: Well that escalated quickly! I thought you weren’t dating! Seriously though, what the HELL ARE YOU DOING AT HIS MOM’S HOUSE BAKING COOKIES?

  Me: His sisters texted me and wanted me to bake with them today—they really like me, I guess, and they’re young. What was I supposed to say???

  Tabitha: Wait, is this the twins?

  Me: Yeah.

  Tabitha: How bout “Sorry twinsies! I might be lusting after your nerdy brother, but I’m NOT ACTUALLY DATING HIM!” There. That’s what you could say.

  Me: *rolling my eyes* Oh, like it’s that easy.

  Tabitha: Yeah, it is actually. You just type it out and hit SEND. Please tell me Dexter is there with you.

  Me: Um. No. He went in to work today, but I think one of the twins texted him. They were being really weird and sneaky, giggling over their phone a few minutes ago.

  Tabitha: Sexer Dexer!

  Me: That nickname is worse than Sexy Dexy.

  Tabitha: I still can’t believe you’re at his mom’s house. I’m literally dead
over here. Dying. You have some lady balls. And also…super creepy.

  Me: You told me to take him out of the friend zone!

  Tabitha: Well yeah! But not like THIS!

  Tabitha: Jeez Daff, the guy is going to piss his khakis when he finds you in his mom’s kitchen baking it up with his family. That guy does NOT strike me as the type that likes surprises…

  I don’t like surprises.

  Daphne Winthrop is the last person on Earth I expect to see when I walk into my Mom’s house. Her kitchen. And yet—there she is. Standing among the chaos, wielding a spatula and wearing the cutest fucking shamefaced expression I’ve ever seen.

  And the sexiest fucking apron.

  Stunned from shock and faltering beneath the threshold, I take in the rest of her from head to toe; long hair in a pretty little ponytail. Silver hoop earrings. Gray short sleeve tee shirt over faded skinny jeans with ripped up knees, a yellow and white polka dot apron is tied around her slim waist.

  Bare feet with bubble-gum pink nails.

  Those cute feet.

  I stare at those pink nails dumbly until she wiggles her toes, and slowly raise my head to meet her gaze.

  “Hi.” Her mouth tips into a bashful little smile.

  What is she doing in my Mom’s kitchen? I mean—obviously she’s baking, but… what the hell is she doing in my mom’s kitchen?

  My mom rolls her eyes. “Dex you’re being weird. Don’t just stand there gawking at the poor girl. Come in here and give her a proper hello.”

  Still, I’m rooted to the spot. “What’s… going on?”

  What is she doing in my Mom’s kitchen?

  Mom ignores me. “Don’t be rude. And can you grab us the broom from the hall closet since you’re just standing there? Make yourself useful.”

  “It’s okay Georgia,” Daphne lays the utensil on the counter next to a black wire cookie rack I’ve seen on my mom’s counter a thousand times, wipes her hands on the apron around her waist, and starts towards me. “He’s just surprised to see me, that’s all. I didn’t tell him I was coming over.”

  It doesn’t escape my notice that she’s calling my mom Georgia with familiarity. My brows shoot into my hairline as Daphne reaches me, eyes sparkling with mischief. She goes up on the balls of her feet and leans in.

  “Surprise?”

  Her words are a light whisper right in the sensitive spot beneath my ear, the tip of her nose brushing gently against my lobe. Her warm breath rests a heartbeat too long on my skin to be accidental, and when she pulls away, I raise my hand.

  “You have a little flour… right… there.” I brush it off her cheek with a slow, gentle swipe.

  She bites her lower lip demurely. “I haven’t greeted you properly, have I?” Her soft lips connect to my jaw line the briefest of seconds; so quickly I might have imagined it.

  “Hi.”

  Confused as shit but smiling like an idiot, I finally return her greeting. “Hi.”

  Daphne reaches up, removes my old University baseball hat, and runs her fingers over my scalp, giving my hair a tussle.

  Christ her fingers feel good; too fucking good.

  “The twins texted me an invite to help bake their birthday cookies; I could hardly say no,” she says by way of explanation. “I didn’t realize it would be quite this big a production.”

  I adjust my glasses and narrow my eyes.

  My sisters—who aren’t usually this quiet—hum happily over near the sink, sneaking covert glances over their shoulders and doing that weird telepathic Twin Speak crap they do when they don’t want to talk out loud. Or are up to no good.

  I stare the twins down hard.

  “Gee, what a coincidence. Because they texted me, too. An S.O.S—something about needing help with their economics homework.”

  The girls make a display of loudly running the faucet, filling the sink with suds, clanking dishes around in the water, and avoiding my suspicious gaze.

  “Hey, don’t ignore me.” I cross my arms, moving towards my younger sisters. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe the phrase you used in the text was DEFCON 5 Level Economics shit only you can help us with. Do I have that right Lucy? Econ shit?” I use air quotes to illustrate my point, but they’re determined to ignore me.

  Silence.

  “Do you even take economics?” I practically shout.

  Lucy’s shoulders shake with merriment as Amelia splashes her with bubbles. “Moron. I knew you’d get us into trouble.”

  “It was your idea!”

  Now they’re openly bickering, and once they get started…

  “Shut up Amelia. Seriously. This was your idea—”

  “You don’t have to do everything I tell you to do, Lucy, God! Be a think-for-yourselfer every once in a while—”

  “—You’re so annoying. Stop making that ugly face at me—”

  “—This is your ugly face. Duh.”

  My mom has this shrill, nervous laugh she employs when she panics—the situations usually involve my sisters, their weird twin crap, or the occasional fight between my aunts—to break up the tension.

  She unleashes it now.

  Anxiously walking up behind Daphne, she begins hastily loosening the apron strings behind her back while my sisters continue arguing back-and-forth. Daphne’s arms go up as Mom quickly removes the apron, draping it over her arm and shooing at us. “There now! Dexter, sweetie, now’s a good time for you to take Daphne somewhere nice. Run along. Daphne, you can leave your car here and come grab it later. Shoo! Go!”

  Lucy flicks Amelia with sudsy water.

  My mom’s voice gets louder. “Run along now. We’ll finish this up later. The twins can clean up this mess; the two of you can go grab an early dinner if you get moving.”

  Before I can object, Daphne is being ushered into her jacket, shoes are being laid at her bare feet, and we’re being escorted towards the front door.

  Practically pushed out into the cold.

  Porch light goes on.

  Just as the door is being closed behind us with a resounding thud and the deadbolt slides into place, from the corner of my eye I catch sight of the twins through the crack—high-fiving.

  Those little, meddling—

  “I think your mom and sisters are playing matchmaker,” Daphne says quietly beside me once we’re standing on the porch, stuffing her hands in her pockets to keep them warm. The air is so chilly we can see our breath.

  “They already think we’re dating.” I point out.

  Daphne gives a little nod, hands sinking deeper into her pockets. “Maybe.”

  My gaze lands on the SUV I drove tonight instead of my Audi; and for once I’m glad for it. With the weather turning, it’s the safer of my two vehicles.

  Still, not wanting to be presumptuous, I delay moving towards it.

  Daphne does not. “Well, I guess we can’t stand out here all night; we’ll freeze. We could go… do something?”

  Her voice is encouraging. Excited.

  Naw. Can’t be.

  “But it’s Saturday.”

  Tilting her chin up, she regards me under the glow from my parents’ porch light. Her bright green eyes are sparkling up at me. “True. It is Saturday. But can you think of a better place to be right now? I can’t.”

  It sounds like she’s flirting.

  “You know, there’s a reason I didn’t tell your sisters no.”

  Oh jeez—she’s definitely flirting.

  Daphne Winthrop is standing on my mother’s porch on a Saturday night, flirting. With me. I roll this concept around in my head, mentally calculating what little I know about women and trying to determine her motives.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would think she wanted…

  Shit.

  Me.

  In the cool night air, I give my head a shake; it makes no sense. None at all.

  Not to be rude, but, “Daphne, why are you here?” I ask cautiously. Deliberately.

  “I-I was invited.”

&n
bsp; “Okay.” My eyes scan the empty yard and I exhale, the air from my warm breath forming another gray puff of smoke. “That’s it? That’s the reason?”

  I’m not playing dumb; I genuinely can’t figure out her motives.

  “I’m sorry.” She looks down at her feet, studying the wooden floor boards of the deck below us. Her voice is small. “I wasn’t thinking; honestly, I didn’t have plans other than maybe going to another movie by myself and stuffing my face with popcorn, and your family is so wonderful. Plus…”

  Her voice trails off.

  “Plus… what?” I’m desperate for her to finish that sentence; it holds so much possibility.

  Daphne looks up and out into the dark side yard. “Plus. I—This is going to sound so lame.”

  God I want to reach out and touch her. “No it won’t.”

  “I thought we could be friends.”

  Friends.

  Friends?

  Fuck.

  Hey, I’m a smart guy—not completely delusional—and know my chances of dating someone like Daphne Winthrop are slim to none; but a guy can dream. It’s not like I’m lying in bed at night, closing my eyes and jerking-off while picturing her naked in my mind.

  Okay, I am—but it was only once.

  Fine. Three times.

  With a resound sigh, I motion towards my car. “Hungry?”

  She gives me a megawatt smile, her green eyes shining under the soft glow of the lamp light.

  Gorgeous.

  “Starving.”

  “Fine, let’s go get something to eat. Friend.”

  I thought we could be friends.

  Just friends?

  Why would I even say something like that?

  I am such a liar.

  The twins are spying.

  When we come back to my parents’ place after our brief dinner, they’re barely concealed behind the sheer curtains draped across their second story window; their nosey silhouettes are pressed against the glass conspicuously, glaringly obvious given the fact they never shut the lights off in their shared bedroom.

  The sheers flutter, pulled back, whipping back and forth when one twin shoves the other aside, vying for more window space. I can’t tell who is who, but when one gets jostled back, more prodding ensues.