Page 16 of The Kiss of Deception

I get in his face. Or rather, point my finger at his face—height difference and all.

“Don’t you ever”—I mimic his head-tip—“me again. Understand?”

His dimple winks. Like a trigger, it unravels a chain of events. My eyes slit, Miles raises his hands in surrender, my eyes narrow impossibly further.

“Okay. Sorry about the—” He does it again, the head-tip, laughter lighting his eyes. “Please, just come inside.”

My urgency plummets exponentially. I’m a lot less eager to eat when it’s clear he intends to follow.

“What do you want?” I cross my arms, tapping the point of my sneaker on the floor.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Denial sounds like confirmation. Confirmation sounds like the truth. I say nothing. Instead, I enter my apartment, veering right for the kitchen.

Walking into my kitchen like it’s his kitchen, Miles begins unpacking the groceries and putting them away. A blatant invasion of privacy that should set me on edge—I don’t even like it when cashiers scan through my purchases, which, by the way, is their job description.

Weirdly, although I’m bothered by most things Miles does—like breathing, for instance, or feeling so at home in my home—his acting as my personal servant doesn’t bother me. Perhaps I’m getting used to his lack of boundaries. Which won’t do. Just because recurrence forms a habit which inspires familiarity, doesn’t mean it’s right or to be accepted.

“What do you want, Blackstein?” I repeat, still wearing my favorite scowl.

I, for one, want to drop on my dreamy bed, food already forgotten, and be dead to the world until the next morning. Instead, I fold my arms in an attempt to inject some much-needed sternness into the conversation.

This is getting too casual for my comfort.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Miles sifts through the cabinets, not even having to make the effort to stretch his entire body on his tiptoes or climb a freaking chair to reach for a plate.

My cabinets, in my kitchen, in my apartment.

I growl.

No.

In a show of perfect timing, my stomach growls in hunger. I don’t even have it in me to feel embarrassed—not that I should be embarrassed of natural body sounds—but my arms surround my midriff, anyway.

Miles hears it, too, if the second in which he freezes is any indication. Then, quick as lightning, he sets the tote bag on the countertop next to the sink, and brushes past me.

Finally, we’re getting somewhere.

“Go take a shower and get ready for bed.”

My eyes slit again—or maybe they hadn’t yet widened—unhappy with how bossy he sounds, even if a shower and bed is exactly where I was headed.

“If you’re trying to insult me, try again.”

“That’s not at all what I’m doing.” He exhales in resignation, and leaves, without bothering to close the door properly.

I stare at the space he just occupied like he vanished into a magician’s hat, stomach turning and head spinning from his total one-eighty until I shake myself.

This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

Silence and solitude and sleep.

Under the spray of scalding water, I see Boston below, buildings and buildings breathing with life inside. Behind the shower glass doors, I feel far, far away disconnected and alone.

The water slides down my skin. It clings, engulfing me in a warm hug.

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