Page 31 of This Beautiful Lie
One week of my life. Playing pretend with people I would never see again.
One week of smiling and nodding in all the right places.
Then it would be over, just like Dean said, and I would never have to see him again.
I could manage my accounts while I was away. Answer emails, filter requests, and engage just enough to keep everything under control.
It would be fine.
I could do this.
I could pretend.
The bell above the door chimed, pulling me from my thoughts.
I looked up. Dean stood at the entrance.
He looked… different. Not corporate and calculating. Not shirtless and unexpected. But somehow, this version of Dean was more handsome than all the rest.
Maybe it was the jeans—soft and worn, as if they’d been washed a hundred times—or the gray T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders in a way that wasn’t trying too hard. There was something about him standing, unaware that I was watching him, that felt unbearably honest. Like I was seeing the real version of him for the first time. No performance. No walls.
His dark hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d run a hand through it a thousand times on the way over and hadn't bothered to check a mirror. He always seemed so sure of himself, but it was things like this that made me wonder. The quiet giveaways under all that confidence.
And then there were his eyes—dark, steady. Sharp enough to catch everything, yet unreadable enough to keep me guessing.
He scanned the café, one hand on a briefcase, the other shoved in his pocket… and then his gaze found mine.
And he smiled.
Damn him—his whole face lit up, easy and unguarded, looking genuinely happy to see me.
He started toward my table, casual but sure, each step more confident than the last. My heart thudded stupidly against my ribs, as if it hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all a big game of pretend.
He stopped just in front of me, head tilted slightly to one side. “I’m gonna go order a coffee. Can I get you anything?”
I shook my head, gesturing toward my cup. “Already covered.”
But inside, I almost choked, because the air between us was charged with a type of current I didn’t want to recognize.
He was just standing there, looking like that, asking me something so normal—yet somehow it felt like the most intimate, personal thing I’d experienced in years. My skin felt too tight, my pulse beat out of sync, like some part of me still hadn’t figured out how to be around him without unraveling.
“If you change your mind...” he said, offering a small nod before walking toward the counter.
I exhaled the moment he slipped out of sight, then stared down at the table, willing my heart to calm the hell down.
He returned a few minutes later, coffee in hand, and slid into the seat across from me. We exchanged a few simple pleasantries—how was the drive, how was the coffee—until he set his cup down with a quiet finality and looked at me like he was already tired of pretending.
“So,” he said, calm and direct. “Let’s rip off the Band-Aid, shall we? What are your terms?”
I swallowed, hard, because I wasn’t ready for the shift—and wasn't used to this level of directness. But I reached into mybag anyway, pulled out the manila folder I’d prepared the night before, and slid it across the table.
He took it without hesitation, flipping it open with the same focused expression I’d seen at the party. That version of Dean who studied people like he could see straight through them, if they’d just hold still long enough.
Inside were the basics:
No touching without consent.
No bed sharing.
