Page 35 of This Beautiful Lie
Age: 31—accurate in a way that made me wonder if he was really good at guessing, or if his private investigator had dug deeper than my name.
Residence: Italy—though no town listed, and I grew up in the states.
Occupation: Artist.
The rest—who I was, what I liked, my upbringing—was left blank. Left completely up to me.
I stared at the page like it might reveal something I’d missed. But the silence between the lies was still there. The blankness where a person should’ve been.
Dean had handed me a version of himself that was so complete, it felt real. Favorite rom-coms. Childhood scars. That damn three-legged dog.
And me? I was an outline.
It shouldn’t have bothered me.
This was just a job.
Simplicity made things cleaner. Safer.
But the truth was, I wasn’t nervous about the job—I was nervous about seeing him again.
And that made me deeply, deeply uncomfortable.
I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror and smoothed a hand over the front of my linen romper—crisp white, wide-legged shorts, a fitted top. Polished, put-together, appropriate. I’d tried on four different outfits before this one. Changed my shoes twice. Redid my hair three times.
Which was ridiculous.
This wasn’t a date.
It was business.
Still, my stomach twisted as though I hadn’t eaten in days.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered, shutting the binder and slipping it back into my bag.
One week.
I could do one week.
I stepped out of the car, walked up the stone path, and rang the bell—shoulders back, chin up, smile plastered on my face.
The door opened a few seconds later, revealing Dean in the doorjamb.
Jeans.
A plain T-shirt.
Barefoot.
His dark hair still damp from the shower.
“Sorry,” he said, voice scratchy and rough, as though it were the first time he’d used it all day. “My alarm didn’t go off. I’m still getting ready—come in.”
Before I could respond, a massive blur of fur and paws came barreling toward me.
“George, no!”
Too late.
