Page 3 of Just a Little White Lie

Humiliation scorches me—red-hot and painful. I can’t escape my shame anymore. There’s no pretending or ignoring those bank statements. This is real, and I have to face it all whether I want to or not.

The sobering thought shuts me up, and I stay silent for the rest of the trip. Luke has a few short outbursts, but I don’t reply to any of them, and he eventually gives up.

After a while, we get off the expressway and start traveling past the horse farms I always loved so much as a kid. My lips curl up just a little. As much I’d complain about driving nearly two hours to visit Grandma, I did love this part of the route. The farms are gorgeous, the fields peppered with sleek, majestic-looking animals, and for just a moment, I’m struck with a nostalgic sense of home.

Maybe it’s not so bad being back in New Zealand.

We reach the turn off for Cambridge, and I spot the sprawling brick buildings of Haven Academy. The wealthy boarding school has been there for as long as I can remember. It was built by some rich dude like a hundred years ago. He wasn’t even in education, but he bought the land and set up a school that did everything on his terms. I don’t even know how much it costs to go there. It must be at least twenty to thirty grand a year for fees. Yep, that place will be full of elitist, rich, spoiled brats. Ugh. I’d never want to teach there.

Teaching. My internal sigh is heavy and wounded. I’m going to have to go back to it. I’m trained in the profession because when I first left school, I had visions of changing children’s lives. I wanted to make a difference, inspire teenagers to reach for the stars, and form bonds—like the kind I had with my favorite teacher, Mrs. Weatherly. She was the best English teacher in the world. Friendly, fun, entertaining. I loved going to her classes. She even madeLord of the Fliesinteresting.

But I couldn’t do the same. My two years of teaching in New Zealand were passable, but then I moved to London, and it became evidently clear that teaching may not be my forte. Teenagers don’t get inspired by a smile or an enthusiastic voice. They don’t give a rat’s ass about a good novel or how to analyze it, especially when they’re too busy aiming spitballs at your head or calling out insults about your accent or the clothes you chose to wear.

To be honest, I don’t knowwhatinspires them or how to get them to do what you ask. Relief teaching has worn me down to a nub, and the thought of having to face a room full of students again fills me with dread.

“Here we go.” Luke turns onto the street Grandma used to live on. She left her house to the family when she passed away, and rather than selling it, Mum and Dad decided to let Luke rent it off them—but it’s kind of like a mortgage. He’s paying off the house, month by month, until he actually owns it outright. They checked with me first that I was okay with it, wanting everything to be fair. I was in London and really didn’t mind.

Owning a house? That’s the last thing I’m interested in. I’m only twenty-six! You’re not supposed to buy a house until you’re ready to settle down, right?

Luke’s thirty, got himself a serious girlfriend, a job, and has a grandpa level of maturity to back all that up. All my life, I’ve felt like our four-year age gap was closer to ten, maybe even twenty.

My brother pulls into the driveway. The little blue house has had a repaint. Not a color change, just a repaint. I cringe. Luke has the creativity of a rock. Seriously. He could have spruced the entire house, but nope… let’s just keep things as they are, because that’s boring and safe.

I have to do yet another eye roll as I get out of the passenger seat and stare at the kitchen door. It’s still exactly the same, white wood with two big slabs of glass in the middle. That old glass with the circles on it that screams 1960s.

“Grab your stuff. Let’s go.” Luke points to the car as he walks up the back steps.

Great. So I have to carry everything on my own?

Some gentleman.

With a little huff, I clip around his car and pull out my mammoth suitcase with the broken wheel and my cute handbag—my last purchase before Hurricane Reality tore my life apart. Sob. At least I still have this. I clutch it against my chest for a moment and pull in a shaky breath.

Just get your butt inside, Lauren. There’s no escaping this.

I wrestle my suitcase across the driveway and up the concrete steps leading into the kitchen. I grunt, pulling it through the door and nearly falling on my butt when I hit the lino. The floor has been redone too, and sure enough, Luke went for a redo of the original. I stare at the mottled gray-and-white flooring, shaking my head in despair. What I wouldn’t give to do a complete reno on this place. I’d fill it with splashes of color, open it up, let as much sunlight in as possible.

Abandoning my suitcase next to the stove, I wander through to the living room, following the sound of the TV, and stop short.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

No!

My eyes slowly start at the pair of large feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table. Traveling up the long, dark legs, I get all the way to a pair of muscly arms and feel my insides start to vibrate. His chestnut skin has always been my undoing. His entire body is like a sculpted Greek god. Every curve and angle of him is delectable. I’ve always loved staring at him, and I can’t believe he’s still friends with my brother!

As if sensing my perusal, Jack turns his head and eyes me up.

“’Sup, Party Pants.” He flashes me his white teeth, brushing a reckless curl off his forehead. I’ve always loved his curls. They have a mind of their own. In high school they were so long he could tie them in a ponytail. He was the sexiest thing in a hundred-mile radius. I wasn’t the only girl to think it.

My insides quiver a little more as I picture him decked out in his uniform and then something other than the dirty T-shirt and blue board shorts he’s currently wearing.

Stop it!

My reprimand is swift and assertive. I will not think of Jack Akana as some sexy demi-god. He’s a man, albeit good-looking, but still just a man. A highly annoying one, at that.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

“I live here.” He scratches his short beard—a fine layer of sandpaper that gives him a rugged edge and would probably leave a little trail of remembrance on my skin.

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