The Last Good Liar (Carolina Kisses #3) - Sylvie Stewart Page 0,11
mouth to explain myself, but she beats me to it with a curled lip that takes her expression from boredom to contempt. “I know you.”
All I can do is nod because this is the girl from New Year’s Day. And I remember that curled lip way too well for this day to possibly take a last-minute turn and finally go my way.
Chapter Five
ANDIE
Of all the gin joints in all the towns…
What the hell is this loser doing knocking on my door? At first, I didn’t recognize him because he was turned in profile to walk away. If only I’d stayed upstairs instead of coming down and opening the door. Shitballs!
“Maria, right?” His mouth curves in a cautious smile as he tilts his head to one side, those obscenely long lashes of his glinting in the remaining light from the low-lying sun. Of course Mother Nature would do her level best to display her work at its most perfect angle. Traitor.
Nick Amante, otherwise known as Ponch, stands on my doorstep in a black leather jacket, wrinkled button down, and jeans worn thin in all the right places, looking like he just walked off the cover of Thirst Trap Monthly. I really don’t need this right now.
I just got home from work and haven’t even bothered with a shower, so I know I smell like caramelized onions and look like death warmed over. Winona and William are off sucking up to the Altmans again, so my plan was to scarf down a frozen pizza in my room and work on the backdrop for the new dress I just received. It’s an Italian silk sheath from a new designer I just contracted with, and it’s so beautiful I almost drooled on it when I opened the box. The hair and makeup are already picked out, and I’m going for a Brigitte Bardot throwback with a giant blond bouffant with tons of loose tendrils and pouty coral lips that’ll set off the warm tones in both the mask and the silk just right. Once I find and perfect the backdrop, I’m hoping to achieve level five hedonism that’ll have my followers drop dead where they’re standing.
But not if I don’t get this guy off my porch.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
It’s no mistake Ponch called me Maria, just like it’s no mistake I didn’t correct him. We met a couple months ago on New Year’s Day at my co-worker Jill’s place, and, I admit, he struck me a little speechless at first. After all, it’s not every day a perfect specimen of a man with thick dark hair, disarmingly cute dimples, and an effortlessly devilish smile approaches you with a swagger so smooth he had to be born with it.
But the spell was broken almost immediately when he told me he was nicknamed after a sleazy eighties man-whore idol—and what’s more, he was proud of it. Uh, buh bye.
Add to that his motorcycle had dented the bumper of Winona’s Mercedes, and I was done—and more than ready to put Ponch Amante in my rearview mirror. The fact that he himself hadn’t been the one to back the bike into the car was of no consequence. I knew his type and wanted to stay as far from him as possible. Fool me once and all that jazz.
Thus the fake name. Luckily, everyone who witnessed our introduction knew me well enough to shut the hell up and not give him my real name.
I throw a frown at him. “What did you do this time? Crash into the side of the house? Run over my cat?” P.S. I don’t have a cat.
His responding grin, complete with the pow pow of a double dimple pop, almost throws me at first—until I remember I’m not a sucker. “Nothing like that.” He points past me into the house, amused by something. “What are you doing here?”
The nerve of this guy! I’m just about to slam the door in his face when I remember the other lie I told him when we met. My spine relaxes and I do my best to achieve a nonchalant expression. “I work here.”
His eyes narrow and it brings his almost black eyebrows together. I’ll bet he waxes. These slick, pretty types always do. I’m almost giddy when his amusement fades and he puts two and two together to make five. “Wait. These aren’t the same people whose car my bike dented, are they? My luck can’t possibly be that bad.”