Page 119 of Lying Is My Love Language

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up.‘Wow.Ambitious.They’re not for the faint-hearted.’

I lift my glass.‘Neither am I.’

‘Kelpies need a lot of activity.Do you run?’

I nod again.Lie number three, but who’s counting?

‘All the time,’ I say, sipping my lychee martini.‘There’s a run club not far from mine.’

He beams.‘That’s great.Maybe we could go on a run sometime?’

‘Sure.’I smile through the impending cardiovascular lie that’s about to be my future.

We make it through appetisers.He tells me he’s a vet, which I already knew from his profile.Not the ex-military kind, the fluffy- puppy kind.He once bottle-fed an injured koala and nursed a three-legged greyhound named Clara back to health.I should be melting inside.

Instead, I feel … nothing.

No spark.No ache.No gut-punching, organ-shuffling longing.

I sip my drink and smile when I’m supposed to and laugh enough to seem engaged.It’s all very respectable.

Eventually, Jodie appears beside us with the bill tucked neatly into a leather folder.

‘Hope you two had a lovely night,’ she says, sliding it between us with a wink that is supposed to be conspiratorial but feels closer to pressure.She’s seen me on enough dates for me to know she’s got a mental leaderboard going.

Tom doesn’t hesitate.He grabs the folder and slides his card in as if this isn’t even a conversation.

‘Thanks,’ I say, instinctively reaching for my wallet because I was raised right and have a pathological fear of being seen as a freeloader.

He shakes his head, smiling.‘I’ve got it.You can get dinner next time.’

Next time.

It hangs there, soft and casual, maybe with teeth.

Once we’re outside, the air has cooled.A breeze scatters fallen maple leaves across the road, and the streetlights cast everything in that flattering golden blur that makes first dates feel more cinematic than they deserve.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ he says.

Not asks.Says.He’s already decided and doesn’t think I’ll object.I don’t.

We walk in sync, which feels weirdly intimate, as if our bodies are coordinating even if our chemistry isn’t.

‘So,’ I say, slipping my hands into the pockets of my jacket.‘Any siblings?’

He nods.‘Two older sisters.Both terrifying in the best way.One’s a lawyer.The other runs marathons for fun and makes me feel like a couch potato.’

‘That sounds … wholesome.’

He laughs.‘It is.Mostly.My parents are still together.High-school sweethearts, actually.It’s kind of disgusting.’

‘Wow.High-school sweethearts.That’s rare.’

He shrugs as if it’s nothing.As if growing up in a functioning nuclear family unit wasn’t the emotional equivalent of winning the lottery.

‘What about you?’he asks.‘Family?’

I hesitate for half a second too long.‘One sister.Issy.She’s great.