Page 6 of This Beautiful Lie
What would he think if I told him the truth? That I was here to meet a man who was paying me by the hour?
"Why’s that?" I asked, trying to pretend like his closeness wasn’t affecting me.
"Because women like you," he said without pause, "usually aren’t kept waiting."
"Women like me?" My head snapped like a rubber-band pulled by a stick.
"You’re beautiful," he said. "But you know that already."
His sentiment landed sideways, stirring a strange cocktail of heat and unease. Yes, he called me beautiful, but it didn’t exactly feel like a compliment.
"I’m waiting for a client,” I said deadpan.
“Do you mind if I ask what you do?" he asked, unfazed by my less than inviting tone.
“I’m a web developer.” Which was the truth—not the reason I’d slipped into this dress tonight, but certainly not a lie.
He paused, studying me. And then, unexpectedly, his expression softened. The air, which was taut and humming onlya second earlier, slowly began to settle. As though we’d both taken a breath we hadn’t realized we were holding.
I wasn’t sure what shifted—whether it was my answer, or the way I’d said it—but the tension eased, like air being let out of an overfilled balloon.
“Are you sure you don’t want that drink?” he asked then, and I swore his eyes dipped for a second to my lips.
I should’ve said no. Should’ve held the line, but his voice curved around me like silk—and I felt it all the way to my toes.
I forced my eyes toward the entrance again, searching for any sign that someone was looking for me.
For all I knew, my client had chickened out. Or worse, he was already here, watching me flirt with a stranger, but a part of me no longer cared.
“I’ll take a martini," I said, flipping open my clutch and checking my phone for missed messages.
"What’s your name?” he asked, as he simultaneously lifted his chin to signal for the bartender.
"Does it matter?”
“I’m Dean,” he said, dropping the bomb that instantly shattered me.
My jaw clenched. My skin prickled. And before I even realized what I was doing—I was on my feet.
He rose too, tall and composed, every inch a man in control.
A strange pressure began to build in my chest. For a second, I couldn’t name it. It was sharp, but hollow. Heavy, but cold.
And then I knew it.
Shame.
It crept up my spine like a tide rising too fast, chilling everything in its path and leaving me breathless.
I’d felt shame before—a thousand times before—but never about this job. Not when older men pressed money into my purse with one hand while guiding me around with the other.Not when I pretended to be everything they wanted, but nothing of myself remained.
With Dean, it had been different.
Because before I knew who he was, I’d felt something real. I’d been myself, and there had been a spark. A fire in my belly that I hadn’t experienced in years.
His expression didn’t change as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim white envelope, and discreetly handed it to me.
"If you need to count it," he said, "I’d appreciate it if you did it in the restroom."
