Page 36 of This Beautiful Lie
A Great Dane skidded to a stop in front of me. Dean lunged for his collar, but George ducked just out of reach and pressed his enormous head against my hip, smearing slobber all over my perfectly pressed white shorts.
I froze.
“George!” Dean groaned, grabbing his collar. “I’m sorry—he’s not usually like this.”
George ignored him entirely, nosing insistently at my hand like he was looking for dog treats.
Dean winced. “He’s gentle, I swear. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
George was unbothered. He stared up at me with big, hopeful eyes, tail thumping wildly against the hardwood floor.
I smiled and scratched behind one of his floppy ears. I’d always loved dogs, and this one was no exception. He grunted with satisfaction, then leaned his full weight against my thighs like a big teddy bear.
Dean had gone quiet, and when I looked up, his expression had shifted.
“What?” I asked.
“I think he likes you.”
“Is that… not normal?”
Dean ran a hand through his damp hair, then turned around, like something was bothering him. “He’s usually shy,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Especially around women.”
I looked down at the dog pressed against my hip, big brown eyes blinking up at me as though we’d known each other for years. “Could’ve fooled me,” I said quietly, giving George a final scratch under his chin.
Dean snapped his fingers and tapped his thigh. “Come on, buddy.”
George whined but eventually peeled himself off me and lumbered into the living room, flopping into a massive leather dog bed like a moody teenager.
Dean turned back toward me. “Come in,” he said, softer this time. “Make yourself at home. I’m sorry about your shorts.” He glanced at the wet fabric and winced. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to clean up. I’m still finishing up a few things.”
I stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind me.
Dean eventually disappeared into the other room, and the silence in the house wrapped around me—not cold but still. As though it didn’t get used much. As though someone lived here, but only halfway.
George watched me from his bed, his head resting on one massive paw, like he didn’t quite trust me not to leave again.
The whole house was spotless. Clean lines, neutral tones, the kind of decor that came from a showroom catalog. But it wasn’t sterile. Not really. It was just… careful. Like someone had put a lot of thought into making it look effortless.
The bathroom was just as tidy. Marble counters, matte-black fixtures, not a single stray razor or towel in sight. I found a stack of washcloths folded so precisely it almost felt wrong to use one. Still, I dampened one corner under the faucet and dabbed at the fabric of my shorts.
To my surprise, the slobber wiped away easily enough.
I leaned against the counter for a second and stared at myself in the mirror.
My reflection gave nothing away—makeup still intact, hair still in place—but inside, everything felt off. Not because of the job. I’d done far worse than pretend to be someone’s fiancé for a few days.
It was him.
It was the way Dean Weston had looked at me at the café. The way his voice dropped when he got serious. The way he stood barefoot in his hallway this morning, looking like he hadn’t slept, hair still wet, face unshaven.
Too real. Too human.
I wasn’t prepared for that.
I exhaled, shoved the washcloth into the hamper beneath the sink, and pushed the thought aside.
One week.
