Things Liars Fake (#ThreeLittleLies #3) (10 page)

I shoot my date a pointed look. “
All
night.”

To emphasize my point, the arms wrapped around his waist snake up the front of his button-down shirt, the pads of my palms slowly move up and under his blue paisley suspenders.

“I-I..” he stutters, pushing up his glasses with the tip of his forefinger. “You
like
these?”

He’s genuinely shocked.

“No, I
love
them.” I confess, biting down on my lower lip. “Why did you wear them if not to drive me insane?”

His mouth opens but no sound comes out. We’re the only two people on the dance floor
not
dancing; the only two people on the dance floor, surrounded by his family and cousin Grace’s good friends.

The only two people that matter; right here.

Right now.

Or maybe it’s just me.

My fake date is kind of hard to read; he’s spent more time being chivalrous and gentlemanly than flirty. He hasn’t made one single overture. Not one single advance. Hasn’t touched me in a way that was anything but friendly.

Unfortunately.

And yet…

It’s his eyes that give him away. They’re interested.

Intrigued.

Something in his eyes…

He
longs
for me.

I can see it.

But.

There’s something else I see reflected in his dark, brown eyes; doubt. For himself and my attraction to him.

So that
longing
?

He won’t do anything about it.

“Y
ou know how ridiculous the whole thing is, right?” I’m in my apartment, make-up removed, sitting cross-legged in the center of my big, fluffy bed. I couldn’t resist a phone call to Tabitha with a recap of the past several days; the movie. The meeting at the coffee shop where Dexter propositioned me.

The engagement party.

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just ask you to be his date. It makes
no
sense.” I can hear Tabitha shuffling around her kitchen, a pan going into the sink followed by running water.

I throw myself back, sinking into my pillows and staring up at the ceiling. “Right? The whole fake date thing was dumb. All it managed to do was fire up my imagination. It’s running wild. You know how I always want what I can’t have? Ugh, his lack of interest is driving me crazy.”

“I wouldn’t call it lack of interest; I’d call it a lack of cojones.”

I ignore her flippant remark and prattle on. “Besides, what is this—a Made for TV movie? What are we, in high school?”

On the other end of the line, she’s speaking around her toothbrush. “Yeah, it was pretty immature.” She takes it out of her mouth to say, “But maybe…”

My best friend’s voice trails off.

“Maybe
what
? I’m hanging on your every word here.”

“Well, maybe—just maybe—he’s intimidated by you and doesn’t want to be rejected. That’s Collin’s theory, and I happen to agree with him. You can be pretty intimidating, Daphne.”

I consider this.

I’m not shy or reserved, and if I’m being brutally honest, I haven’t broken any mirrors lately.

“Okay, yes. That’s a possibility.” I pause before adding more information. “But I’m
pretty
sure he was going to ask me out after the movie. I’d bet my favorite yoga pants on it.”

“He was spooked by his aunt,” Tabitha declares with authority. I can picture her nodding in agreement. “And now he’s too chicken shit—” She stops mid-sentence. “Tell the truth; do you
really
want to date a guy like that, though? Not enough balls to ask you on a real date? It’s kind of
wimpy
.”

I’ve debated this a million times in my head so I immediately jump to his defense. “Jeez Tabitha, just because he’s not humping my leg or sending me dick pics doesn’t make him a wimp.”

She huffs indignantly. “Please don’t call him
sensitive
. That’s way worse.”

I chuckle. “No, he’s not
that
nice. I mean—he is, but he also has a smart mouth on him, too; it’s sexy.”

His smart mouth.

Those lips.

“Sexy Dexy,” Tabitha croons into the receiver. “You know, I bet he’s got a lot of pent-up sexual repression.”

My ears perk up. “Ya think?”

“Oh
yeah
, definitely.” Tabitha breaths seductively. “You said yourself he’s a thinker—he’s probably
thinking
of all the ways to
do
you.”

God I hope so.

“No doubt he’s got himself convinced you’re out of his league.”

I scoff at this. “He couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Then prove it. Show him he’s wrong.”

“I can’t,” I whine like a baby. “He put me in the Friend-Zone.”

Tabitha sighs impatiently. “No, he put
him
self there. Now
you
need to take him out.”

“Hmmm, we’ll see…”

“I’m sorry, what was that? You need. To take. Him. Out.”

“Have you always been this bossy?”

“No, it’s something new I’m trying out.” I can practically hear her rolling her blue eyes.

“Wow, sarcastic, too. Collin’s one lucky guy.”

Tabitha releases a breathy laugh. “Sweetie. If you like him, just do it; make a move. Don’t wait until your ovaries dry up.”

I
t 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.”