Chapter 11
Eleven
Too early.
Way too early.
The streets were still quiet, the sky a soft shade of blue-violet that only existed in the early morning light. My fingers tapped against the steering wheel as the engine idled, as if time wouldn’t move unless I did.
I sat there longer than I should have, pretending I wasn’t too chicken to get out of the car.
The house in front of me was small but immaculate—clean lines, modern angles, a manicured lawn that probably got trimmed with nail scissors. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud.
But this was Belmont Shore. And a house here, especially one with a view like that? Easily millions.
I reached across the seat for the binder Dean had handed me at the café and flipped it open to the last page, even though I’d already read it at least a dozen times.
His file had been three pages long.
Detailed. Personal. Human.
Mine was one.
Age: 31—accurate in a way that made me wonder if he was really good at guessing, or if his private investigator had dug deeper than my name.
Residence: Italy—though no town listed, and I grew up in the states.
Occupation: Artist.
The rest—who I was, what I liked, my upbringing—was left blank. Left completely up to me.
I stared at the page like it might reveal something I’d missed. But the silence between the lies was still there. The blankness where a person should’ve been.
Dean had handed me a version of himself that was so complete, it felt real. Favorite rom-coms. Childhood scars. That damn three-legged dog.
And me? I was an outline.
It shouldn’t have bothered me.
This was just a job.
Simplicity made things cleaner. Safer.
But the truth was, I wasn’t nervous about the job—I was nervous about seeing him again.
And that made me deeply, deeply uncomfortable.
I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror and smoothed a hand over the front of my linen romper—crisp white, wide-legged shorts, a fitted top. Polished, put-together, appropriate. I’d tried on four different outfits before this one. Changed my shoes twice. Redid my hair three times.
Which was ridiculous.
This wasn’t a date.
It was business.
Still, my stomach twisted as though I hadn’t eaten in days.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I muttered, shutting the binder and slipping it back into my bag.
One week.
I could do one week.
I stepped out of the car, walked up the stone path, and rang the bell—shoulders back, chin up, smile plastered on my face.
The door opened a few seconds later, revealing Dean in the doorjamb.
Jeans.
A plain T-shirt.
Barefoot.
His dark hair still damp from the shower.
“Sorry,” he said, voice scratchy and rough, as though it were the first time he’d used it all day. “My alarm didn’t go off. I’m still getting ready—come in.”
Before I could respond, a massive blur of fur and paws came barreling toward me.
“George, no!”
Too late.
A Great Dane skidded to a stop in front of me. Dean lunged for his collar, but George ducked just out of reach and pressed his enormous head against my hip, smearing slobber all over my perfectly pressed white shorts.
I froze.
“George!” Dean groaned, grabbing his collar. “I’m sorry—he’s not usually like this.”
George ignored him entirely, nosing insistently at my hand like he was looking for dog treats.
Dean winced. “He’s gentle, I swear. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
George was unbothered. He stared up at me with big, hopeful eyes, tail thumping wildly against the hardwood floor.
I smiled and scratched behind one of his floppy ears. I’d always loved dogs, and this one was no exception. He grunted with satisfaction, then leaned his full weight against my thighs like a big teddy bear.
Dean had gone quiet, and when I looked up, his expression had shifted.
“What?” I asked.
“I think he likes you.”
“Is that… not normal?”
Dean ran a hand through his damp hair, then turned around, like something was bothering him. “He’s usually shy,” he muttered over his shoulder. “Especially around women.”
I looked down at the dog pressed against my hip, big brown eyes blinking up at me as though we’d known each other for years. “Could’ve fooled me,” I said quietly, giving George a final scratch under his chin.
Dean snapped his fingers and tapped his thigh. “Come on, buddy.”
George whined but eventually peeled himself off me and lumbered into the living room, flopping into a massive leather dog bed like a moody teenager.
Dean turned back toward me. “Come in,” he said, softer this time. “Make yourself at home. I’m sorry about your shorts.” He glanced at the wet fabric and winced. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to clean up. I’m still finishing up a few things.”
I stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind me.
Dean eventually disappeared into the other room, and the silence in the house wrapped around me—not cold but still. As though it didn’t get used much. As though someone lived here, but only halfway.
George watched me from his bed, his head resting on one massive paw, like he didn’t quite trust me not to leave again.
The whole house was spotless. Clean lines, neutral tones, the kind of decor that came from a showroom catalog. But it wasn’t sterile. Not really. It was just… careful. Like someone had put a lot of thought into making it look effortless.
The bathroom was just as tidy. Marble counters, matte-black fixtures, not a single stray razor or towel in sight. I found a stack of washcloths folded so precisely it almost felt wrong to use one. Still, I dampened one corner under the faucet and dabbed at the fabric of my shorts.
To my surprise, the slobber wiped away easily enough.
I leaned against the counter for a second and stared at myself in the mirror.
My reflection gave nothing away—makeup still intact, hair still in place—but inside, everything felt off. Not because of the job. I’d done far worse than pretend to be someone’s fiancé for a few days.
It was him.
It was the way Dean Weston had looked at me at the café. The way his voice dropped when he got serious. The way he stood barefoot in his hallway this morning, looking like he hadn’t slept, hair still wet, face unshaven.
Too real. Too human.
I wasn’t prepared for that.
I exhaled, shoved the washcloth into the hamper beneath the sink, and pushed the thought aside.
One week.
I could do one week.
When I stepped out into the living room again, Dean was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear muffled movement somewhere down the hall. George lifted his head when he spotted me again and gave a single tail thump against the side of his bed.
I wandered deeper into the room, eyes catching on a built-in bookshelf tucked beside the fireplace. It didn’t match the rest of the house. Where everything else was sharp and minimal, the shelves were cluttered—which drew me closer like a kitten to a ball of string.
There were rows of first edition Sherlock Holmes novels, right beside a full set of encyclopedias. Every religious text I could name—Bible, Quran, Torah, even a Book of Mormon.
And then, tucked between two oversized psychology volumes, was a worn paperback copy of The Princess Bride.
Dog-eared. Binding well-loved and stretched.
I blinked, smiling in spite of myself.
Farther down the shelf, I found an entire collection of Marvel comics—protected in sleeves, signed, preserved like artifacts. But then next to them, a beat-up how-to book on mechanics, held together by duct tape.
My eyes latched onto a picture frame.
A tiny photo was tucked into the corner of the shelf. Dean with a young girl perched on his shoulders, both of them sunburnt and laughing. Her face was painted like a tiger. He looked no older than sixteen. Less tired. More open.
I stared at it a moment longer than I meant to, something tugging in my chest that I didn’t want to name.
Behind me, I heard the click of nails on hardwood, and turned around to find George standing behind me, this time with a thick rope toy hanging from his mouth.
He wagged his tail slowly, then dropped the toy at my feet.
I raised a brow. “What?”
He tilted his head to the side as though I were an idiot, ears perked like he was trying to understand me.
“You want to play?”
At the word, he stepped back and crouched slightly in a downward dog position.
I bent to grab the rope. “Alright—”
But before I could throw it, he clamped down on the other end and yanked.
I stumbled, catching myself on the side of the couch with my other hand. “Let go and I’ll throw it for you,” I told him.
George only wagged his tail harder, his grip unwavering.
“Okay, big guy,” I said, tightening my hold. “You’re ridiculously strong, you know that?”
He growled playfully, and before I knew it, we were locked in a full-blown tug-of-war. Me, in my pressed whites. Him, all one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of stubborn determination.
“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” a voice said from behind me.
I let go, and George stumbled back, victorious. He pranced toward his bed, rope in tow, as though he’d just won a trophy.
I turned to find Dean leaning in the doorway, watching me with an expression of amusement and… something else. How long had he been there?
“You could’ve warned me,” I said, feeling incredibly self-conscious.
“And ruin his fun?” He raised a brow. “Not a chance.”
He grabbed a pair of sunglasses off the counter, then his keys, and then…
A leash.
“Are you ready?” Dean asked, slinging a duffel bag over his shoulder.
I blinked, eyes narrowing slightly at the leash in his hand. “Wait—are we bringing George?”
Dean looked down at the dog, then back at me. “Yeah. He always comes with me, I thought I’d mentioned that.”
I shook my head. He hadn’t. Of that I was certain. I’d read his blasted notes at least a dozen times.
At the sound of his name, George’s ears perked up—his tail wagging so hard his whole body rocked with it. He looked between me and Dean, eyes wide and eager, more ready than I’d ever be.
I hesitated—not because I didn’t like George. That much was obvious. It was something else. Something I couldn’t quite name.
Maybe because Dean bringing his dog made this feel less like a job, and more like a life I could have seen myself stepping into.
That thought unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
“It’s fine,” I muttered after a pause, lifting my chin. I’d never had a dog before. Even though George would never be mine, it could be fun to pretend for a week.
Dean opened the front door, stepping aside to let me through.
I walked out to the front yard, George trotting happily at my side as if we’d been doing this forever. Dean followed, the door clicking shut behind us.
My stomach twisted tighter with each step.
One week.
And then I’d be able to breathe again.