Things Liars Fake (#ThreeLittleLies #3) (12 page)

I
thought we could be friends.

Just friends?

Why would I even say something like that?

I am such a liar.

T
he 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.

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
.

“S
ir?” 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.

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—