Page 95 of This Beautiful Lie
I dragged my fingers through my wet hair, tugging at the strands in frustration.
“God! Why did he have to be such a good kisser? Why did he have to touch me like he wasn’t afraid of anything I might give back?” My breath stuttered as the water ran down my face, but it didn’t cool the fire he’d left inside me.
The memory of him picking me up off the ground at the rugby match flooded my brain. My throat tightened as I rinsed soap from my skin, like maybe I could wash away the memory of his touch along with it.
But it was more than his touch. More than his kisses that made me want to crawl out of my own skin to get closer to him. It was deeper than that. It was something else. It was the way he listened as though he had all the time in the world. The way he took care of me in a way that didn’t feel forced.
“You make me feel wanted, Dean Weston,” I muttered to no one at all.
My hands began to shake, and I pressed them against the wall, letting the water streak down my face, washing away tears I wouldn’t admit to myself lingered in my eyes. “I need to know where you stand,” I whispered. “I need to know if last night meant as much to you as it did to me.”
My breath caught, and I held it in my chest so long it became painful. “I can’t do this.” I released, slapping the faucet off before I stepped out of the shower.
“I can’t keep walking into rooms, holding your hand, kissing you in front of your family…then pretending it didn’t change me.”
Heat blurred my vision, or maybe it was the tears I refused to let fall. Either way, the words kept spilling. “I don’t know when it happened, or how it did, but I?—”
The words hit the tiles and bounced back. I met my face in the clouded mirror, then wiped my reflection clean with the palm of my hand.
“You have to tell me the truth,” I whispered, but my mind wouldn’t let me finish. Every version of the speech felt wrong, but every word carried the same truth. I needed to know if last night had changed him the way it had me.
Was I the only one foolish enough to blur the line between a lie and something that felt dangerously close to real?
Steam clung to my skin as I exited the bathroom. I towel-dried my hair, then pulled on the first sundress I could find—blue, soft, one that skimmed my knees and felt too light for the weight I carried in my chest. I slid into my sandals and stepped outside as I tried to gather my wits about me.
The morning air was thick with pine and humidity—the forest too alive for the storm brewing inside me. I breathed deep, attempting to calm frayed nerves, as I made my way toward the lodge, to await the conversation that could change everything. Gravel crunched under my feet, guiding me toward breakfast—but then I saw it. A small wooden sign that readBusiness Center, with an arrow pointing toward a narrow path off to the right.
I should have kept walking. Gone to breakfast like I promised. Pretended that last night hadn’t changed every thought in my head.
But my feet slowed… then turned, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.
I’d practiced my speech until my voice cracked, mumbled all the way to the steps like a crazy person, but as soon as I found myself on the landing, every thought, every word I’d planned to say, evaporated on my tongue.
“…I want this,” Dean said, the strain in his voice impossible to miss. “I’ve worked for it. For years. You know I have.”
Mr. McHenry exhaled—a long, heavy breath that sounded like it carried decades.
“Dean… you’re too young to know what you want. Not when it comes to something this big.”
Dean’s jaw flexed. “I’m not a kid.”
“No,” his grandfather agreed softly. “You’re a man. A good one. A hardworking one. But hard work is a double-edged sword. One that cuts deeper than you realize.”
The room went quiet, but the tension pressed through the walls.
I should have turned away. Walked back down the steps. But I couldn’t move.
“The firm is more than work for me, and you know it,” Dean said, his voice tight, trembling at the edges. “It’s your legacy, Grandpa. It’s something I want to protect… a piece of you that will last long after you’re gone—” his voice cracked.
The words slid together.
Long after you’re gone.
A cold wave ran down my spine.
He wasn’t talking about retirement.
He wasn’t talking about slowing down.
