Things Liars Fake (#ThreeLittleLies #3) (7 page)

Nervously, I run a hand over my hair, smoothing down the fly-aways. Staring at my reflection in the mirrored sun visor, I wonder what it is about me that had Dexter hesitating to ask me out after the movie—I don’t usually get push back from men when I want them to take me out; quite the opposite in fact.

I snap the mirrored sun visor down and grab my purse—a few brisk steps later I’m stepping through the door of Blooming Grounds. The funky interior assails my senses as I take in the eclectic vibe; miss-matched couches line the walls, large green velvet wing back chairs flank the fireplace that’s the focal point of the room, and small intimate tables take up the rest of the space.

It’s warm. Cozy.

I brush a few tendrils of my long, brown hair out of my face; it’s pulled back in a loose chignon, an old-fashioned style that’s messy yet sophisticated. Classy yet fun. It looks a whole hell of a lot more complicated than it actually is, and looks amazing.

I pat the back of it confidently letting my green eyes scan the coffee shop, easily finding Dexter seated at a sofa in the corner. Our eyes connect.

He rises.

I take him in from head to toe; a starched, white button down shirt is tucked into slate gray slacks, a slim blue/black and white necktie falling crisply to his waistline. He rakes a hand down that silk tie before adjusting a pair of black glasses; a move I’ve come to recognize as a nervous habit.

His lips tip into a crooked smile at my approach, and I weave through empty tables towards him.

“Hi,” comes my breathless salutation.

“Thanks for coming.” Dexter shoves both his hands in the pockets of his pants, then removes them—fidgeting as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. I find a spot on the sofa and sit, resting my purse on the worn, patchwork cushions.

Comfy.

He sits in the overstuffed chair across from me, spreading his legs wide and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He steeples his fingertips.

I try
not
to look between his legs—I really,
really
do—but I’m not gonna lie to you; I sneak a covert peek at his crotch, my face engulfed in flames when my eyes land on the outline of his… junk.

Holy shit, I can actually
see
it through the fabric of his pleated, conservative dress pants; the telltale bulge of his…
Oh my god
.

I am the absolute worst.

The. Worst.

A horrible, perverted human being.

Yup, it’s official: Tabitha isn’t the only one with a dirty mind.

Although… I am a single, warm-blooded female—one that likes guys and relationships and sex. Definitely sex.

Shooting Dexter a guilty smile, I busy myself, taking large sips from the straw in my latte, mentally chastising myself for having such a depraved mind.

I give the ice in my plastic cup a shake, unable to look him in the eye.

Poor guy doesn’t have a clue.

“I
’m just going to put this out there to save us time.” Dexter takes a deep breath, and exhales. “I told my mom that you’d be at my cousin Grace’s engagement party.”

Before I can respond, he continues. “You met my Aunt Bethany—did she look like someone who was going to keep our little meeting at the theater a secret? No. The first thing she did from her car in the parking lot was call my mom, who was with my sisters and aunts. So. Yeah.”

When he rakes his fingers through his hair, the ends stick up haphazardly.

“Normally I wouldn’t commit you to something like that—I mean, we just met and who am I, right? A virtual stranger. Not someone you’d want to spend your weekend with, I get that.”

My mouth opens to disagree, but he interrupts.

“I have this cousin Elliot who is a complete douche.” My eyebrows go up—not from the word douche; but from
his
use of it. Dexter looks too clean cut and proper to be hurling out vulgarities. “It’s getting really fucking old. When my mom called and put me on the spot, I didn’t tell her no. So there you have it. I’m in something of a bind, and you’re the only one who can help me out of it.”

He unsteeples his hands, clasping them instead. “What do you say? Can you stand to spend the night with me as my fake date?”

Wait. Did Dexter just ask me out on a date? My heart skips a beat and I grin so hard my cheeks begin to ache.

“A date?”

Date? Date!

Oh!

“A fake date,” he clarifies.

Oh.

“A
fake
date.” I repeat.

“Precisely.” He nods definitively. “Totally fake. Just drinks, dinner, and if I know my cousin Grace, probably some dancing—but nothing romantic on my end.” His hands go up in surrender with a chuckle. “Promise.”

Something inside of me deflates. That flare of excitement distinguishes.

I muster up a weak smile.

Oblivious, Dexter grins. “If you could just do me this
one
favor, it would be huge. I would owe you a favor. Maybe even manage your retirement account,” he laughs again. “I could probably double your savings in under seven years.”

He peers at me hopefully. Naively.

What idiots.

Him. Me. Both of us.

“So? What do you think?”

What do I think? What do I
think
?

I think it’s a horrible, stupid, insulting idea. I’m hurt. Pissed. Confused.

So utterly disappointed.

I want to smack him.

He watches me expectantly, his eyes detailing the play of emotions across my face, pushing those black framed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He looks so… pleased with his idea that my shoulders sag and I feel myself breaking down and giving in.

God, I’m such a sucker.

I make a show of checking the calendar on my phone, poke randomly at the keypad on my phone, and paste a
fake
grin on my face before announcing, “I don’t have anything going on this weekend, so yeah. That would work.”

He leans forward. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ll do it.” My brows furrow at his reaction. “Why do you look so surprised?”

The glasses get pushed up again. “I just assumed a girl like you would have plans. A date maybe.”

“Like a
real
date as opposed to this
fake
one?” The dig makes those big, chocolate brown eyes widen, so I shrug it off with a joke. “Naw, unless you count me rooted to my couch Netflix and Chilling with my bad self.” I recline back on the sofa and cross my legs. “Okay, we’re doing this. So what’s the plan?”

M
y palms are sweating.

I glance over at Daphne in the passenger seat of my silver Audi, her eyes scanning the landscape as we roll past; houses and businesses becoming further and further apart as I navigate my way out of the city. The long column of her graceful neck is illuminated by the dim glow of street lights.

It’s on the cooler side this evening, but Daphne’s creamy shoulders are bare beneath a simple, baby blue halter-top thing with a pearl neckline. Tucked into a black, knee-length pencil skirt, the top has a bow at the collar, cream colored ribbons tail down her bare back.

Simple, black strappy heels. Toes painted a shiny dark red I couldn’t help noticing when I picked her up, it’s almost as if she put real effort into getting ready. The kind of effort a woman puts into a real date; a real date she’s nervous and excited about.

That she anticipated.

I don’t know what I was expecting to find when she eagerly swung the door open to her condo earlier, but it’s safe to assume: this wasn’t it.

She looks incredible. Sweet. Undeniably sexy.

Unattainable yet approachable.

My eyes drop to her tan legs. I want to call them glowing—but that’s not right, is it? Glowing? Shit, I don’t fucking know. They look freshly shaved and must feel
smooth
if the way she’s running her palms around her knees is any indication; up and down her knees in slow circular motions, probably to torture me for coming up with this dumbass idea in the first place.

I give those legs another sidelong glance, trying to erase the desire I feel for her from altering my expression. It remains pleasant. Passive.

Another quick glance as Daphne idly traces her knee cap with the tip of a forefinger has me hoarsely clearing my throat because,
dammit, stop touching your legs.

Tightening my grip on the steering column, I focus on the road and pull onto the highway, blowing out a pent up puff of air.

I should have just told my mom I wasn’t bringing a date. Or been more firm in my resolve that Daphne is just a friend. But can someone be your friend when you’ve only met twice? I might not be a rocket scientist in the female department, but somehow, even I doubt it.

And yet here we are, on the way to an engagement party.

Where I’ll no doubt make an ass of myself.

Her voice jolts me out of my contemplations. “Do you want to go over any details before we get there? Just in case anyone decides to grill us about how we met.”

I stare out the windshield, nodding. “Sure. Great idea.”

“Alright. I’ll start.” She pauses with a secret smile. “Let’s say we met at a wine bar through mutual friends? That part at least is true… and our first date was the movies.”

“StarGate?”

“Yes! Exactly. StarGate.” Daphne is quiet for a few seconds, and I can tell that she’s thinking. Can see it on her face when I chance a glance her way in the dark cab of my car. Biting down on her lower lip, she hums to herself before asking, “Where should our second date be?” Her head gives a shake, her long, loose brown hair swaying. “Wait. I meant, where should we
say
it was?”

I might be wicked smart, but I’m a guy, so I say, “Uh…”

Daphne laughs and her hand hits my thigh with a teasing tap. It lingers there before returning to her lap. “
Uh
? You’re hopeless, do you know that?”

I stare down at my pants, at the thigh that’s now singing beneath my dark gray slacks from her touch.

“Do you really think anyone is going to ask where we had our second date? I mean, a continuous line of questioning is kind of rude, don’t you think?”

I snort. “That’s not going to stop my cousin Elliot from asking shit tons of inappropriate questions. He has no boundaries.”

Daphne tilts her head and studies me back in the dark. The lights from the center median on the highway illuminate the cab, her glossy lips shining—and like beacons in the night, my eyes are drawn to them. She licks them.

“Elliot sounds charming.”

“He’s not a bad guy—not really. He just has no filter.”

“What about your other family. I’m kind of nervous to meet your mom and sisters. I’m going to feel horrible lying to them.”

“Sorry about dragging you into this. I just think my mom wasn’t in the frame of mind to believe me, and instead of arguing with her about having a girlfriend, it’s seriously just easier to bring you. My mom hears what she wants to hear. As awkward as it’s going to be for you, this is the story of my life.”

“Awkward for me?”

“Yeah.” I glance at her. “Faking it. Pretending to like me. Pretending to be attracted to me.” With a self-deprecating chuckle, my finger pushes my black glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Let’s see how good an actress you are.”