But then the tone changed—softened a little.
He has a scar on his chin from falling out of a tree in third grade—trying to rescue a cat that wasn’t actually stuck.
He once broke his arm jumping off the garage roof with a towel around his neck, convinced he could fly like Superman. His sister had dared him, and he never turned down a dare when he was eight.
He was born in San Diego but moved to Los Angeles when he was ten. He spent lots of time at his grandparents’ cabin where he learned how to fish. Where he’d split firewood for the first time. Where he sat around a rickety table learning to cheat at poker with a glass of ginger ale and a bowl full of Hubba Bubba Bubblegum.
He grew up with a younger sister who was obsessed with rom-coms. Not in a casual way—in amemorize-every-line, cry-over-the-trailerskind of way. And because of her, he knows more aboutTen Things I Hate About YouandHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Daysthan any grown man should ever admit to.
A smile tugged at my lips. I could see it—Dean, arms crossed, rolling his eyes while secretly keeping track of plot points.
I kept reading.
He taught himself to cook in college—sort of. He can make exactly four things. Steak, eggs, grilled cheese, and pancakes. That’s it. Anything else is a gamble.
He has a soft spot for old cars and once spent an entire summer restoring a ’69 Mustang with his grandfather when he was fifteen. It never really ran right, but he still has it in his garage to this day.
His first pet was a three-legged dog named Murphy, who followed him everywhere and used to sleep in his bed every night, even though he was supposed to sleep outside.
Something shifted in my chest. Something small but undeniable.
This wasn’t him—not really. Just words on a page. Facts, curated and typed up for the sake of a performance.
It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
But it did…
Because somewhere between the dog-loving, rom-com-watching, poker-cheating kid and the man I’d met, I could feel the real version of him start to take shape.
I exhaled and shook my head, trying to push the feeling away. This didn’t change anything. This was still a job.
One week. That was the deal.
I closed the folder, set it on the coffee table, and walked to the shower—ignoring the way my chest still felt strangely full.
Eleven
It was6:55 a.m. when I pulled into the driveway.
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 wasone.
