Page 27 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

The disaster continued late into the evening. Following an afternoon spent at the sheriff’s department sorting through old financial records to figure out whether Jerry Barela had been telling the truth—and doing her best to avoid the sheriff—Daphne said her goodbyes, made herself dinner, then headed out to Mickey’s Bar.

It was Friday night, and her dad’s band, Old Dog New Trick, or ODNT for short, would be playing for their regular packed crowd of local fans and friends. Daphne walked into the dim, not-quite-a-divebar and scanned the room for familiar faces. Her dad and his band were setting up onstage while music played on the speakers. She spotted her sister sitting at the bar with her best friend, Wynn, and cut across the old floorboards to join them.

When Daphne was a few feet away, Wynn saw her and smacked Ellie’s shoulder.

Spinning on her barstool, Ellie looked at Daphne with an expression of such pure glee that Daphne froze.

“What?” Daphne demanded.

“You,” said Ellie with a devilish smile on her lips, “are very naughty.”

“What are you talking about?” She slid onto the stool next to Ellie’s and hung her jacket and purse on the hook between her knees. She made eye contact with the bartender, who was busy pouring someone else’s drinks but nodded as if to say he’d come by in a moment.

“I’m talking about you and Calvin Flint.”

Daphne’s neck cracked as she whipped around to meet her sister’s gaze. “What?”

Wynn laughed. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Talking aboutwhat?”

Ellie cackled. “I think a better question is, ‘What were you doing with him during work hours this morning?’ Naughty, naughty Daphne.”

The bartender ambled over and leaned his palms on the bar. “Daphne,” he greeted. “What can I get for you?”

“Gin and tonic, please.”

“And will the sheriff be joining you tonight?”

Daphne jerked back. “What? Okay. Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on here.”

The bartender laughed and made her drink while Ellie sipped her beer, then smacked her lips in a distinctly self-satisfied way. “You were spotted, Daphne.”

“Talking to Jerry Barela? That was work related.”

Wynn arched her brows as her eyes sparkled. “Not from what we heard.”

A drink glass thunked against the wooden bar top, and Daphne glared at it, then at the bartender, then at the two women beside her. “Enough. What have you heard?”

“Oh, only that you showed up at your house around eleven o’clock this morning wearing the sheriff’s shirt, which you then stripped off in the middle of the street to flash him your boobs.”

“What?”

Ellie threw her head back to laugh so hard she nearly fell off her stool. “Your face, Daphne!”

“That’s not what happened!”

“So you weren’t wearing Calvin Flint’s uniform?”

Daphne blinked. “Well. Yes. I was, but—”

Wynn wheezed, and Ellie leaned her head on her best friend’s shoulder as she laughed.

“Stop that,” Daphne hissed. “My shirt ripped, and he gave me his spare uniform. Nothing happened.”

“You didn’t strip down to your bra in the middle of the street?”

Heat prickled on Daphne’s cheeks. She took a gulp of her drink and glared at the ice clinking in her glass. “He was being a jerk, so I gave him his shirt back to stop him coming up to my apartment.”

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