Lies We Tell (Thistle Cove 3)

“I found a note inside Rose’s book—it had 'The Dollhouse—8 pm' printed in the margins.”

“Are we getting into this again?” he asks. “Rose?”

“I don’t want to, but there’s just a lot left unanswered.”

“What Rose was doing before she jumped off that bridge doesn’t seem that relevant anymore.”

“I know it seems that way but…” I glance over at his face, the hard line of his nose and jaw lit up by the dashboard. “Can we really trust Monica to be telling the truth? I still don’t see her going over that bridge without a fight. What if there’s more that we’re missing?”

More that involves the mysterious BD.

He stops at a light and reaches a hand over to rest on my knee. “We may never know what Rose was really up to.”

But we do, I want to say. The SugarBabies stuff is real. Rose had a life outside Thistle Cove. But the guys don’t know I opened an account under my name. They don’t know I’d communicated with BD, Rose’s actual sugar daddy. They don’t know that he sent flowers to my house after Monica tried to kill me.

The confession sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it back and stare out into the dark night.

The bar is in Cliffside, which is literally a small town that overlooks the dark waters of the Atlantic. The name of the bar is written in neon and burns into the night. It’s tucked beneath an inn, which makes my stomach flutter nervously.

“You sure about this?” he asks, reaching for his wallet.

I take a deep breath. “I’m just curious about this part of her life.”

He meets me at the front of the car and takes my hand.

“Unzip your jacket,” Ezra says just before we reach the door.

I tug at the zipper and cool air meets my stomach and chest. Ezra’s eyes drop down to the cleavage I’m showing, the halter top is tight and revealing. He slips a hand around my back and pulls me to his side, giving me warmth.

Inside the door, a man sits on a cracked leather stool. He glances at Ezra, then at me, a line creasing in his forehead. For a moment I pray he turns us away. This is stupid. Foolish, once I walk in there I have zero plan. Ezra reaches for his ID, but the bouncer says, “Go ahead.”

And like that, we’re in.

I grip Ezra’s hand like a life preserver and think back to how just a few months ago, I’d been certain hanging out with Ezra Baxter was asking for trouble. Looks like the tables have turned, I’m the one leading us into uncertain waters.

“What do we do?”

“Find a seat. Get a drink.” He directs us toward a circular booth in the back. The lighting is dark, tinted red. It’s more crowded than I would expect for a weeknight. Most of the men are in business suits. The women dressed nice. I feel awkward in my jeans. Ezra’s also dressed casually, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He tosses his arm around me, and I slide my hand over his knee. A waitress with blonde curly hair walks over and slides two coasters on the table. Her nametag says Miranda.

“What can I get you tonight?” she asks, barely looking up.

“I’ll have a beer—whatever’s on draft,” Ezra says easily, like he does this every day.

Her eyes skirt to me and she blinks, confused, but then says, “Appletini, right?”

“Uh, right. Thanks.”

“Sure thing, doll, it’s good to see you.”

She walks away, and Ezra removes my fingers from his leg. I’d been digging in hard.

?

??What the hell was that?” he asks. He studies my face, then touches the wig. “You do look a little like her.”

“Rose?” The wig is styled similar to how she wore her hair.