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

  They’ll never make it in espionage.

  I don’t fight back the chuckle at their blatant lack of stealth; amused, I can’t even muster up the energy to be irritated.

  Or maybe I’m just happy.

  Shit, that’s got to be it.

  Daphne and I walk unhurriedly through my parents’ manicured lawn to the car parked in the shadows next to the house. Her body shivers.

  “Cold?”

  “Yeah, kind of. Brrrr. I have to remember mittens next time I leave the house with the seasons changing.”

  “I have some in my car—let me go grab them.”

  “Gosh, no! That’s okay,” she protests—but I’m already halfway across the lawn to my car, pulling open the door and digging through the glove box to retrieve the gloves.

  Ah, here they are.

  I hold up them up for inspection, blowing inside one, then the other, to warm them as I jog back to Daphne. Even in the dim shadows I can see her beaming when I hold out the first glove.

  I hold it steady as she slides her hands in to each one.

  She gives her hands a wiggle, smile widening. “Thank you.”

  The yard is quiet; we have no neighbors and my parents live on a wooded lot. Besides my snooping fifteen-year-old sisters spying from upstairs, we’re completely alone.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She leans her shoulder against the door of her silver car, nothing but the sound of our breathing and the jingling of her cars keys in the still night air.

  I clear my throat. “So.”

  “So…” Daphne shifts on her heels, dragging out the word like it’s actually a question. It sounds diminutively more meaningful than a regular so, so… I’m actually really confused.

  I’m tempted to repeat the word one more time, but fight the power. Removing my glasses, I lift the hem of my blue cable knit sweater to clean the lenses.

  Instinctually, I feel Daphne move in closer; my personal space instantly becomes warmer.

  “Can you see without those?”

  I chuckle, the sound reverberating against the silence, and tease, “I can see you, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  Even without my glasses, I can see her biting down on that pouty lower lip with her teeth to hide a shy smile. She cocks her head up at me. “Maybe it was.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “Aren’t you curious, Dexter?” She whispers in the shadow, her warm breath forming a small puff of steam around her words in the cold, night air.

  “Curious about what?”

  God, even I can hear how fucking ridiculous that sounds. Curious about what? my inner thoughts mock. My friend Collin would be kicking my ass right now if he heard how much I sounded like a pussy. I have no game when it comes to women.

  “Curious about… nothing.” Daphne fakes a laugh, giving her head a little shake. “Nothing.”

  Except it doesn’t feel like nothing. It sounds like she’s asking for something in a language I don’t speak. And I might not know shit about women, but I know that right now, she’s flirting with me.

  Or not.

  Shit, I can’t tell.

  “Thanks for putting up with me tonight.” She goes for the door handle of her car, pausing before pulling it open. “Your family is pretty… spectacular. I know you weren’t expecting me today, so it was a relief when you didn’t freak out.”

  “No problem. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Right. Well…” Daphne lowers herself into the driver’s seat, buckles her seat belt, and looks up at me with those eyes. Those dejected green eyes. “Good night, Dexter.”

  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 fucking 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.

&nbs
p; 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

  Hello, Daphne. In regards to the recent message sent to your email account from mine; that note was sent by my sisters, in an obviously immature attempt to get your attention. It was obviously poor manners and an error in judgment on their part. I apologize for any level of embarrassment you might have felt receiving it, which may far exceed mine. Furthermore—

  I’m distracted momentarily by the phone next to the computer buzzing, the email notification in the top left corner lighting up with a soft blue blinking light.

  Shit. That could be Brian Sullivan already replying.

  I lift the cell, swiping the screen down and tap to open the email browser.

  For the second time in a short timeframe, my stomach drops as I stare at Daphne Winthrop’s email address in my inbox, the Subject line reading: I don’t know what to say.

  I can’t make myself tap her reply open it; I cannot.

  Instead, I sit back in my desk chair palming the phone in my right hand and staring at that email address and short fucking sentence, trying to decipher what it could mean without opening the message.

  I don’t know what to say other than:

  … that letter you sent had to have been a joke.

  … I can’t believe a grown-ass man wrote that.

  … you should be embarrassed and never allowed near woman.

  Shit, what does it actually say? I’m dying to open it at the same time I dread it. My thumb hovers, millimeters from an answer. I push the black glasses I wear to work up my nose, a thin layer of perspiration dampening my forehead.

  Christ I’m pitiful.

  Clicking my phone off, I set it on my desktop and frown scornfully, while the apology message I’d been composing to Daphne looms in front of me on the screen of my laptop. Mocking.

  I hit ‘Save’ and watch the file float to the lower right hand corner drop box, the cursor on the screen blinking an entreaty. Blinking for me to click open the ominous new message from Daphne Winthrop.

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: I don’t know what to say

  Dexter. To say I was surprised to get your message is an understatement… Excited and surprised. After seeing StarGate the other weekend, I was sure you were going to ask me on a date until your Aunt interrupted… and I was disappointed you asked me to Grace’s engagement party as your Fake Date. I would have absolutely been proud to go as your official date. I think you’re charming and disarming, and since we’re being direct—very handsome. So yes. Yes! I would love to go on a date with you. I’ve been waiting for you to ask since the movie theater. Here is my cell phone number again just in case you lost it: 298-555.9392 Well, better get back to work! LOL.

  Talk to you soon, I hope.

  Daphne

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Confession time.

  Dear Daphne,

  I have a confession to make since we’re being honest and it’s easier for me to hide behind technology. Alright, here it is: my sisters wrote that first message behind my back and I found the email by accident, and I was furious. But now? I’m glad. As horrible and stupid as their message made me sound, and as embarrassed as I am that they did it, I’m glad.

  DPR

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Me too.

  Dexter, I should have guessed that you didn’t write that first note. I guess I was so excited to receive it that… it didn’t occur to me that you wouldn’t use words like “Lame” and “Geek” in an email to describe yourself, because you are NEITHER of those things. LOL! Oh lord, you must have died when you saw their note. What a couple of beasts! You’re right though. I’m glad they did it because… when would you have gotten around to telling me how you felt? I’d be old and gray by then!

  Daphne

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: You’d be waiting a long time

  Dear Daphne,

  Honestly? I’m not surprised by them messaging you; they’ve been doing stuff like this since they were old enough to understand what a prank was. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to kill them. When I found the message “I” sent you, I couldn’t even read through the whole thing—I could only see red. I mean—what made them think I’d call myself lame? But enough about me; do you have any brothers/sisters that drive you insane?

  DPR

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Not a Lonely Only

  Dexter, Fortunately and Unfortunately, I have a sister although my mom says sometimes my Dad acts like a small child, so it’s like having three kids. Haha. Growing up, I always wish I had a twin. I think your sisters are badass—I’m totally digging their Twin Voodoo and am kind of jealous, not gonna lie.

  They’re so pretty and cute for evil masterminds.

  So… got anything planned for the weekend? Did you see the commercial on the Sci-Fi channel for the Star Trek Comic Con thing?

  Daphne

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: Me finally asking you

  Dear Daphne,

  I don’t usually go to Comic Con events… I’m more of a laid back, lazy poster yielding nerd. I don’t get all crazy and I don’t have any collectible figurines still in the boxes, LOL; fine. A few. But yeah. I did see that commercial but that’s the twins’ family birthday with the whole Ryan side of the family. Grace, Elliot—the whole crazy clan. Are you brave enough? Would you have any interest in going? It’s this Sunday around three.

  DPR

  Daphne: Okay, just to clarify… am I going with you this weekend to your sisters’ party as a [fill in blank]?

  Dexter: Date?

  Daphne: Yes. I’m sorry to ask and I know it’s awkward but it will drive me crazy not knowing. But we did go on that FAKE date… so this one is… [fill in blank]?

  Dexter: Not fake. This is me—for once in my life—sucking it up and putting myself out there; Yeah. I’d like it to be a date. How does two o’clock sound?

  Daphne: I would love that. Two o’clock.

  Dexter: It’s a date.

  Daphne: Hey, it’s me. Do you think your mom needs me to bring anything this weekend for the party? Like fruit or something…?

  Dexter: No, don’t worry about it. She’ll have enough food there to feed a small herd of elephants. Or assholes.

  Daphne: :) Truth? I only asked you that as an excuse to text you. Is that weird?

  Dexter: No weirder than you showing up to bake cookies at my mom’s house…

  Daphne: Oh god! Please don’t remind me. Tabitha told me that was a horrible idea; I
should have listened, but awkwardly… I was already in your mom’s apron.

  Dexter: Truth? I think I dreamt about that apron.

  Dexter: Is that weird?

  Daphne: Maybe someone else might think so, but I don’t. LOL.

  Dexter: I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but I bought the twins a gift and signed your name to their card… I figured, since they already think we’re dating, it would be okay.

  Daphne: You are so sweet. Yes. That’s absolutely okay.

  Daphne: Shoot. I have a meeting in three minutes. Better get moving. Talk later?

  Daphne: I’m back. Curious about what gift we’re giving the twins?

  Dexter: A spy kit.

  The twins love their spy kit.

  Fully equipped with magnifying glass, finger printing kit, and baggies to store collected evidence, the cheap child’s spy kit has the sisters bent at the waist, laughing hysterically. Before moving on to open their next gift, Lucy removes the kit’s rubber gloves, snaps them at the wrist, and asks the family members crowded around the room who wants to be their first victim.

  Half the room laughs uproariously; their Uncle Derek throws his arms up, demanding to be finger printed.

  “Now maybe they’ll leave me alone,” Dexter gripes beside me as we stand in the threshold of the living room, watching the twins rip through the rest of their gifts like seven-year-old kids. “Even if the kit is just a toy, look at how happy they are.”

  “You know what I always wanted growing up?” I muse. “A metal detector; a real one—not one of those cheap, crappy ones.”

  Dexter laughs. “Me too! Imagine all the shit we’d find. Coins, jewelry.”

  “Pirate’s booty, for sure,” I tease. “Sunken treasure.”

  “Oh, now we’re taking this metal detector in the ocean? Shit, I was thinking just parks and the beach. The ocean opens up a whole world of possibilities. What body of water would we explore first?”