Page 65 of This Beautiful Lie
Not obvious. Not dramatic. But deliberate.
A message passed without words.
It worked, because a second later, Dean’s voice was in my ear, whispering. “I’ll be right back.”
He set his plate down, and I tracked him across the room, where he, Mason, and Mr. Montgomery greeted the newcomers with smiles that looked a little too practiced.
I picked up a sausage, dragged it through the syrup pooling on my plate, and took a bite, more out of habit than hunger. Something was off—I could feel it in the pit of my stomach.
Dean’s shoulders were tight, his posture too rigid, and when he shook their hands, his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
I added more food to my growing pile—bacon, a biscuit I didn’t remember choosing—but my attention kept drifting back to Dean. It wasn’t my business. I knew that.
But for some reason, I wanted it to be.
Maybe because he looked stressed. Like a man standing in a room full of glassware, afraid that one wrong move—one careless breath—might send everything shattering to the floor.
By the time I reached the end of the buffet, my plate was nearly too full to balance. I grabbed a napkin with a fork rolled inside and scanned the room for an empty seat.
I spotted one tucked into the far corner and was halfway there when a small, confident voice stopped me cold.
“You can sit here, you know,” she said.
I turned to find a little girl in pink overalls staring up at me like she’d just issued a formal invitation and fully expected it to be accepted.
She couldn’t have been more than four. Bright red hair escaped a messy ponytail, freckles dusted her cheeks, and her expression was all seriousness—like she had important business to conduct.
I glanced over my shoulder, certain she had to be talking to someone other than me.
“I said,” she repeated, placing a tiny hand on the chair beside her own, “you can sit here.”
I pointed at myself.
She nodded once. Slow. Decisive.
Something about her tugged a smile from my mouth. Her confidence was impressive—borderline intimidating—and before I could talk myself out of it, I stepped closer, already feeling like I’d been recruited into some sort of secret society.
I set my plate across from hers and took the seat. She watched me carefully, studying me from head to toe.
“Are you the lady Uncle Dean is going to marry?” she asked, stabbing a piece of her already cut-up pancakes with a tiny pink fork.
Uncle Dean.
My eyes darted toward the doors where I’d last seen him, but he—along with the group he’d gone to meet—was gone. I cleared my throat and tried to match her energy. “Yes, I am. My name’s Vivienne. And you are…?”
“Emma,” she said without hesitation. “I’m four. My favorite color is pink.”
I smiled despite myself. There was no filter there—no practiced politeness or restraint. It was rather refreshing.
“It’s nice to meet you, Emma,” I said sincerely.
Before she could reply, a voice floated over my shoulder.
“Emma!”
Trisha appeared through the crowd, coffee cup in hand, relief written across her face. “Sweetheart, I turned my back for two seconds. If you wanted to sit here, you could’ve just told me.”
Then her gaze landed on me, immediately apologetic. “I hope she’s not bothering you.”
