Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) Read Online Free Page B

them into wedges.
    “How do you know I haven’t already read it online?” I asked while I pulled out the salt and shot glasses.
    “Because you avoid reading anything about yourself,” was Sue’s quick reply.
    So true. The thing I hated about the Internet was that you didn’t just get the facts, you got everybody’s opinion. Since most people didn’t bother to post a flattering opinion, the Internet was clogged with the unflattering ones. I’d made it a rule not to look myself up after reading the first review of one of my books, and I’d stuck to that decision.
    “Why don’t I read the article aloud?” Sue suggested.
    She set up shots for the two of us. Mark couldn’t drink alcohol because he’d been cleared to donate a kidney to his little sister. Not that he’d ever been much of a drinker. I was more of a light beer or wine person myself, but I could handle tequila just fine and I didn’t have to drive. Sue, on the other hand, could get drunk smelling alcohol, so even if she only had one shot, Mark would have to drive her home.
    In preparation for what was sure to be embarrassing—regardless of what my new neighbor said—I went ahead and took my first shot. Sue began to read aloud, her voice sounding like that of an upbeat newscaster.
    Bestselling Romance Writer Finds There’s No Place Like Home
    In spite of her name, local resident Jane Dough has led a life that’s been anything but ordinary.
    Leaving home at the tender age of 16, she went on to do things other girls only dream about: becoming a swimsuit model for a major sportswear brand, dating rock stars and millionaires, and finding success in her own right as a USA TODAY bestselling author of historical romances written under the pseudonym Janie Jansen.
    “Jane was nothing like her sisters,” said her mother, Barbara Dough. “Not from the minute she was born. All her sisters had that nice, thick, curly dark hair and there was little Jane, completely bald.”
    I closed my eyes. Why my mother would think anyone might find this tidbit of bald-headed information fascinating was beyond me, but then, I’d never had a clue what might come out of Mom’s mouth. Did I really want to hear the rest of this? I was pretty sure it could get worse. Much worse.
    I opened my eyes to see Mark nodding, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
    “It starts out pretty good,” he said. “Women like to read about that kind of stuff, don’t they? Babies and hair and such …”
    I rolled my eyes and Sue read on.
    “She was different in other ways too,” said Barbara Dough. “Always reading books. Used to walk up to the library when she was just seven and check out books all by herself. She loved reading biographies of women from the 1800s. I guess that’s why she liked those historical romances … but some of them were too racy. I remember when she was twelve she was reading one where the scullery maids were stealing the large cucumbers from the kitchen. I took that book back to the library myself.”
    Sue dropped the paper, laughing so hard that she choked, and I just shook my head. The cucumber book is my mother’s only mental association with historical romances. When I read the book, I didn’t get the author’s joke. I just figured young English girls loved cucumbers and didn’t get to eat them in their tiny scullery maid rooms. But in every interview, Mom talked about the cucumber book, and the reporters must have gotten a kick out of it because they always used it in their articles.
    The irony is that Mom’s retelling of the story made it appear as though she had wanted to protect me from shocking literature when in fact she wasn’t the least bit interested in what I read. The only reason she returned the book was because a lady from church who stopped by for a visit saw it on the coffee table and said it was inappropriate reading. The woman relayed the cucumber bit to my mother, who was promptly horrified. Not because I was reading the book, but