Page 45 of This Beautiful Lie
And stopped cold.
Because Dean?—
He was standing in front of the window, and he looked...
God.
I blinked, trying to absorb the sight.
While I’d been in the bathroom, the whole room had shifted—washed in the golden light of early evening. And there he was, caught in the center of it, like a fantasy come to life.
His profile was lit just enough to make out the sharp cut of his jaw. One hand was braced against the window frame, his stance easy, relaxed. But the shadows in the room didn’t play fair—because they made every line of his arms and back look sharper. Stronger.
His flannel shirt—dark green and navy—stretched across shoulders that looked like they were designed to carry heavy things. Like, I don’t know... my entire emotional baggage.
And then there were the worn denim overalls that did mecompletelyin.
I smiled before I could stop myself because he wasn’t wearing them ironically. They weren’t a joke or some kind of costume. No. He wore them like they were part of his everyday wardrobe.
I snapped my gaze away, heart pounding, as the beginnings of a lumberjack fantasy bloomed somewhere behind my ribs.
“You ready?” he asked, turning toward me—his voice casual, because how could he know that he’d just knocked the wind out of my lungs?
I wiped the corner of my mouth—thankfully no drool—and lifted my chin. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, though even as the words left my lips, my fingers drifted to the knot at my waist.
For the third time, I untied it.
A wave of unease crept up my spine. The sliver of skin that peaked above my waistband suddenly felt too much. Too visible.
Dean’s gaze flicked to mine, and his brows pulled together. Then he started walking toward me—slow, deliberate steps—until he stopped just inches away.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
Before I could ask what he meant, his hands were on me—reaching, not hurried, not rough—just steady. Intentional. His fingers found the loose ends of my shirt.
I stilled.
Something about the way he moved made it impossible not to.
He retied the knot at my waist with the kind of quiet focus that made my breath catch. His knuckles brushed my skin—just above the waistband of my shorts—and it shouldn’t have felt like anything.
But it did.
It felt like everything.
My pulse thundered. I stared at the center of his chest, willing myself not to move, not to react—but every nerve in my body had already betrayed me.
“There,” he said, voice low.
I looked up.
And found his eyes already on mine. Something unreadable passed between us—something weighty and unspoken—and for one suspended beat, I thought he might kiss me.
I didn’t move.
God, I didn’t breathe.
But he didn’t kiss me.
