Page 72 of This Beautiful Lie
“Surprise!”
My heart leapt straight into my throat, and I stopped short, blinking against the sudden wash of sunlight. Then my vision finally came back into focus, revealing a semicircle of women standing behind wooden easels, brushes already poised like they’d been caught mid-secret.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as every pair of eyes swung in my direction.
I managed a smile—a little late, a little crooked—my hands coming together in an awkward clap against my thighs, like that might somehow convince them I’d been expecting this. That I belonged here.
Front and center stood Dean’s grandmother.
She wore a green apron splattered with color and a simple black barrette holding back her silver hair. Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable delight, her smile bright and proud, as if this moment—this reveal—had been in the making for weeks.
I forced my own smile wider, but inside my brain was scrambling. Because Dean’s carefully constructed backstory had included one very unfortunate detail?—
I was supposed to be an artist.
The trees leaned in all around me, and I thought I was going to lose my breakfast.
Before I could make up some mystery illness or fake emergency, someone nudged me forward.
“Vivienne, we saved you the best spot up front for you.”
What?!
“No, no, I?—”
“Yes, you’ll have the best view.” Dean’s grandmother beamed, practically steering me into place and plopping me onto a stool. “You won’t want to miss this.”
Misswhat?
Someone nearby gave a loud, exaggerated stage whistle. “Okay—send him in ladies.”
A beat.
Then the bushes rustled.
And out of the trees stepped a man in a robe.
Barefoot.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The women erupted into giggles, someone clapped too soon, others whispered excitedly. Dean’s grandmother? She beamed at me, absolutely delighted.
My palms went clammy, and sweat broke out across my forehead. The man sat down on a log, casually propping one leg up, before letting the robeslip.
Oh, God.
Before I knew it, he was nude. Completely nude, save for the careful angle of his leg keeping one thing… obscured.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed dear,” Dean’s grandmother urged, motioning toward the blank canvas in front of me. “Dean told us everything. Don’t be shy. There’s no judgment from us.”
What?! What in the world had he told them?
My vision blurred, panic clawing its way up my throat. The canvas loomed in front of me, empty and accusing, while my hand hovered uselessly over the brushes. I heard the chatter of the women behind me fade into a hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. I shifted my weight, trying to calm the nervous energy buzzing in my veins. Minutes passed—or maybe seconds, it was impossible to tell.
Then—there was rustling from the trees to my right. A figure pushed through, stumbling into the clearing. Dean. Wild and winded, as though he’d just sprinted across the entire property.
