Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
The first thing I felt was warmth. Comfortable, steady—anchoring me in a way that made me burrow closer before my eyes opened. Dean’s chest rose and fell beneath my cheek, his arm curved protectively around my waist, his breath slow and even against my hair.
For a moment, I let myself drift in this dreamlike state, relishing in the steady thud of his heartbeat.
In the distance, I could hear George snoring softly in the corner of the room, his paws twitching in some half-dream that made me imagine him running.
The sound of it grounded me in a strange way.
This felt—normal. Safe. My lips curved before I realized I was smiling—because it was too easy to imagine a life like this.
Waking up every morning tangled in Dean.
His heavy arm across my waist. His breath warm in my hair while morning stretched quiet and still around us.
The illusion was so real that I began to imagine impossible things.
A home, kids, and love so great that the world outside couldn’t reach us.
But the sunlight then slipped in through the curtains—sharp and relentless.
It pressed under my eyelids like a wedge, prying them open until I faced the truth.
Last night hadn’t changed anything. In fact, it had tangled me deeper into this web of lies until there was no way out without getting hurt.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs as Dean moved beneath me. His lips brushed my hairline once—soft, fleeting—before he carefully eased himself out from under me and rolled to the other side of the bed.
I froze, barely daring to breathe.
His bare feet hit the hardwood with a quiet thud, the sound too sharp in the hush of the cabin. My chest pinched as fragile peace splintered into a thousand shards around me.
A familiar scene pressed in around my mind. I knew its rhythm well—the after, when warmth faded into distance, when closeness dissolved into silence.
Sex always carried the promise of closeness, but in truth, it often left things strained. Complicated.
I swallowed hard, my eyes following him in the dim light.
He walked naked toward the couch, broad shoulders taut with muscles—shadows tracing every line, every part of him that had been mine only hours ago and now felt impossibly far away.
He crouched at his bag, pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants, and stepped into them with practiced ease.
My throat ached with questions I didn’t know how to ask.
What did this mean?
What happens now?
Slowly, I rolled to my back, tugging the sheet higher across my chest as though it might shield me from the weight of reality.
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 lay in 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…”
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.