Page 94 of This Beautiful Lie
The expensive cotton clung with the scent of him—of our love making—and for one second, I closed my eyes, wishing things could’ve been different. That we’d met under different circumstances. That last night could have been more than this beautiful lie I knew I’d spend the rest of my life wishing were true.
When I opened my eyes, I found Dean looking at me. His expression soft—yet tired at the edges. “I was trying not to wake you,” he whispered, his voice low, almost apologetic.
“Where are you going?” The words slipped out of me before I could stop them, my voice betraying how much I hated the thought of him leaving.
His brows drew faintly together, as though he’d heard the hesitation buried inside me. He tugged a T-shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly across his chest before falling into place at his abdomen. Then he crossed back to me and sat at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, tilting me subtly toward him, pulling me closer whether I wanted it or not.
“I have a meeting with my grandfather in the business center,” he said quietly. “It’s important, otherwise…” His words trailed off, swallowed by something heavier. Then his hand came up to my face, cupping my cheek, fingers sliding gently into my hair as he drew me closer.
“Meet me at breakfast later,” he said—not quite a question, not quite a command. His voice was steady, but beneath it lingered something unspoken, something fragile and raw.
I swallowed the words that were tight in my throat and focused on the warmth of his hand, on his thumb that brushed along my jaw, lingering longer than necessary.
“Okay,” I whispered.
His lips curved into the faintest grin, then he pressed a kiss to my forehead—gentle, fleeting—before he rose again and walked into the bathroom to shower.
I layin bed for a long time after Dean left the cabin, staring up at the ceiling as if answers were carved into the wooden beams above my head. The memory of last night kept replaying in a dizzying loop—his hands on my back, the frantic way we’d undressed, how we moved together so seamlessly. It felt less like learning a body, and more like remembering one.
Every touch, every gasp, every unspoken word still clung to my skin like echoes I couldn’t shake.
And even in the morning light, with distance between us, I swore I could still feel him—the imprint of something I’d never let myself want, and yet somehow already couldn’t imagine my life without.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
We weren’t supposed to let it go this far.
I shoved a hand through my hair, tugging at the ends until my scalp ached. Frustration burned hot under my ribs. I was supposed to play a part, keep my head level, survive this ridiculous charade—and then disappear from his life as though I’d never existed.
That was the deal.
That was the plan.
But the rules we’d drawn so carefully had blurred the second he touched me, and last night they’d been obliterated altogether.
My mind slipped back to the night outside Jake’s barbecue, when he’d followed me into the darkness and out to my car.
“I’ll make this trip as painless as possible,”he’d promised.“Then you’ll never have to see me again.”
The sheet slid down my shoulder as I sat up, my gaze dragging inevitably to the empty side of the bed. The mattress was still warm where he’d slept, the imprint of his body pressed into the sheets as the only proof he’d been there. My chest ached at the sight.
Was that still what he wanted? To get through this week, put on a show for his family, and then walk away? To tell them we’d broken up, wipe his hands clean, and that would be the end of us?
I needed to know.
I stood urgently, clutching the sheet to my chest as though it might hold me together. George lifted his head from his bed, blinking at me with sleepy eyes, ears perked in question.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmured. “I already know I’m an idiot. You don’t have to rub it in.”
George blinked again, then turned his head away with a quiet huff—like he’d made his point and was done with the conversation.
But the heaviness in my chest didn’t ease. If anything, it grew sharper, more insistent, leaving me with only one thought pulsing through my brain.
I had to talk to Dean.
Steam curled thick around me as I stepped into the shower. The glass foggy as I pressed my palms against the tile and let the hot water pound over my shoulders. My chest ached, not from the heat, but from the words I knew I had to say—the ones clawing inside me, desperate to get out.
“About last night…” I whispered into the empty shower… “It was a mistake. We both know this wasn’t supposed to happen. It was never part of the deal. We were supposed to pretend, make it through this week, and then…”
