The Last Good Liar (Carolina Kisses #3) - Sylvie Stewart Page 0,6
you don’t agree and go spend the weekend in Kitty Hawk with a smile plastered on your face from sunup to sundown, I’ll make a call to Norinne, Camille’s sister.”
My jaw drops. “You wouldn’t.”
Hers clenches. “Try me.”
Well, shit. If I’d known Winona was capable of such villainous levels of underhandedness, I might have treated her with more respect and avoided this situation altogether. Hindsight truly is 20/20.
My eyes dart around the restaurant as I search frantically for a way out of this that doesn’t involve Camille—who I note is now pulling the traumatized thief into a hug. I really hope she doesn’t try to feel him up like she always does to Rayna’s boyfriend, Bran.
And that’s when it comes to me. “How am I supposed to explain this to my boyfriend?”
Winona straightens in her seat, a frown parking itself on her lips and her left eye narrowing (one can only assume the right one remains propped open by modern medicine’s finest work). “Boyfriend? Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
Ah, Winona, ever the supportive and nurturing maternal figure.
I assume a carefully balanced expression of pain and sadness. “We’ve been dating for six months. It’s getting really serious, Mom.” I almost choke on the last word. Then I decide to go for broke, trying my hardest to muster up some tears. The closest I get is a scrunched-up nose, but I bury my face in my hands to hide my lack of method-acting chops. “I can’t cheat on him like that. I love him.” Fake sob. Fake sniffle. Fake hyperventilation.
“Oh, Miranda!” She totally falls for it, even coming over to my side of the booth and putting her arm around me. “I had no idea. We have been traveling a lot, so I suppose I missed it.” Understatement of the millennium. I wish they’d board another plane tonight—but they’re not going anywhere until the Altmans either leave town or finally sign on the dotted line.
More fake shit. Blahdy, blahdy, blahdy. This is getting exhausting.
“I’ll just explain to the Altmans that there was a mix-up, and I’m sure things will be fine.”
“Okay,” I manage over my sniffles. I’ve actually done it, and it wasn’t even hard. Not that I should be all that surprised at how easy it is to pull one over on a sucker like Winona.
She rubs my shoulder and pulls me in for a reassuring squeeze, and I figure it’ll only take about sixty more seconds of boo-hooing before I can excuse myself and get back to work.
So it hits a little harder when she asks, “When do we get to meet him?”
Chapter Three
PONCH
“Tell me you’re joking.” I press the phone to my ear with one hand while the other is busy pinching the bridge of my nose so hard it hurts. “Shit!” My voice startles a customer halfway across the sales floor. I’m setting a terrible example for the staff, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now.
“Sorry, man. The realtor said he remembered you, but he couldn’t talk to me about the lease.”
The buzz and whir of drills and pneumatic pumps in the background on Bran’s end almost drown out his voice as he breaks the bad news to me.
Recognizing it’s best to take the conversation to a more private location, I stalk across the sales floor to the door that reads, “If money can’t buy happiness, explain motorcycles and beer,” gesturing to Betts on my way so she’ll go help the customer I just scared. “It was worth a shot,” I grumble into the phone as I watch Betts shift her tits in her halter top before heading over to the guy, her black hair swishing with each stomp of her boots.
“I guess,” Bran replies, raising his voice over the background noise. “But since when are property owners not interested in money?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” My office door slams behind me. This is complete bullshit. It took forever to find the perfect space for my new location of Stroke, my motorcycle gear shop, and now the property owners are denying my lease application and the damn realtor isn’t calling me back.
Bran sighs. “Looks like you’ll have to haul ass over here and sort it in person.” Before I can respond that I’m going to do just that, he moves the phone from his mouth to yell out instructions to somebody in his body shop. He’s back a second later. “Shit. I gotta run.”