Page 5 of This Beautiful Lie
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Nope. Of course not. I was never that lucky.
My spine straightened, I cleared my throat like an idiot, then lifted my chin. “Are you talking to me?” I hated how breathless my voice sounded.
I wasn’t someone who flustered easily—years on the job had trained that out of me—but the way his voice curled around those words knocked something loose in my chest. From the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth tip into a faint smirk.
“You were staring,” he offered. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
Heat surged to my cheeks. I gripped my clutch like it might anchor me to the floor. “I’m actually—I, uh… I’m waiting for someone.” The words tumbled out my mouth as though I were starstruck.
He didn’t respond right away. Just turned a little, resting his hand on the bar until he faced me fully—his gaze steady, unreadable, a faint smile transforming his features. “Should I move?”
I tilted my chin, still clinging to whatever pride I had left. "It’s a free bar. Do what you wish."
The bartender slid his drink across the counter, and I was instantly grateful for the two seconds of distraction. But then the man lifted his glass—and my eyes landed on lips that should have come with a warning label—to a mouth so intoxicating I couldn’t remember my own name.
“Who is he?" he asked, his voice low, like he was telling me a secret.
"Pardon?"
A dimple carved its way into his cheek. "The man you’re waiting for. Is he your husband?"
"No."
"Boyfriend?"
I forced my eyes away, sure that if I didn’t, I would end up in his bed. "How do you know it’s a man?"
A spark lit his face, and the corner of his mouth curved in a grin again. “Touché," he said, as though genuinely enjoying the banter.
I crossed my legs in the opposite direction, the fabric of my dress straining against my thigh. Some small, ridiculous part of me—one I didn’t listen to often—felt strangely pleased with myself. Not smug, exactly. Just…aware. Like I’d earned his approval. Like I’d surprised him in the best kind of way.
My eyes flicked toward the entrance, scanning the crowd with a flutter of nerves I hadn’t felt in years. What if my client showed? What if this man—this impossibly charming, aggravatingly attractive stranger—discovered why I was really here tonight?
It shouldn’t matter.
But somehow, it did.
For one reckless second, I wished we’d met on a different night. Under different circumstances. In a different life, where I didn’t come with so much damned baggage.
He shifted in his chair beside me… a finger on the rim of his glass that would have gone unnoticed if I wasn’t hyper aware of every move he made. Like a moth to a flame I pivoted in his direction, unable to stop myself.
“It’s none of your business, now is it?” I asked, my voice low, teasing—so flirtatious I almost cringed.
I didn’t know why I was engaging, or why I was smiling. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself from doing either.
He did something to me. Something that felt natural and dangerous all at once. Like stepping barefoot into the ocean, knowing I couldn’t swim, but craving the pull of the tide anyway.
A small smile played at the edge of his mouth, and I braced myself. I knew his type—the kind who spoke in quiet tones and made eye contact feel like foreplay. He didn’t just wearconfidence—he exhaled it. Like cologne that lingered long after he was gone.
Sooner or later, he’d say something to ruin things. I’d find out he had a wife. A second phone. A dating profile on an app that ended in “-Meet.”
Because there was always a catch. And men like him? They usually came wrapped in red flags that were impossible to ignore.
He took another sip, then lifted his gaze to mine in a way that made me feel drunk. "No, it’s not," he said. "But I’m still curious."
His eyes were as dark as coffee. So rich and smooth that I knew I’d drown myself in them if I wasn’t careful. I looked away, pulse ticking like a bomb under my skin.
