Текст книги "Things Liars Hide"

Автор книги: Sara Ney

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

B lare Wellborn wasn’t always this guarded; she was fun and outgoing and loud. But she had a secret, one she was hiding from everyone she cared about—the one thing that brought her the most joy, was the one thing she couldn’t tell to anyone.

Blare freezes in the aisle of the store, not sure which direction to head in first. She didn’t come for cosmetics, but the glittery display of mascara beckoned her. Man, was she a sucker for new products, and she loved getting dressed up. These days, though, there wasn’t much opportunity, and she heaved a loud sigh when she snatched up a hot-pink mascara tube and tossed it in her basket.

Biting down on her lower lip, she studied her choices, not paying any attention when someone brushed past her and bumped into her shoulder, causing her to drop her purse. “Oh!” She gasped, startled. “I’m sorry.” Blare was always apologizing, and mentally kicked herself for doing it now. After all, she wasn’t the one who had smacked into her.

They both bent down, grabbing at her bag. Hands touching. Fingers grasping. Then, “Oh…” Hazel eyes stared back at her, a tuft of shockingly dark brown locks brushed away by a masculine hand. “Don’t apologize. I bumped into you.” His voice. His lips. That ruggedly handsome face, those kind eyes. They regarded each other then, something passing between them: recognition. Attraction. Definitely attraction….

Leaning back in the high-back chair, satisfied, I hit SAVE on my laptop, pleased with the progress on my second novel.

My. Second. Novel.

Two novels that I wrote, all by my freaking self.

Me!

A romance writer.

I can hardly believe it, and if someone had told me a year ago that I’d be publishing a book—let alone two—well, I wouldn’t have believed them. I might have even laughed in their face. Not very ladylike, I know, but there you have it.

My parents would be shocked. And horrified—not because I’ve written a book, but because they’re fifty shades of smut. I don’t even want to imagine what I’d say to my grandparents.

And if Cal found out? I would never live it down.

I grin, imagining the tasteless jokes and innuendos my brother would throw down if he discovered my secret, but also saddened by the knowledge that I’m hiding it from him, because I know he would support me. Be proud.

My biggest fan.

Ironically, despite his rough exterior and grumpy disposition, Cal has always been my biggest cheerleader. When I was a teenager and became obsessed with animals—stray dogs at the pound in particular—he helped me raise money to donate to the shelter. Together we went to buy pet supplies the shelter needed with the cash I’d raised.

When I went through my boy band phase, it was Cal who went with me to stand in line at the radio station, overnight, to enter a contest for a chance to win tickets.

And every spring when we mulch our parents’ landscaping, I always weasel my way out of working in the yard by faking an injury, and he’s never once ratted me out.

Heaving a loud sigh at the memories, I reach over the side of my chair to root around the tote next to my table for a pen, feeling around inside the bag blindly with one hand and coming up empty. I lean over farther to yank it open and peer inside.

Ah-ha, there it is.

I pop the pen cap off with my teeth and admire the paperback proof for my first book—which hasn’t even been officially released yet—resting on the table next to my soy latte, trailing my fingers across its sleek cover and glossy design. I turn the paperback this way and that, admiring the two entwined, naked bodies in the heat of passion, the shocking red title, and my name in bold letters splashed across the front.

My name!

Well, my pen name, anyway.

A pair of blue ear buds dangle from my lobes and down the front of my white tee shirt, and I reset my music playlist before flipping open the proof copy of my book, pen poised and ready for edits.

Disappointed, the first page—the title page—is pixelated, so I circle it and add a note in the margin for my formatter. Thirty pages in I find a typo, and a few chapters further, too many spaces between paragraphs, a sentence that’s meant to be italicized. There are narrow margins in the epilogue.

I circle them all.

I forgo acknowledgements in this book because, well, who am I going to thank?

No one knows I wrote it.

And if none of my family or friends know I wrote it, who’s even going to read it? Probably no one. But I didn’t write it for them or for strangers; I wrote it for me.

It’s something I’ve always wanted to do; it’s always been my passion. My career goals never included working for my parents. Don’t get me wrong—I love them to death and I like my job, but…

…the construction company is their passion. Their vision. Their dream.

Not mine.

But my parents count on me—always have—trusting that Cal and I will take ownership of their company when they retire. They have confidence in us, put us through Business School at Ivy League colleges, and rely on us to continue their legacy.

Lately though, for the first time in my life, the thought of living someone else’s dream is stifling me. Suffocating. It might be what my brother wants, but it’s holding me back.

I rest my back against the soft cushion, my pen hovering above the cream pages of my novel—all three hundred and eighty pages of it. Setting the blue felt-tip pen down, I trace the title on the cover with my hand, letting my fingers run up and down the glossy surface.

I lift it with both hands and lift it to my nose, inhaling the smell of freshly printed paper and sighing before clutching it to my chest.

This book is my baby. My labor of love. The best thing that’s happened to me in years.

And I have no one to tell.

With a sigh, I continue to write.

B lare closed her eyes and tried to remember him. What he looked like, how he sounded, what it felt like when he handed her the discarded mascara that had fallen on the cold tile of the store. He felt familiar to her, like someone she’d known all her life. Like they were connected somehow, and it made her heart beat faster.

Oh well. She wasn’t going to see him again. What would be the odds? A million to one? Serendipity only happened in fairy tales, and Blare’s life was anything but. With her eyes open and reality surrounding her, the fast-paced beating of her heart gradually returned to normal. But her memory of him never would…

The pink hat gives her away.

I spot it as soon as I push through the door at Blooming Grounds, a coffee shop in the heart of the city, sandwiched between a hotel chain and insurance brokerage firm. It’s surprisingly cozy.

Hefting my black leather laptop bag up and bending at the neck to move the strap over my head, I sling it around my torso, resting the cross-body strap diagonally against my chest.

I hold it steady while I… study her.

I hone in on Tabitha Thompson, the brightest spot in the room. It can’t be anyone but her—I would recognize that ball cap anywhere. She was wearing it during that embarrassing display she put on last week when she accused my sister of cheating on her brother. With me.

Not that I blame her; my sister and I look nothing alike and Greyson was far from college, home for an impromptu visit.

With her back to me, Tabitha’s spine is bent over a glowing laptop monitor, blonde hair in a ponytail she’s pulled through the back of her hat.

Baseball caps and ponytails; man, I love that shit.

Cautiously, I approach her from behind, my eyes raking her back. Her bra is visible through her thin white tee, faded cut-up jeans, and navy flip-flops—she looks casual and relaxed. As her fingers fly across her keyboard, the tap tap tapping sound resonates, filling the gap of space around the small square table she occupies in the center of the room.

I observe her for a few minutes from across the room until she leans back in her chair, digs in her bag to produce a pen, and eventually begins scribbling in a paperback book.

Inching closer, I watch as she sets the pen down and closes the book to run a hand over its surface, her fingers stroking the cover before raising it to her nose and giving it a whiff. Yeah, you heard me—she’s smelling the book.

Who does that?

Then, as if that wasn’t weird enough, Tabitha grasps the book tightly, clutches it to her chest, and… hugs it?

Uh, okay.

She might be weird, but my looming over her is just as creepy. The soft, dull light from Tabitha’s monitor draws me in, and curiously, I hover closely behind her, scanning the paragraph she’d undoubtedly been pounding away on earlier.

Wait. Does that sentence say, Blare could not stop thinking about him, the guy from the store. His hazel eyes burned holes into her soul and made her center quake. She was experiencing want and desire like nothing… nothing she’d ever felt before. She wanted to strip them both naked right there, drag him into a dressing room, and let him—

Holy shit.

I feel my eyes widen in shock. Bugging out of my fucking skull is probably more accurate, because—holy shit—Tabitha Thompson is writing a sex book in the middle of a public coffee shop.

Smut. A bodice ripper.

Whatever the hell you wanna call it.

In disbelief, I give my hair a shake before pushing the black sunglasses up so they rest atop my head. My eyes hit her monitor again, seeking, reading word after suggestive word.

I’ve seen what I’ve seen and I can’t un-see it.

Drawing even closer, my intention isn’t to scare the shit out of her, but that’s exactly what happens when I let out a surprised gasp. Yeah, I fucking gasp. Like a goddamn girl.

Startled, Tabitha turns.

Her eyes hit my legs first, climb leisurely up my body, pausing on my broad chest, and widen with surprise, then recognition.

Dismay.

The book falls from her hands, landing on the floor with a soft thud on the carpet, and when I bend to scoop it up, her hand darts out and grips my wrist.

“Don’t touch it!” Her voice is filled with panic. “Please just leave it.”

I rear my hand back and straighten, my eyes flitting to her glowing screen before she glares at me for gawking, and twists in her chair to close the top with a resounding snap.

She tidies up her workspace then spins to face me.

Well, well, well, someone doesn’t want me learning any of her dirty little secrets. My eyes dart to the discarded paperback lying facedown on the floor, and for now she’s too flustered to pick it up. What’s in that damn book that she doesn’t want me to see?

“Collin Keller.” Tabitha flashes me a fake smile, her lips pulled tight across her white teeth. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“You don’t have to sound so thrilled to see me.”

A blush creeps up her neck, and the hot-pink bill of her ball cap creates an unflattering fuchsia shadow on her skin. She has the decency to look embarrassed by her lack of manners.

“I’m sorry, that was rude. It’s just that you startled me.” Tabitha bites down on her lower lip, takes a steadying breath, and then asks, “So… what are you doing here?”

A laugh explodes out of me. “Just can’t help yourself, can you? I work in the financial district. It’s four blocks up, actually, but I like it in here better than Starbucks. Much warmer and definitely more quiet. I get more work done here.” I motion to the laptop draped across my body, giving the canvas bag a pat. “What about you? What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“I actually live nearby. I… come here often, usually after work, but I didn’t have a lot going on at the office today, so… here I am. Earlier than usual.” Her shoulders give an apologetic shrug, and she nervously reaches up to adjust the bill of her pink ball cap.

While she’s doing that, my eyes flit to the laptop.

A sly smile curls my lips. “What are you working on?”

Tabitha’s hands stop, still holding her brim as her bright blue eyes narrow suspiciously for a few seconds, assessing, as if trying to gauge my sincerity.

Like she doesn’t quite trust me.

Like she’s looking for any clue that I’ve seen what’s written on her screen.

Why yes, Tabitha. Yes I have.

I’ve seen words like tremble, breathless, stroke, and panting flash across her monitor, burning themselves in my brain—forever. I’ll not likely forget them anytime soon, not only because they were sexy, but because she was writing them.

Those sexy words came out of that sexy girl, and it has me wondering what other thoughts are going through her obviously dirty mind—because I’m a guy and I wonder about shit like that.

And now look how agitated she is.

She suspects I’ve seen something; it’s written all over her beautiful face.

I try not to snicker. “What was it you said you were working on?”

“What am I working on?” she parrots, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, it looks like I interrupted something.”

Something smutty.

Tabitha bites her bottom lip and looks away guiltily. “Um. Work stuff, I guess.”

“What kind of work stuff?” This time I do snicker.

She closes the notebook in front of her with a scowl and crosses her arms defensively over her chest. “What’s with all the questions?”

“Just curious, that’s all.” I shoulder the weight of my laptop, laying it on the floor next to her table, and lean my elbow on the back of her chair.

I’m so close now I can smell the sweetness of her hair when she fidgets in her chair, kicking up the air around her.

A nervous giggle escapes her lips—her very nicely shaped, pink, pouty lips. Some people would call them glossy; I’m calling them juicy.

Juicy lips I want to suck on.

“Are you coming?” asks my lazy drawl.

“Excuse me?” Tabitha’s mouth gapes in an O of surprise and I suppress the urge to say, Speaking of coming, weren’t you just writing about that very same thing only moments ago?

But I don’t. Instead, I say, “Are you coming to my housewarming party?”

“I didn’t know you were having one.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Oh, really? Because I’m pretty sure Greyson told me she invited you. Personally.”

“She did?”

I study her, the large blue eyes lined in black, the clear, smooth skin flushed from frustration and embarrassment, and the full lips. Letting my gaze linger until she gets uncomfortable with my scrutiny, she finally breaks contact and turns her face towards the bank of windows on the far side of the coffee shop.

I give my chin a scratch. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure she said you were coming.”

Tabitha shakes her head in denial, her blonde ponytail swinging back and forth. “I never said that. I said I had to check my calendar.”

Gotcha.

“Ah, so she did invite you to come.”

“Please stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“You know what. Using the word...” Tabitha turns back to stare at me, her eyes bright but guarded. “Stop pushing. You’re pushing.”

“I’m not pushing.” I smile. “I just want you to come.”

Yeah. You bet your sweet ass I meant for that to sound dirty, and from the look on her face right now, she knows it.

She hesitates before responding, furrowing her brows and eyeing me from under her flirty cap before sliding her notebook off the table and stuffing it into her bag.

Tabitha lifts her laptop, unplugs the earbuds, winding them up along with the power cord, and rises. “I have to go.”

My eyes flick to the book on the floor, but morbid curiosity keeps me silent.

She grabs at her phone charger, stepping on it and stumbling when she yanks it up, trying to coil it around her hand. As she abandons tidiness, the black cord gets shoved haphazardly into her brown leather tote, and she shoulders it before grabbing an uncovered, steaming coffee off the table top.

It spills, wetting her hand and soaking the hem of her white shirt.

Her cheeks are beet red when she faces me, barely able to look me in the eye. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Tabitha turns, stalks away.

Doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t see me bend and snap the thick paperback novel up, discarded on the floor.

Doesn’t see the expression on my face when I flip it over and crack the cover, or the grin that spreads across my face.

I look up, watching her hurriedly retreating form through the glass, her ass in those ripped up jeans. Tabitha stops at the corner, glancing both ways before crossing to the other side of the street.

Within seconds, she’s out of sight.

Gone.

A few hours later, my solitary dinner plate washed and put away, I step into the kitchen to wipe down the cold granite countertop, pausing at the sink to rest my hip against the cabinet.

“The book,” as I’ve started calling it, rests on the kitchen table, cover-side up, the erotic silhouette of a naked couple in all their bare-assed glory for my viewing pleasure. I stride over, gaping down before gingerly lifting it, intently fixating on the suggestive embrace, the full-on kiss, the sweaty bare skin, and the sexy shot of side boob.

Overturning it to read the blurb on the back—studying it for the third time since jamming it into my laptop bag at Blooming Grounds and bringing it home—my eyebrows still shoot damn near into my hairline as I read:

On the Brink, a debut novel by TE Thomas.

Rachel Neumann is a virgin on the brink… on the brink of want, on the brink of curiosity, on the brink of her twenty-first birthday. Rachel wishes for one thing and one thing only: to be ruined. To lose it all in one night of passion… With seduction in mind, there’s only one person who can cure her aching body: Devon Parker. He’s the only person who has always stood by her, and he’s the one person who stirs all her lust-filled desires. Will friends become lovers, or will Rachel always be a virgin on the brink?

Whoa.

Holy shit.

I flip the book over to the front, and I scan the cover again before flicking it open to look inside. Bold, black handwriting and notations are scrawled across the first few title pages in pen:

Too pixelated. Must be 300 dpi, not 199. Change font.

There’s no doubt this has to be what she was working on at the coffee shop. I flip the book back over to stare at the author name on the cover:

TE Thomas

It’s quite conceivably the least creative pen name I’ve seen. And I’ve seen—okay fine, I’ve seen none.

But TE Thomas isn’t clever at all, especially if she’s trying to be covert about it. I mean, come on, TE Thomas? I might be going out on a wild limb here, but it’s safe to say her middle name is Elizabeth. If I was a betting man, I would win.

So, this is what she’s been hiding.

She’s an author.

I take the book into the living room and flop into an overstuffed leather chair, propping my feet up on the coffee table Greyson made me buy. Settling in for the long haul, I crack the novel open to the first chapter and read: Rachel Neumann was hot, sticky, and panting—and it wasn’t from the heat…

A grin crosses my face as I devour page after page.

Tabitha Thompson, you secretive little sneak.

I can feel Collin Keller surveilling me from across his living room, his scrutiny so penetrating that sweat begins to dampen my spine.

Great. Just what I need.

It’s not like I’ve never had attractive guys notice me before; I’ve dated my fair share of handsome men. In fact, my last boyfriend was a Minor League Baseball player on his way to the pros, and a total babe.

Hilarious. Smart.

Constantly surrounded by groupies…

Jared would have been perfect if it hadn’t been for those damn baseball groupies. No woman wants to listen to their date’s phone blow up the entire time they’re trying to eat dinner, and no woman wants to see their date’s lips tip into a knowing smirk every time he checks a text.

Shady.

But the thing is, Jared never witnessed me on the verge of a public meltdown, never saw me screech like a banshee and react without getting the facts, never saw me stutter out an apology. Never saw me panic and flee from a coffee shop like I had something to hide.

Never caught me writing erotica.

Collin Keller has.

And I’m humiliated.

My gaze swings to him, now that he’s finally turned his back on me, and trails down the corded column of his long neck—the most erotic part of a man’s body, in my opinion—and rests on the silky hair that could use a trim.

Or my fingers running through it.

The solid muscles of his back are outlined by the worn cotton of his clingy tee, and my trajectory aims for his spine. Down. Down to the tapered waist. His ass… Jesus. His ass.

Collin Keller is all hard lines and smooth edges.

My mouth waters a little, not gonna lie.

Momentarily, I forget myself and want to see the rich hazel eyes and lopsided grin that made my insides go melty the second I found out he was Greyson’s brother, and not her new boyfriend.

Melty like warm, liquid chocolate.

I bet he tastes just as good.

God, he’s so effing handsome.

Still, I made a complete and utter fool of myself in front of him two weeks ago, and again last week when we bumped into each other at Blooming Grounds.

When I totally lost my cool... slammed my computer shut… spilled my coffee… dropped my book… tripped over my power cord.

Ran out on him without saying good-bye. Who does that?

I can hardly look the guy in the eye now—and he seems so nice.

Looks so nice.

Nice and yummy.

Guh!

And let us not forget how ridiculously attractive he is.

If only he’d stop looking over here, like he knows a secret. Like I’m… captivating. Like I amuse him. Well, okay, I am captivating and amusing, and not without my charms, but he doesn’t need to keep staring at me like that. It’s making me extremely uncomfortable. Not to mention tingly in all the right places.

Yeah, those tingles.

It’s one thing for me to gawk at someone, completely another for them to gawk at me. I at least do it from a corner when no one’s watching.

Oh. Wait…

I’m going to classify his heated stares as figments of my very vivid imagination, which has gotten increasingly more colorful since I started writing my books. Every guy, young or old, is a potential character or potential muse. I can now turn everyday occurrences into romance, innocent sentences and questions into innuendo.

Take our run-in at Blooming Grounds, for example, when Collin asked if I was going to be at his housewarming party. He said ‘coming,’ and immediately my thoughts went to sex—lots and lots of sex. Sweaty, sticky, loud sex.

How sick and wrong is that? My deliberately tawdry mind went there willingly, and all the poor guy did was ask an innocent question.

I am a horrible person.

Heat rises in my neck, and I can feel my face get bright red. My only option is to turn and face the snack table, staring down the guacamole dip and willing my heart rate to slow down. I’m not hungry, but I busy myself, grabbing a plastic plate from the stack and piling tortilla chips—lots of tortilla chips—then carrots, cucumbers, and celery onto the plate until I run out of room.

I glance down at the bending plate. Shoot, maybe I overdid it a tad. Biting down on my lower lip, I stare at the wall—at the artwork he has hanging above the snack table, shifting my attention to his bookshelf.

Curious, I meander over, balancing my plate with one hand and trailing the other along the shelves. Surprised by the diversity of titles, I finger a vintage copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, which is sandwiched in between a biography on John F. Kennedy and the Maze Runner series. There’s a colorful row of the same children’s Encyclopedias I had growing up, and I crack a nostalgic smile.

I loiter a bit longer and sigh, knowing I should rejoin the group I came here with: Greyson, Cal, and their friend Aaron. The fact that I’m hiding in a corner is absolutely ludicrous; I’m a grown woman.

Nonetheless, I glance over my shoulder.

Yup. Still staring.

Dammit!

Why is he still staring? What is his deal?

Rattled by his attention, I stare at my plate, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and a tiny, nervous knot takes root in my stomach. When I inhale a deep breath and count to three, raising my head again to meet Collin’s eyes, that knot turns into a flutter.

A flutter of excitement.

He doesn’t even have the decency to pretend not to be watching me, hoisting his beer glass up in a silent toast, nodding his head towards me in a friendly greeting.

It’s his eyes, however, that give him away.

They’re perceptive. Insightful. Kind but also… shrewd. And he was acting weird at Blooming Grounds. I mean, how many times did the guy say come in a sixty-second period? Five? Six?

He knows something. I can feel it.