Page 10 of The Kiss of Deception

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he makes a show of shaking his head in faux disapproval. “Always had a smart mouth on you, ever since you were a little devil…”

“We both know this smart mouth is one of the many, many, many reasons why I’m your favorite grandchild,” I fake a whisper.

We grin at each other like we’ve just shared a secret. Of course, I’m his favorite grandchild—I’m his only grandchild.

The waiter interrupts our grinning contest with the menus we already know by heart, though we rarely venture further from the traditional Murgh Makhani.

The starless night takes over the city sky as we rattle off a predictable order and catch up with inconsequent conversation until dinner is served—and it is absolutely heavenly.

“When were you planning on telling your old grandfather—whom you see every week—that Miles Blackstein is your boyfriend?”

I draw a sharp inhale that doesn’t reach my lungs, clogged in my throat by the tender chicken. I cough and cough behind the red napkin until my eyes are blurry, somehow managing to keep my dance with death discreet.

Miles Blackstein will be the cause of my death.

With a greedy gulp of water, I try to soothe my burning throat as my brain splits, scrambling for an answer while instructing my mouth to chew-then-swallow, in that precise order, so I won’t choke and perish before I finish the meal.

Then I shovel another piece of buttery chicken into my mouth, bite it thirty-two times until there’s nothing left to do except answer. Even then, all I manage is, “What?”

“I’m old, sweetheart,” he says as he tracks his fork spearing food. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t have time for subtleties anymore.”

Truly, I’m not at all surprised.

Of course, Tobias Westwood is aware of the whole shit-show—he probably witnessed it live and in HD. The source of my passion for football—not soccer, as any proud Englishman like himself would announce—Grandpa Toby wouldn’t miss the final game of an international tournament, even if he supports the rival team.

What does understandably surprise me, though, is that he, too, believes the not-kiss. As if he doesn’t know his granddaughter at all.

My back straightens and squares my shoulders against the wooden chair, waiting for the inevitable.

“One day, sooner rather than later, I won’t be here anymore. It’s been my biggest fear that I would leave you alone. You go through life convinced—convincing yourself—that you don’t need anyone else—and maybe you don’t need anyone else. But life is happier when it’s shared with someone who adores and appreciates you. The burden is easier to carry when shared with someone who loves you.”

We stare at each other, but we see different things. I see only blue eyes clouded with memories, he sees the love of his life—his late wife whose death destroyed him.

He wipes away the emotion with his knuckles, and the light that erupts from his sky-blue eyes is distracting.

“I’m happy you found your person. Someone who’ll take care of you, so you don’t have to be so damn strong all the damn time. I know Miles will.”

I blink.

I think I do, at least.

But his words are a sucker punch swinging from the deepest pit of love. It hits harder than whatever I anticipated, steals my breath, scrambles my senses.

I blink again, look at my dearest grandfather. The soft set of his lips curves with peace, calm wrinkles frame the light in his irises like the weight of a dark veil I never knew existed has lifted.

My mouth opens with all the things I want to say—the truth, the promises.

I’m not Miles’s anything, but I’m happy.

I am happy.

It hangs open, my mouth, with all the things I can’t say.

Because I can’t muster the courage to break his heart. I can’t bring myself to smother the beaming hope with something as fickle as the truth and replace his happiness with disappointment.

I’m selfish, greedy, already excusing my lies with his own greater good, even as I know, deep down, what I want is to bask in his happiness forever.

So I nod.

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