Things Liars Fake (#ThreeLittleLies #3) (6 page)

I mean, other than the fact that this is a horrible fucking idea, why not pick up the phone and call?

So:

I hunt her number down online and call her at work to propose this ridiculous scheme.

Or.

I can
not
call Daphne, inventing an elaborate explanation for her absence to appease my meddlesome family.

Or.

I can do the honorable thing and show up to the engagement party alone; tell everyone the truth. There would be no shame in that, simple misunderstanding that it was.

But if I’m being honest…

I want to see her again.

Not gonna lie.

Fucked up as it sounds, I’m willing to concoct an elaborate charade and look like an ass just to see her again.

I think about my mom and my sisters, then my dickhead cousin Elliot, whose guaran-goddamn-tee’d to have his ex-girlfriend Kara at the party hanging all over him, even though he’s broken up with her a few times.

See, Elliot subscribes to the motto
man-kind isn’t meant for monogamy
. His past girlfriends, historically, eventually find issue with this motto, and once they do—they typically begin the process of trying to change him (ie. get him to be faithful). Immediately getting themselves dumped.

Elliot has dumped Kara twice, once at a family function, and once before Valentine’s Day just so he wouldn’t have to pay for a fancy dinner on the 14th.

They got back together on the 15th.

Kara, who has huge surgically enhanced tits, bleach blonde hair, and applies her make up with a painter’s palette knife. Kara, who has the IQ of a plastic Barbie doll—maybe even lower. Kara, who giggles like an eight-year-old. My point is: Elliot thinks he’s
hot shit
because he’s dating a woman that looks like a Playboy centerfold.

Kara’s elevator might not go all the way to the top floor, but Elliot thinks she’s smoking hot and his opinion is the only one that counts.

I guess I’d feel like hot shit too if I liked parading around cheap looking woman.

Which I do not.

My last girlfriend, Charlotte, was a paralegal at a law firm whose offices occupy the top floor in our building. Classy and serious, we both ultimately wanted the same things out a relationship—marriage, kids, and a house outside of the city.

But there was always something missing; something exciting.

Everything with Char was…
fine
. Predictable.

Vanilla.

Boring?

Missionary sex, buttoned-up cardigan sweaters—even on the weekends—unless she was wearing her Northwestern sweatshirt to do her gardening. Yawn.

Char was cute, if not a little… plain. Straight brown bob trimmed exactly every six weeks, serious brown eyes, she reserved her mega-watt smiles for the partners in her law firm, her close friends, and occasionally—me.

Bottom line: the sight of her entering a room didn’t get my dick hard.

The staid climate of our relationship wasn’t doing it for me anymore. There was never any anticipation. Never any spontaneity.

Never any fun.

Sure, I’ve been on a few dates since breaking it off with Charlotte; with more quiet, serious girls. Girls who sipped wine and stopped at one glass. Girls who counted networking as a hobby, drank three double shot Starbucks a day so they could work late, and gave tight smiles instead of laughing.

Fucking depressing.

And for whatever reason, my asshole cousin finds it
hilarious
to bring up my relationship status at every opportunity. No idea why. Like having a date is supposed to define my character. Like having a date makes me more masculine.

Honestly, I’d rather be completely alone and a decent guy, than a douchebag with a shitty date.

Elliot is a dickhole.

My thoughts stray to Daphne, her long silky hair and green eyes. The black framed glasses. Her glossy pink lips tipped up into a sly smile. Her sexy, easy, musical laugh.

I palm the computer mouse, scrolling it around its pad, waiting for my Dundler Mifflin screensaver to disappear, and pull up Google.

Type in Dorser & Kohl Marketing.

The firm’s website pops up in the search results, and I click on the link, scrolling through the site for employee profiles until I find hers.

Daphne Winthrop: Junior Vice President of Public Relations.

Buttoned to the collar in a blouse, she’s leaning against a stone building, arms crossed. Black blazer and pressed slacks, profile shot is classy, conservative and professional.

I read her bio; Age, 26. Graduated from State with a BA in Business. Alum of two professional fraternity organizations. Volunteer coordinator for a women’s shelter. Hobbies: travel, skiing and reading.

It says nothing about StarGate, alternative Universes, or fangirling over vintage Sci-Fi movies. In fact, everything about her bio reads as ‘my usual type.’

Exactly
my type.

Only I know differently.

My hand hovers over the mouse, and I scroll until I find her contact information. Eight seconds later I’m staring, in color, at her phone number. Should I call? Text? Or send an email?

What the hell am I going to say?
Hi Daphne, this is Dexter Ryan. Remember me from last night? I’m going to need you at that engagement party my aunt was yammering on-and-on about. Turns out my family is riding my ass. They’re driving me crazy, and you’d be doing me a huge favor if you pretended to be my girlfriend for an evening
…

Right; because that doesn’t sound fucked up.

And yet, I don’t abandon the idea entirely—not with my buddy Collin running around in my head shouting ‘Balls to the wall, Dex. Balls to the fucking walls!’ Collin, who pursued his girlfriend relentlessly, and who doesn’t give a shit what people think of him.

He’d call her without hesitating and expect me to do the same. Shit, he’d dial the phone for me.

But unlike Collin’s girlfriend Tabitha,
this
gorgeous girl is not going to want me to call her.

No way.

I palm the phone in my hand and push the glasses up the bridge of my nose, leaning back in my desk chair and swiveling it around a few times before setting the phone back down. My computer pings with an email notification and I rotate my chair back towards the desktop, click open the message, scanning it absentmindedly.

Noting that it’s just a follow up on an account I just picked up from a competitor’s firm, I flag it as priority, but close the window.

I can’t focus.

Frustrated, I raise both hands and run my fingers through my thick brown hair, shake my head and let out a loud groan.

“Dammit!” I curse loudly.

Loud enough that my secretary Vanessa sticks her head in my office door.

Shit.

“Is everything okay in here, Sir?” Worry is etched across her face, but that’s nothing new. A few weeks ago, Vanessa fucked up some client files and almost lost us a major account; these days her paranoia with the risk of being fired is at an all-time high—despite my constant reassurances that her job is secure.

For the moment, anyway.

“No. Sorry about that. Everything is fine.”

Vanessa stands idly for a few seconds, her heavily mascaraed lashes sticking together briefly as she blinks rapidly at me from the doorway. Tapping the steel doorframe with the palm her hand, so nods slowly. “Sir, do you need anything while I’m up?”

My lips compress in a thin line; I hate when she calls me Sir. It makes me feel like an old man. “Nope. I’m good.”

Her coal rimmed eyes narrow. “Alright, if you say so…”

Grabbing my phone, I click open the NEW MESSAGE tab and hit COMPOSE. Then I stare at the small screen, thumbs hovering above the touch screen keypad far too long.

Me:
Daphne, this is Dexter. This might seem really random, but I was hoping you’d be available this week at some point for a quick lunch or coffee?

Before second-guessing myself, I hit SEND, tap out more messages to random co-workers, switch the ringer to ‘vibrate,’ and push the phone to the corner of my desk in an attempt to forget about it. It lays there, unmoving for the next six minutes.

I flip it over to check the display screen.

Nothing.

Three seconds later, I check it again.

Still nothing.

This is ridiculous—what the hell am I doing? Not only is this sudden onslaught of nerves uncharacteristic, I have shit tons of work to do with little time to waste. Stacks of paperwork with
millions
of dollars at stake, and here I sit, staring at my goddamn cell phone as if I’m expecting it to sprout wings and fly.

Frustrated by my own insecurities, I pull the top drawer of my desk open and toss the phone in, slamming it shut with resounding bang.

Another four minutes go by and I’ve accomplished nothing but listening in the silence for my phone’s telltale rumble.

Another three, and I’ve manage to wad up eight pieces of printer paper and basketball toss them to the corner trash can.

Five of them land on the carpet.

I’m about to stand and toss them in the garbage when a low buzzing inside the drawer halts my actions, the vibrating sends my phone thumping spastically inside the hollow wooden interior.

Dammit. I forgot to silence it.

My pulse accelerates.

I lean back in my desk chair, looking into the hall for Vanessa, paranoid— like I’m about to do something criminal and don’t want to get caught—before pulling the drawer open and retrieving my sleek phone.

One new message.

It’s her.

A bead of sweat actually forms on my brow, and I wipe it with the sleeve of my white dress shirt before swiping open the message center.

Daphne:
Will today work?

My eyes damn near bug out of my skull. Today?

She wants to meet
today
?

I recall a lecture given to me by my twin, fifteen-year old sisters about the hazards of responding to a text message immediately:
you just, like, don’t do it unless you’re a loser
.

I disregard their instructions.

It’s stupid advice.

Me:
Yeah, today is great. What time and place work best for you?

Her reply, too, is almost immediate.

I grin stupidly.

Daphne:
I can probably cut out of work early and bring some things home. So how does two o’clock sound? Do you know where Blooming Grounds is
?

Blooming Grounds is the coffee shop where my childhood friend, Collin, and his girlfriend Tabitha, first began their relationship. It also happens to be less than a block from the offices of Halyard Capitol Investments & Securities.

It will take me five minutes to walk there.

Me:
Two works fine. I will see you at Blooming Grounds.

Me:
Wait. What can I have waiting for you when you get there?

Daphne:
How about an iced latte and a blueberry scone?

Me:
Will do. See you at 2

Daphne:
LOL

I stare at that last message from Daphne: LOL.

LOL?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is she laughing at something I said? Does she not want me to meet her at two? How the hell am I supposed to interpret
L-O-freaking-L
?

Shit.

I’m twenty-six fucking years old and I need a goddamn girl translator. A nervous knot forms in my stomach; she’s either going to laugh in my face when she hears my proposal and tell me to fuck off, or…

I don’t even want to think about the alternative.

I
can’t stop watching the clock and counting down the minutes.

One o’clock.

One fifteen.

One twenty-three.

At one forty-five, I shut down my computer. Gathering my belongings, I stuff them in the leather tote I use as a briefcase, and head out to meet Dexter.

There’s a carefree little spring in my step as I walk out to my car—a pep that only intensifies with my heart beat when I make the quick drive to the coffee shop, sliding into a tight little parallel parking spot like a champ.