Page 18 of The Kiss of Deception

I will not waste time on Miles Blackstein, but I have spent many midnights analyzing myself. My erratic uncharacteristic behavior is directly—exclusively—connected to Mr. Number Nine, sprouting from his nearness and general existence.

If he’s a match, I’m dynamite. He scratches and scrapes until he sets me afire and sets me off.

Which explains why I just said that—and what happens next.

I blush.

My blood lights up in a flame that burns my cheeks scarlet.

So I have no option but to whirl around, scurry down my hallway, and barricade myself in the safety of my room.

I lotion my body and my curls, erasing the episode from my memory, hoping he’ll be gone by the time I finish—knowing he won’t leave before he’s sure I’ve eaten. He would wait the whole night. He’s stubborn like that.

On the couch, Miles lounges with his head tipped back towards the ceiling, hands intertwined covering his closed eyes, oblivious to some New Girl rerun on the TV.

“Dinner is in the oven,” he says, weariness lacing his words.

Caught staring at him, I retrieve the food from the kitchen in silence.

In the oven, the food no longer steams, just hot enough to be consumed. I resent him a little more. That in the wake of whatever happened, he had the thoughtfulness to put the food away, so it would not go cold, anticipating I’d evade him for long.

Setting the lasagna on the coffee table, I settle cross-legged on my ugly Persian rug and dig in. The food is good. So goddamn heavenly I can’t contain a groan at the first taste. And the second.

Miles slides from the couch, in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, much like what I wear—except he’s all beige, and I’m all black—sitting next to me on the floor, gifting me his whole attention.

It’s unnerving, receiving his undivided attention without knowing what’s going through his head.

I stare ahead and force myself to focus on Jess’s whiny voice.

“That’s my favorite sitcom.” He breaks the silence.

His body is angled in my direction, all tuned to me. One long leg stretched, the other bent at the knee; one arm propped up on the sofa behind him—and me—and the other reaching for the remote to turn the volume down.

The lights are dim, his voice low. Behind him, the vast expanse of the city glitters through my floor-to-ceiling windows. The moment feels intimate. Almost romantic.

I reprimand myself and chase the thought away.

“Excuse me?”

“New Girl’s my favorite sitcom.” His smile is sheepish, so unlike his usual smirk, making him look boyish and almost adorable. Almost. “Schmidt is my favorite character.”

I hum, unsure how to respond and uninterested in engaging in conversation, and repress a yawn.

“I’m sorry to be here so late. You look tired. I didn’t mean to add to that.”

I tap my phone and see it isn’t even 11pm. To a pro-athlete, I suppose one minute after nine qualifies as late.

“Thanks again,” I grumble. I can’t be offended by the truth. I am tired.

“I said you look tired, not bad. I waited for you yesterday but didn’t hear you come in.” Miles frowns, like the thought bothers him—that I was out so late, I might have spent the night out.

“In case you don’t know, the primary transfer window closed at midnight.”

Finally. I love my job, but I loathe the work I’ve been doing the past week—on top of obsessively preparing for my official debut on the sidelines next weekend.

These days, anyone with access to the internet can start unfounded rumors and spin fabricated narratives based on nothing but a sick desire to create chaos. It’s glaring during transfer windows—the period of the season when the clubs can loan, sell, and sign athletes. We must check each rumor spread by every lunatic or funny joker, to see if it’s fabricated or if there might be some truth in it, before it can make the news.

“I spent the last 48 hours buried in rumors about transfer moves—digging them up from the ends of the internet. Forgive me if my judgment is a little impaired and it’s taking me a second too long to process the crap that comes out of your mouth.” I tap the fork against my bottom lip, once, twice, feigning a pensive manner. “And not a peep about you…”

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