Page 14 of The Kiss of Deception

The question throws me, strangely charged with some kind of urgency I can’t understand.

I straighten and glance away. The numbers in the built-in glass ceramic stove say 21:22.

It’s too late.

It's time to go.

Now.

“I think we can do it.” Miles finally says, recovering the thread of our agreement.

“Not like we have another option. Thanks to you,” I fire back, to remind us of what we are, why we’re here. “I suppose we can go without strangling each other for a few weeks.”

“I’d be more than willing to let you choke me, love.” The familiar smirk comes back with full force. “All you have to do is ask. Doesn’t even have to be nicely.”

“See, when you say things like that, I get this itch to let the cat out of the backpack. Spill the coffee beans. Blow the whistle.”

My lips pull up in a sardonic smile that doesn’t last.

“Oh, but there are many much more pleasant things we could be blowing.”

I breathe. Remind myself of the man I’m here for.

I’ll endure this only until he’s convinced I’m the same—just as happy. I would endure any torture until the day he dies, if needed—though chances are I might die first from this predicament.

I glare, hoping to transcribe that I am mentally giving him the finger. He chuckles, low and hearty, no meaning lost in translation.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “You’re in charge of the coupley public appearances and pictures. Just text me location and time in advance, and I’ll confirm my presence. No more than once a week. No PDA. No family things.”

“Are you asking for my number, love?” he drawls. Then his brows snap to his hairline, like he finally catches on to something. “Wait, you’re voluntarily putting me in control?”

Well, when he puts it like that… I question my own sound mind.

But how would I know how to sell this tale? If I want this charade to work—if I want to show my Grandpa I am as happy with some guy holding my hand as I am on my own—I might need Miles Blackstein’s storytelling skills.

Not that he needs to know that.

“I’m not putting you in control. I have no intention of wasting any more of my time than strictly necessary on this shitshow.” I give him half of the truth. “But I won’t let you dictate or push me around.”

Before I think anything of it, I poke the ink on his ribcage as I speak, willing the words to penetrate his stubborn skull through the warm, bare chest so he knows how serious I am.

A rush of air rushes from his parted lips. I get a glimpse of the shadows that eclipse his eyes before they snap down to my finger.

I look down too, realizing I’m currently touching him.

It’s the first time I’ve initiated physical contact with Miles Blackstein.

With the pad of a finger, I might as well have broken the barrier of the time-space continuum for how we stare at it.

I draw back like he’s just burned me, while he watches the tattoo like I just inked my fingerprint onto it.

“Every idea will be pre-approved.” I tuck my hand under my crossed arm, shooting him a withering glare. “So don’t even think of coming up with some shit to embarrass me or get some laughs at my expense. I won’t be a joke to you.”

The shadows have vanished by the time he looks up, replaced by something disturbingly similar to a kicked puppy—which I also don’t understand. I do, however, decide I must kick the puppy once more.

“Which reminds me, no other women. Or men. Anyone. I won’t be a joke to the worl—”

“There’s no one else I want,” he says with unwavering eyes. “I would never do that. If you don’t trust anything else, trust this. I wouldn’t risk my career.”

---