Page 63 of Once Upon a Lie

Shane: ​​Battleship. Life. Sorry. Come on, Teeny, don’t tell me your family sheltered you from the hard stuff.​​

I grin.

Me: ​​Scrabble. Does Scrabble make you flip tables?​​

Shane: ​​Scrabble is safe.​​

Me: ​​In that case, Alfred and I are about to play. You should come over.​​

Shane: ​​You’re inviting me to come kick your ass at Scrabble?​​

Me: ​​I’m inviting you to come lose gracefully.​​

Shane: ​​I’m in my pajamas, Teeny.​​

I laugh.

Me: ​​I’m picturing bunny slippers and flannel. Am I close?​​

Shane: ​​Boxer briefs and bare feet, I’m sorry to report.​​

I blush. I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but I definitely didn’t think I’d be feeling it all the way to my freaking toes.

Shane: ​​But count me in. How about I put on something more presentable, and you send me Alfred’s address?​​

I text him Alfred’s address, he confirms he’ll be here in twenty minutes, and butterflies take flight in my stomach in a violent burst.

“Boy, that’s a smile, and I heard a lot of laughs before. Mind telling me the cause?” Alfred asks, coming back from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder.

I wince a little. “I probably should have asked before I extended an invitation, but do you mind if we have some company for our Scrabble game tonight?”

His brows lift, eyes twinkling. “You know my house is your house, and I expect you to treat it as such. Who’s joining us?”

“Shane.”

“The guy who saved you from the helicopter?”

“That’s the one.”

Alfred’s grin widens. “I can’t wait to be impressed by his triple word score.”

Yeah, Alfred, me too.

By the time Shane knocks, Alfred’s already poured three glasses of sweet tea and rearranged the Scrabble board so the “triple word” tiles are strategically within his reach.

I’ve been preoccupied with other things, like splashing cold water on my face to liven myself up, brushing my teeth, tossing on a few coats of mascara and lip gloss, and running to the front door so I can be the one to open it.

Shane steps inside, bringing a breeze of cool night air with him, and my pulse does a weird skip thing I feel all the way in my throat. He looks casual and effortlessly handsome in jeans and a T-shirt, and I do my best not to be sad it’s not boxer briefs and bare feet.

“Welcome to Casa Alfred,” I say, waving him in. “Hope you brought your A game.”

While he looks around, taking in the shelves stacked with old books, the mismatched armchairs, and a ceramic rooster lamp that’s seen better days, I stare at him. His warm brown eyes and ruggedly friendly jaw. His gently damp hair, as if he’d just finished a shower when I texted. His strong hands as the fingers of his left hand rub softly—maybe even nervously—at the pointer finger on his right.

I’m pathetically entranced with it all.

“Wow.” His voice is warm—reverent, even. “This place is the true definition of character. Old Nashville—back when it was the best. I particularly love all the roosters.”

“Careful,” Alfred warns. “My late wife Avalyn’ll haunt you if you mock the cocks.”