Her Little White Lie by Maisey Yates Page B

Effortless for him, as ever. “Where are you from?”
    “Silver Creek. Oregon. Small, bit of a nothing town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone knows you. The entire population is kind of like your extended family.”
    “Which is why you moved.”
    “Yes. To somewhere that didn’t have people with … expectations.” Expectations of her failure. Of her continuing to drift through life without a goal, without any success. “And you, where are you from?”
    “Rome originally. Then moved to Los Angeles. And then … when my mother died,” he said, his voice too smooth, too controlled, as if he was saying words he’d rehearsed to perfection, “I went into foster care. I spent a few years with different families before the Colsons adopted me at fourteen.”
    “I could have found all that out by reading a bio online somewhere.”
    “But had you read one?”
    “No.”
    “So, I still had to tell you.”
    “Fine, you did. What else do I need to know?” she asked.
    He slid two covered plates over from the edge of the table and placed one in front of her, and one in front of himself. She uncovered it and took a moment to appreciate the tantalizinglook and smell of the fish dish before directing her focus back to Dante.
    “My sign?” he asked, his tone dry.
    She laughed. “I don’t even know my own sign. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”
    “That surprises me—you seem like you would.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re very … free-spirited. And you’re an artist.”
    “I see. Well, sorry to disappoint you. What’s your favorite color?”
    “I don’t have one.”
    “That’s stupid. Everyone has a favorite color.”
    He arched one dark eyebrow. “Did you just call me stupid?”
    “No. Your lack of favorite color is stupid.”
    “Fine, what’s yours?”
    “Well, I’m an artist, so I have a close relationship with color. I like cool colors—they’re very calming. And of course warm colors are quite passionate. So I have to say my favorite color is … glitter.”
    He laughed and she felt a small tug of gratification that she’s managed to pull an expression of humor out of him. “That isn’t a color.”
    “Sure it is. I’m an expert. I don’t question you about merchandising and advertising and everything else you have a hand in. Siblings?” she asked.
    “No,” he said. “You?”
    “Two. My sister is a pediatrician and my brother is a second-string quarterback for the Seahawks. Impressive, I know.”
    “Very. So how did you get into art?”
    She fought off the sting of embarrassment that always came when she had to talk about Jack and Emma. It wasn’t fair, really. They deserved their success. They earned it. They had talent, and they worked hard.
    They didn’t deserve for her to make it about her. Still, itwas never fun to talk about. But talking about it was better than living in a town where everyone knew that you were, without question, the big letdown of your family.
    “I’ve always been interested in it. Started drawing and painting really young.”
    “Did you go to school for it?”
    “No.” She shook her head, kept her tone light. No big deal. It was no big deal. “I never really liked school. Just wasn’t my thing.”
    “And what did your parents think of that?”
    “Would you like me to lie down on the couch before you continue?”
    “Just a question.”
    “Well, uh … they’ve never been that impressed with my interests. My grades in school were bad, and they were spending a lot of money sending Jack and Emma to school already, even with the help of scholarships and … and they didn’t want to pay to send me too when they knew I wouldn’t apply myself. So the not going to school was a mutual decision.”
    She could feel Dante’s dark gaze boring into her. “A mutual decision?”
    She shrugged. “I mean, I might have gone if they …”
    “But they wouldn’t.”
    “No.”
    “Should we tell your parents about the wedding?”
    The subject change