Page 36 of The Five Year Lie

“Oh, I have that scar, too,” he says. “But it’s on my ass.”

After she stops laughing, she opens two beers, and the next hour and a half flies by. He tells her a little about his time in the army. It feels damn good to tell her something about himself that’s actually true.

Lying to his employers at Chime Co. isn’t very hard. His work here is important. But lying to Ariel feels like a real betrayal. “Thanks for dinner. You know I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” Her gaze crashes into his, and nobody blinks for a second.

He didn’t mean to see her again tonight. Or last Friday, for that matter, when they sat talking in a beer garden until they closed the place down. They ended the night hard-core making out against the front door of her little apartment building.

He prided himself on walking away instead of inviting himself upstairs. But it’s doubtful he’ll find the strength to walk away one more time.

She licks her lips, and his judgment slides a little further down its rocky slope toward doom.

Ariel finally looks away and begins tossing their plates into a plastic bag. “Let’s discuss our entertainment options. I don’t like any of the bands that are playing tonight.”

“Movies, then? Darts? Bowling?”

“Youbowl?” Her pretty brown eyes widen. “I might need to see that.”

“My best friend grew up in a town with nothing but a lumberyard and a bowling alley. And he’s crazy competitive, so I had to learn just to show him up. Bet you can’t beat me.”

“Bet I can,” she argues immediately. “But I have a better idea. You’re not dressed for it, but I think it won’t matter.”

He looks down at his dress shirt and chinos. “I need a tie for whatever you have in mind?”

“No way.” She laughs. “I just don’t want you to ruin that nice shirt.”

“I have my gym bag downstairs. But where are we going?”

She shrugs mischievously. “Guess you’ll find out when you get there. A T-shirt would be good—but only if it’s cotton. No synthetics. Closed shoes, too. No flip-flops.”

“What about my studded leather pants? Too much?”

“You do you, soldier.” She looks at the time. “You’re off duty intwenty minutes. Two forty-five Commercial Street. And bring the rest of the beer.”

“Will do.”

His smile doesn’t fall until after she’s gone.

The warrant system dings with one more request right before quitting time.

He patiently taps all the information into the system, triple-checking every detail.

And the whole thing takes three minutes. Still quicker than ordering a burrito.

An hour later he’s standing in Ariel’s glassblowing studio. And it’s suddenly obvious how deeply he’s into this girl.

She’s wearing Carhartt overalls. Her hair has been pulled into a messy bun. Her feet are covered by the ugliest work boots he’s ever seen. And she’s issuing instructions like machine-gun fire. “Turn it. Faster. Blow! Harder.”

She drops to a crouch in front of him, long limbs glistening with sweat from the 1,200-degree furnace. Her grimace is focused on the misshapen blob of glass on the end of his five-foot pipe, and her safety goggles make her look like a bug.

Yet she is impossibly lovely. There is nothing sexier than a girl who can make beautiful objects from fire and glass. And then make you look like a fool when you try to do the same.

“Harder,” she demands. “One more good push.”

“I bet you say that to all the guys.” He puts his mouth on the pipe and tries once more to force air into the glass at the end. His cheeks might burst right off his face.

“Good!” she says suddenly. “Now heat it and swing it.”