Page 43 of This Beautiful Lie
My throat tightened and heat crept up the back of my neck before I could stop it. I swallowed hard, trying to breathe past the pressure building in my chest.
Behind me, Dean was already moving—bent over the couch, unfolding blankets with steady hands as if it were just another chore. As if he hadn’t just knocked something loose in me I didn’t know how to hold onto.
I opened my mouth to thank him—or maybe offer help—but before I could get a word out, George launched himself onto the bed, stretched out on the comforter, then dropped to his haunches in one dramatic huff.
The sound cut through the silence, catching me off guard. I’d been too tense, too tightly wound—and suddenly, without meaning to, I let out a quiet giggle.
It bubbled up before I could stop it, light and unsteady, as if I’d forgotten how to laugh and was just now remembering.
Dean and I exchanged a look—one of those weary, resigned glances parents give each other when their kid does something naughty in public.
“George. Down,” Dean said, clearly embarrassed by his rebellious pup.
But George didn’t budge. He tilted his head, stretched out farther, and made himself even more at home.
Dean crossed the room with heavy steps, gently took George by the collar, and tugged until he reached the edge of the bed.
The noises George made reminded me of a sulking teenager—but reluctantly, he climbed off the bed, pranced over to the couch, and flopped onto the blankets Dean had just laid out for himself.
Dean rubbed his forehead, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “He’s only two,” he muttered. “Still verymuch a puppy.Who, I’ll be enrolling in obedience school the second we get home.”
The last part he said a little louder—definitely intended for George to hear.
“We’ll get you new bedding,” he said as he moved toward the bed again. “I just need to figure out who to call?—”
I shook my head before he could finish. “That’s not necessary.”
He paused with his hand on the edge of the comforter.
“Really,” I nodded. “I don’t mind at all.”
He met my eyes, as though he wasn’t sure if he should believe me or not. As though he wasn’t used to someone making things so easy.
“You’re sure?” he asked, his tone softer this time.
I nodded, but my eyes drifted, because the way he looked at me was too intense. Too damned honest.
I walked over to the small table by the window, where a phone sat beside a welcome basket—wine, fresh fruit, and enough snacks to last a week were inside. But it was the contents that made my heartbeat start to react. A folder was tucked inside—thick, ivory paper, embossed with our names:
Mr. Dean Weston and Ms. Vivienne Blackwood.
My stomach dipped.
I pulled the folder from the basket and spread its contents across the table. Page after page of meals, gatherings, parties, projects. Every hour packed with something to do.
The busy schedule made my head spin.
“They really don’t mess around, do they?” I said, glancing at the itinerary and realizing the welcome dinner started in exactly two hours.
I turned—and bumped right into him.
Dean had moved behind me so quietly I hadn’t noticed. My hands flew out on instinct, catching his arms for balance, whilehis hands settled at my waist. His fingers brushed just beneath the hem of my shirt… then stilled.
We both froze.
His closeness stole my breath, his warm, steady hold lingering as though he wasn’t ready to let go. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
I looked up to find his gaze already on me.
