Page 76 of This Beautiful Lie
Then off in the distance, a voice carried faintly through the trees, breaking the spell. I seized on it like an escape, turning and swimming hard for the dock.
“Em—wait,” Dean called after me.
Too late.
I hauled myself onto the dock, dripping and breathless, yanking my clothes on over wet skin. By the time he reached the edge of the water, I was dressed, my heart racing—not from the cold, but from everything twisting inside me at once.
“I’ll meet you back at the cabin,” I called, not turning around. Then I slipped into the trees, following the sound of voices ahead.
I froze the moment I broke through the brush.
Mason stood there, a towel slung loosely around his neck, sandals dangling from one hand like he’d been on his way to the water. He stopped short when he saw me, his gaze flicking past my shoulder toward the beach I’d just left.
One brow lifted. “Everything okay?”
His tone was calm, but something underneath it made my stomach dip.
I tucked damp hair behind my ear and forced a shrug. “Yeah. Why?”
His eyes stayed on my face—on my flushed cheeks, my uneven breathing—before drifting back to the trees again, like he was expecting someone else to step out.
“No reason,” he said at last.
The silence that followed stretched, heavy with questions he didn’t ask. My skin prickled, and I couldn’t quite place why.
Behind him, a group of men in bathing suits came up the path—men I recognized from breakfast. Their laughter carried easily on the breeze, too easy, like something practiced.
And suddenly I wasn’t sure whether the chill at the base of my neck came from the damp air…or the sense that something was happening here that no one was saying out loud.
Twenty-Two
I’d half-preparedmyself for Dean to barrel in behind me, storming through the cabin with all the heat and tension we’d left back in the water. But he didn’t.
Minutes dragged into long, aching hours. Long enough for me to take a hot shower, to let the steam melt the chill of the lake from my bones. Long enough to blow dry my hair and pull on clean clothes, trying to shake the sharp edge of what had happened at the lake from my thoughts.
Long enough to realize that Dean—had been right. The tension between us was too dangerous, and we needed it to stop.
I found myself pacing the floor, the slats creaking beneath my steps, as George watched me from his bed. Every glance at the door wound my nerves tighter, like a coil straining for release.
When the door finally creaked open, relief rushed through me, and I turned to face it.
Dean stepped inside with his shoulders heavy, his jaw set like stone. His hair was still damp, curling against his forehead, and his shirt clung in places as though he’d pulled it on without caring.
But none of that mattered as much as the air he carried with him: weighted, storm-dark, as though he’d walked through something heavier than rain.
I stilled, every instinct in me sharpening. Something had shifted in him, and I felt it deep in my bones. “Dean…” My voice came soft, uncertain.
He kicked off his shoes and continued on toward the kitchen, where he braced himself on the counter, as though to keep himself upright.
He didn’t speak. Not right away.
I swallowed, my chest tight. “Did something happen?”
His eyes lifted to mine, steady but shadowed. He’d been right behind me—and then?—
My thoughts scrambled, flipping back through the day like a deck of cards I couldn’t hold onto. The moment I’d stumbled into Mason at the lake—then the men from breakfast.
The pieces fit together in a jagged puzzle. Dean must have run into them, too. They must have said something to make him stay. I drew in a shaky breath, the words scraping out of me before I could stop them. “What’s going on? Who were those men with Mason?”
