The truth is—I tell lies all the time. What's one more?

I twirl the fake ID my friends gave me for my birthday. It's my face all right, but according to the black block letters on this driver's license, my name isn't Nick, it's Shawn. The address is also not mine, nor the age. I'm newly nineteen, and Shawn's twenty-one. Old enough to drink but not too old for those inclined to question.

I catch the bartender's eye for the third time. A tingle travels down my neck.

She reaches over in front of a woman my mom's age, lays a snowflake-shaped coaster on the bar to my right, and places a fancy pink cocktail with a paper umbrella on it. Glossy green leaves frame the name tag on the pocket of her white resort uniform. The sprig of ivy is the only nod to Christmas Eve. The tag hangs down at an angle, making it hard to read her name, but it begins with an S.

"And what can I get for you?" She hands a glass of sparkling water to a server who appears and disappears to my left. Her voice rings over the smooth jazz. My pulse beats in my ears and dampens the chatter of a couple dozen patrons scattered around the small dimly lit bar.

"Old Fashioned." Dad's been ordering them at every place we've been to this week. This whole trip turned into him showing off that he's landed on his feet. He spends every day trying to get back into Mom's good graces. Bonding time with me doesn't appear to be on the agenda anymore.

"Is that your ID?"

I slide the laminated card her way, and she flicks her eyes between the photo and me. The one-corner-of-the-mouth smile I learned from my brother plus the direct eye contact should project enough confidence to calm any suspicions. I vibrate like she raised the bass in my chest to high but don't lift my eyebrow or move into full-on flirting. That'd be too much.

"Visiting from Chicago?"

"Yep."

One of those preppy professional-service smiles reveals white teeth that amplify the glow of her sun-kissed face. Lots of hours spent at the tanning booth to get that shade, I bet.

She beams even wider, and I see that one of her canines on top is crooked. You have to pay attention to notice, but now that I do, her whole image changes, and the film of affluence the resort transferred onto her disappears. The tightly wound string inside slackens.

The bartender hands my fake back. Her fingers are cold and . . . damp? I run my thumb over the ID to remove what I hope is water and slide the card into the pocket of my jacket.

"Sorry." She catches my gesture and wipes her fingers off on a bar towel, reinforcing the humanity behind the uniform. I relax into my seat. "Buffalo Trace or Woodford Reserve?"

What the fuck are those? I flip my phone over. Me, Nick, has no idea what she's asking about, but the twenty-one-year-old Shawn should have an answer.

"Whatever you think's best." Another thing I picked up from Dad. He's been throwing the phrase around, and Mom thinks he's matured. I hope he did. For her sake.

The bartender nods and turns around. While the bulky shirt doesn't reveal much of her body, the black pants hug her butt, and she'd get much better tips displaying that thing to the customers. More of a boob man myself, but I don't discriminate. She stands on her tiptoes to get a bottle with amber liquor from the glass shelf. I should stop staring at how cute her nose looks in profile, or wondering what she would look like in a less bulky top, or looking at her pants. I shift in my seat and try to ignore the flare of heat at the base of my spine. Definitely not looking at those. It's a slippery slope.

I force my eyes away from the perky backside that matches her whole sunny persona and survey the rows of bottles. The bar has no Christmas trees or Santas, going with a snow theme instead. Along the shelves with multi-colored jewel cases containing alcohol lies white fluffy material pretending to be the snow that doesn't exist in LA. A string of large snowflake-shaped lights glows above the top of the bar.

There aren't many things I'll miss about Chicago, but snow on Christmas might be one. I'd have to get used to people walking around in shorts, flip flops, and light sweaters. No matter how festive it is, nothing screams "Christmas" to me in LA.

The blond ponytail above the bartender's shoulders bounces when she moves to get a short tumbler with a line design cut across the bottom. Something James Bond would use. Many steps above the red plastic cups I drink cheap beer out of back home.

She grabs three bottles and sets them next to the glass. It's like I'm watching Mom's favorite British baking show, wondering what's next. I lean in. First, a bit of clear liquid goes in, then water, some dark stuff from a small container with a yellow cap, and a dash from an even tinier one with an orange label. The text on them is too small for me to read to find out what they are. I assumed cocktails could be convoluted, but this looks a bit like my chemistry class. She stirs the mixture with a silver spoon that has a long skinny handle, places one gigantic baseball sized ice cube into the glass, and pours Woodford Reserve over the ice.

Everything she does is self-assured and practiced. She shaves a bit of orange and lemon peel, folds them, runs them around the rim of the glass, squeezes a twist of mist over the whole thing, and places them in next to the ice. The scent of citrus hits my nostrils and sends me back to Yaya slicing lemons from her garden for Psari Plaki. The bartender's tan fingers match my drink but it's her crisp uniform, the glass, and the garnish that make this scene look like everything I'd expected from an overpriced bar at a high-end resort.

"Enjoy." I almost believe she means it. I bite the inside of my cheek as she moves the glass my way.

Ah, here it is. This would be the money shot: her hand setting the drink down as if it's in front of the viewer. The bar top can't be wood. I'd change it to something more reflective, maybe acrylic, so I could play with the lights and reflections.

I narrow my eyes and see the camera moving in as her hand pushes forward with the drink. The contrast of the amber liquid, tan skin, white cuff of the shirt, and touch of yellow and orange from the fruit peels work together to make the shot dramatic. I could underscore this scene with some sick beats as the glass comes toward us, and then something slow as we pan to it.

"Something wrong with the drink?" She leans closer and the foliage moves on the tag, revealing her name. Sarah C.

"Sarah, right? All good, thank you."

Another trick of Dad's. "Call them by their names," he told me yesterday, "the staff appreciates it." The staff. My stomach churns. People like him who come to places like this have staff, listen to smooth jazz, and order drinks you need a degree in mixology to make. He forgets Mom is the staff.

She's been cutting people's hair for the last ten years.

How do I drink this? I take a deep breath and rotate the glass. I've come too far to disappoint Sarah. Am I supposed to sniff it, like Mom does with her wine? I can't remember if Dad did anything special with his. I raise the drink to my lips.

The liquid burns my throat, but I think I hide it well. Lying's always come naturally to me. I get that from Dad, too.

I take another gulp. Pretending. One more gulp. Fibbing.

Sometimes I forget who the real Nick is.

And another one. It burns less with every swig, but I hate the taste. Bitterness coats my tongue. I can't drink any more. The glass, however, I love. Maybe I'll buy one like it for myself one day and drink beer out of it.

Why didn't I order a beer and enjoy something I liked instead of pretending I'm sophisticated? For the sake of who? The middle-aged crowd around me? The sunny Sarah, with her big grin and bright blue eyes? Eyes that are checking me out. No. I shake my head. Checking the fancy, Old Fashioned-drinking Shawn out.

Would she like me if I didn't pretend? If, for once, I was just me?

The fake ID can shield the real Nick from potential fallout yet let me be...well, me. Minus the right name. I straighten, my brain lighting up at the idea. The little piece of plastic, the small lie offers a chance to not be afraid to be Nick. Be myself.

"Sarah?" I begin my experiment.

From this point on, I vow to only tell the truth.

To this girl.

For this one night.

My heartbeat tries to outrun the tapping of my foot. Bartenders are like shrinks—they're supposed to listen and keep your secrets. Right?

***

I hope you enjoyed this sample chapter. Read the rest of the book on Kindle Unlimited or add the ebook or paperback to your shelf. (link to where to read in this comment------>)

Kisses, Lies, & Us is the first book inthe Falling for the Liar series.

One night to bring them together. One lie to tear them apart. Five holidays to fall in love.

If you like secret identity, movies, soulmates, friends-to-lovers, and a right person wrong time new adult romance series is for you.

Told in dual POV, the Falling for the Liar Series spans a year of the lives of Sarah, an aspiring screenwriter and Nick, a wannabe film director as they overcome personal obstacles, deal with emotional past wounds and fall in love. Each book centers on one holiday and the series ends with a guaranteed HEA.