Page 9 of The Kiss of Deception

Sighing, I spin. I find his jaw locked with determination, no traces of his signature mischievousness.

“We’re not dating. Ever.” I enunciate like he’s a child learning to pronounce his first words. I make sure he learns them right.

Miles is undeterred, speaking like he’s given it a prior half-thought. “We’ll pretend until all the fuzz goes away. I’m not proposing marriage.” His smirk comes back. “Not before I’m sure you’ll say yes, anyway.”

It’s slightly preposterous that he thinks I would willingly put up with this. But mostly, it’s amusing that he truly believes we could pull off such a façade—convince anyone that we’re in love.

We.

Us.

Me and Miles Blackstein.

In love.

A perplexed laugh startles us.

It’s me.

I laughed.

I’m laughing again.

I’m laughing until I’m cackling and my belly aches from exertion with the sheer absurdity of his proposal.

Miles stares, a little bewildered, when I peel my eyes open to leave without banging my face against a wall, not bothering to dignify his ridiculous proposal with an answer.

“Just… think about it, Zoe!” he shouts.

I shush him with the slam of door 39-04.

I see him before he sees me.

A smile graces my face as I serpentine through tables filled with chatter and laughter.

His back faces me, so I place one hand on each shoulder and shake as I whisper-scream, awfully dramatic, “Oh my Goood!”

Tobias Westwood startles under my palms, batting me away playfully with movements too swift for a man of his age. Accompanied by my heartfelt laugh, his creative curse is drowned in the chorus of a full house at our favorite Indian restaurant.

With a feigned frown, he places a palm over his heart. He keeps falling for these half-expected scares that have become a tradition of sorts over the years.

“Young lady, are you trying to kill me?”

Thank God I didn’t inherit the dramatic tendencies from my father’s father.

“Do you expect me to confess to attempted murder out loud, old man?” I cluck my tongue. “You taught me better.”

“A little demon with angel eyes,” he says. His soft accent carries the undiluted affection that makes my heart ache.

“Grandpa, we’ve talked about this. If I were from hell, I’d be the queen-devil!”

His hand envelops mine, a warm blanket of comfort, his chuckles soothing like a burning fireplace on a chilly winter night. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Grandpa.” I embrace him in a bear hug. “How are you?”

“One day closer to death but still breathing, last time I checked. And how are you, little bee?”

Settling across from his seat, I use his own words against him. “One day closer to death, still breathing last time I checked.”

---