Page 36 of Once Upon a Lie

“They’re . . . earthy,” she says, like it’s a crime and not a common mushroom characteristic. “And this is a black-tie gala, not a forest floor.”

I bite my lip to keep from smiling, nodding solemnly in support instead. As she launches into a rapid breakdown of fancy appetizer options, my phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t check it.

It wouldn’t be mannerly, and it wouldn’t be courteous.

Instead, my brain does something wildly unhelpful but easier to conceal and rolls through a play-by-play memory scroll of my interaction with the New Guy.

Shane, as it were.

The easy, confident way he carried himself at my shop. His thoughtful but rabid defense of me and my trash-containment abilities in the group chat. The kind of forethought that landed him at my door with industrial-grade trash bags.

A smile creeps across my lips as my mother blathers on, and I lift a hand to conceal it.

Who does that?

From my experience, people who show up like that tend to expect something in return.

“Are you listening, Teeny?” my mother asks, spinning to a stop on her well-worn path and pursing her lips.

“Yes,” I lie. “Anti-earthy. Pro-elegant.”

“Exactly,” she says, relieved. “Now, what do you think about the lamb lollipops?”

“I feel like lamb and lollipops should never be used in the same sentence.”

“Your father likes them,” she answers with a slight frown. “We’ll call them kebabs.”

I nod. “That works.”

“Okay, good.” She lets out a breath of relief and leads me toward a long table with fancy silver platters sitting in a perfect row. “Now we need to discuss the main courses.”

She carries on into the pros and cons of steak medallions, but speaking of main courses . . . Shane flashes into my mind again. The way his voice sounded all raspy and deep when he said nuclear-grade trash bags, and the way—

Stop it right now.

This is not the time. This is not the place.

Wanting something has never been the dangerous part—believing in it is. And no matter the time, place, or planetary alignment, a big, sexy, flirty neighbor is not a complication I need.

Yes, he’s incredibly attractive. Yes, he’s funny. Yes, he’s managed to make me spend five whole minutes thinking about a man other than Alfred—a feat no other human has been able to achieve in the last three years.

But he’s just a guy from my building. And I’m just a girl committed to my bagels.

Period.

11

Shane

Friday, October 8

6:45 a.m.

“Nice place to murder someone without a trace,” I muse to myself as I step inside the warehouse I’ve been summoned to just outside Nashville far too early in the morning.

The place looks like an abandoned, forgotten factory building from the outside, and inside, it’s all metal, dust, and one buzzing fluorescent light that makes you feel like you’re being interrogated by God. It’s discreet—which I suppose is the point—but if Mike and I were on a friendlier basis, I’d definitely be making a joke or two about the off-putting vibes.

In the center of the space, I find one metal table and two metal chairs, and Mike, the expressionless NPC, already occupies one of the seats. If it weren’t for the heavy sigh that escapes his lungs when I sit down across from him, I’d swear he wasn’t alive.