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

That should be enough, right?

For good measure, I pluck out two more from the holder because sometimes my butter hands get out of control. I hate having buttery fingerprints.

Still clutching my ticket stub, I attempt to lift it to see which theater my movie is playing in, but fail miserably and have to set everyth—

“Daphne?”

I freeze.

Look up.

Pivot.

Standing behind me in his navy blue pea coat, Dexter Ryan smiles crookedly down at me.

He smoothes his hands down the front of his dark pressed jeans—or is he wiping sweat off his palms?—and pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose.

I take it all in—every inch of him—from the preppy jacket, the glasses, the slight cleft in his chin, up to the black cable knit winter hat when he suddenly removes it. Instead of his hair being flattened by the hat, it’s unruly and a bit tousled. A rich brown, his locks are wavy, shaggy and desperately need a trim.

He finger combs it out of his face.

“It
is
Daphne, right?” He asks, unsure of himself.

It’s hard to hold back my groan of dismay at being spotted, but I muster up a cheerful, “Yeah. Hi. Dexter?”

He smiles then, his eyes shining behind his dark, tortoiseshell lenses. I mean—I
think
his eyes are shining. Maybe it’s just the reflection of his glasses?

Those dark eyes dart down to my snacks, the ticket stub grasped between two fingers on my right hand. His brows go up. “Do you need help with anything? Sorry, I’m an idiot; it’s obvious you’re waiting for someone.”

A nervous giggle escapes my lips, only I can’t smack a hand over my mouth to stop it. “Gosh thank you. I don’t need help,” I hurriedly say. “I just have to see which theater I’m in, but I’m having a hard time with…”

All my food.

“It’s just you?” His head cranes around, confused. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Of course it’s not just you. Why would it be?” His deep voice gives a forced, nervous chuckle.

Wow, this is about to get awkward. “Nope, it
is
just me,” I barely manage to get the words out. “I’m here alone.”

Dexter’s eyes go wide, sending his brows straight into his hairline. His mouth even falls open a little but no sound comes out.

“Great,” I joke, more for my benefit than his. “I’ve rendered you speechless.”

I follow the line of his jacket, down to the hand tightly gripping his winter hat.

“No! Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean… I don’t know what I mean.” Deep breath. “I’m here alone, too.”

Suddenly, his mouth twitches into a goofy grin, and my green eyes make a beeline to his lips as they form the words, “Which movie are you here to see?”

Those lips.

Huh?

Instead of formulating a response, I find myself trying not to stare at a perfectly sculpted upper lip and a full mouth surrounded by a days’ worth of five o’clock shadow. Strong jawline. Straight, white teeth. And is that line in his cheek a dimple?

Dexter clears his throat, and I watch transfixed as the chords in his neck flex when he reprises, “Which movie are you here to see?”

Huh?

“Huh?”

Jesus, I have some serious issues. And if Dexter thinks I’ve gone space cadet on him, he doesn’t let on; his brown eyes are kind. Friendly. Sincere without a trace of egotism. “What movie?”

Oh god. Could this be any more humiliating? The guy’s asked me the same question three times.

“Uh… StarGate?”

Don’t judge me!
Don’t judge me, Dexter!
I want to shout. I want to hide behind my massive bucket of popcorn.
Yes, it’s true! I am at a nine o’clock screening of StarGate, the twenty-year-old movie turned nerd cult classic of all time.

By myself.

As in: alone.

On a Saturday night.

A pleased grin quirks, his thick brows shoot up for a second time in surprise before he clears his throat. “Me too.”

Dexter briefly glances down at his ticket stub, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. God, it’s such a sweet gesture I actually cock my head and stare.

Truth be told, I could probably stare at him all night.

It’s been all of three minutes and I find him charming, adorable, and unassumingly handsome. The kind of handsome that sneaks up on you.

He clears his throat again. “It’s, uh, in theater twelve. Let me just…” He reaches around me then to grab a few napkins for himself, though he’s only carrying a medium soda.

No popcorn. No candy. No snacks.

Wait.
No snacks
?

Who doesn’t get
snacks
at the movies? Who?

Self-conscious of my gluttony, I back away, wielding my embarrassing armload of junk food, face flaming hot. “I guess I should go find myself a seat. Yeah. I should go do that. The previews have probably already started and those are my favorite part…”

Stop talking Daphne!

Dexter nods and grapples for a few more napkins.

Oh brother; between the two of us, we have enough napkins to last us through Armageddon.

“Alright, well…” We both move gracelessly at the same time, in the same direction, doing that awkward side-stepping dance you do when you’re trying to get around someone, but failing miserably.

“Here, let me at least carry something for you,” Dexter offers, reaching to take the beverage tray out of my hands.

“Thank you.” I laugh nervously, a horrible hot, furious blush creeping up my neck. “We go this way, I guess.”

Walking towards the same hallway, it’s obvious neither of us knows what the proper etiquette is when you run into someone at the movie theater when you’re flying solo, and seeing the same movie. I’m aware of his every movement; every sidelong glance he surreptitiously gives me along the way.

Without speaking, we lumber down the endless, empty hallway, kernels from my popcorn bucket occasionally falling weightlessly to the carpet below. I look behind me down at the trail; I’m
such
a Gretel.

When we reach theater twelve, Dexter beats me to the door, his arm shooting out to grab the door handle, pulling it open, and waiting for me to walk through first. It’s such a gentlemanly thing to do.

Something a date would do, I can’t help but muse with longing.

The theater is packed, dark and—dammit, the previews have started! Disappointed, my eyes scan row after occupied row, seeking out in the dim one empty spot—
any
empty spot
not
near the front. I would rather poke my eye out with a stick than sit in the front row, and luckily, I find several halfway up.

I
feel
Dexter hesitate on the steps as he approaches me from behind, just as I sense him internally debating his options; should he say good-bye and go in search of his own seat? Or should he tag along and sit with me, not knowing if he’ll be welcome?

How do I know he’s thinking this? Easy. Because I’m feeling it, too. Should I invite him to sit next to me? Would that be awkward? Probably, but wouldn’t it be worse knowing he’s a few seats behind me, staring at the back of my head?

Slowly, guided by the illuminated track lighting on the stairs, I climb step after step. Ascending to the middle row, eyes seeking—scanning in the dark, until…

There, three rows up, are two seats.

Together.

What were the odds?

Over my shoulder I softly whisper, “Those?”

“Sure.”

Together we shimmy our way towards the empty seats, making apologies, sidestepping purses, popcorn buckets, and legs in the dimly lit space.

Once we’re seated, settled in, Dexter removes his pea coat, and I watch him unhook each double toggle button from the corner of my eye. His heavy coat comes off and the woodsy, male smell of him reaches my sensitive nose.

Good lord he smells freaking fantastic. Like a fresh shower and fresh air and wintergreen toothpaste.

The truth blindsides me: I’m
insanely
attracted to this guy.

He’s such a dork.

But
so
, so cute.

I stuff a handful of popcorn in my mouth to occupy myself—it weighs down my tongue like sandpaper—and when I crunch down, the speakers in the theater choose
that
moment to go dead silent, filling the silence around us with the sound of my chewing.

Mortified, I pause.

Chew.

Pause.

Oh my god, I’m so loud
.

Chew.

I give Dexter a weak, popcorn-filled smile before my head falls back on the headrest and I smother a groan by shoving more popcorn in my face.

I hate myself right now
.

D
aphne Winthrop.

The woman I spent half my weekend stalking on social media after meeting her at Ripley’s Wine Bar because—let’s face it—she is beautiful.

She’s also way out of my league.

Outgoing, charismatic and sweet, I try not to watch as she nervously shovels handful after handful of buttered popcorn into her gullet from that giant bucket, and ignore the sidelong glances from her piercing green eyes.

The brightest green eyes I’ve ever seen in person.

God, she must think I’m a freaking loser.

I mean—coming to a movie alone, on a Saturday night? And StarGate of all things.

Christ
.

Why couldn’t it have been something cool, like Star Wars or Planet of the Apes?

For a split second I want to lean over and ask Daphne what
she’s
doing here alone, but think better of it; she looked mortified when I approached her at the condiments counter, but really—I
did
need those napkins.

In front of us, the movie previews roll on. Holiday, comedy and zombie Coming Attractions quickly flash on the two-story mega screen below but I’m not paying one goddamn bit of attention. Nope. Instead of being riveted on the digital display, my traitorous eyes spend their time stealthily sneaking peeks at Daphne.

They trail her movements when she finally sets the large tub of popcorn on the hard, concrete floor at our feet. They watch as she unzips her puffer vest, shrugging out of it then twisting her body to drape the vest over the back of her seat. Even in the shadowy theater, I notice her breasts strain against the fabric of her fuzzy lavender sweater when she arches her back.

Her breasts, her breasts.

Shit, what am I doing staring at her breasts?

Getting turned on
, that’s what.

I haven’t gotten laid since I broke it off with my ex-girlfriend Charlotte eighteen months ago, and haven’t had a real date in over ten months; in case anyone wanted to fact check the math, that’s roughly three hundred and four days of missed opportunities. Give or take.

And yes—I counted.

Daphne leaves her gray winter hat on, her long brown hair frames one of the prettiest fucking heart-shaped faces I’ve ever seen, and shines glossy beneath the changing lights of the big screen.

Black framed glasses she hadn’t had on the other night lend a stark contrast to the sexy, confident Daphne who was out with her friends at Ripley’s Wine Bar. Don’t get me wrong; she was nice enough—but that Daphne wouldn’t ordinarily give me the time of day.

This Daphne… she’s better.

Casual.
Soft
. Approachable.

Plus, she came to fucking StarGate alone on a Saturday night. Who does that?

I mean—besides nerds like me.

Not beautiful girls like Daphne, with full social calendars. Girls with
great
bodies and better personalities. Fun loving. Girls who have guys lined up for their phone numbers—and I would know, because I saw it with my own eyes last weekend.

I give her another curious glance, wondering why someone like her isn’t on a date tonight. Me? That one is easy: I’m perpetually put in the Friend Zone because I’m
nice
. Easy going. A commitment kind of guy that doesn’t take the time to date around, I’m more likely to be found chaperoning my kid sisters school dance than asking someone on a date.

So, I get why
I’m
here alone—but why is she?

Her head turns and our eyes meet when she bends to grab her popcorn bucket off the floor. In the dark, I see her mouth curve into a friendly smile; Daphne’s eyes rest on me a few steady heartbeats before she turns her attention back to the movie screen. Her hand digs in the giant tub of popcorn like she’s rooting around for buried treasure.

She pops a kernel in her open mouth.

Chews.

Swallows.

“Want some?” She offers in a whisper, holding the tub between us.

I don’t—but I’m also smart enough to know that when a pretty girl offers you something—
you take it
. “Sure, thanks.”

She beams at me in the dark. A friendly,
platonic
smile.

Platonic: story of my life.

However, I’m not complaining twenty-minutes later when Daphne is frantically seizing my upper arm as an enemy ship onscreen (an enemy of Planet Dakara) launches an attack against Colonel O’Neil. In the distance, explosives go off, and a spacecraft is blasted into smithereens.

It’s loud, bloody, and pretty fucking intense.

Daphne gasps when someone onscreen is violently shot, her fingers wrapping tighter around my bicep. Another blast and she buries her face in the shoulder of my plaid, flannel shirt.