Page 19 of The Kiss of Deception

It might toe a threat, but it’s not one. I just want the enjoyment of toying with him a little.

I watch him raptly. For nothing. Miles doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You spent the night at work? And tonight you’re getting in at ten?” He sounds like my father. If my father cared. “You need to rest, Zoe, or you’ll drive yourself into an early grave or burnout before you hit your thirties. Eat better, too.”

I feel so full and, God, I might be sick if I keep eating. But the lasagna is delicious, so what alternative do I have? Plus, I refuse to waste food.

“Please spare me your condescending crap,” I speak around a mouthful of cheesy heaven. I knew I was hungry, but I didn’t realize how much until the second or third bite. “Too tired to deal with you today.”

My words hold little bite, given the fact I’m busy eating his food.

Miles wants to argue, but he knows it’s a lost cause.

Glancing out at Boston, he blows out a sigh. The large TV flickers, playing with all the angles of his face, millimetrically drawn with ruler and square.

“We should get to know each other,” he says.

I snort, almost choking on the food I haven’t finished swallowing.

“I have precisely zero interest in getting to know you.” I set the fork down, deciding I’m finished. Maybe.

“Listen, Zoe,” he starts.

I miss the mocking endearment. If he’s addressing me by my name, I’m in for a tangent. He’s barely started, and my eyes are already rolling in their sockets.

“People will have questions. I know you, I know you’ll get anxious if you feel unprepared to answer them.” He makes a valid point, which I hate even more than I hate his bullshit.

“Fine. I’ll put together a file with all the boring stuff. Favorite food, favorite movie, how many stitches I got as a kid and blah-fucking-blah.”

“Don’t be silly.” He summons his dimples for a show. “We’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, we should get used to being in each other’s company. Besides, would it be so bad if we just spend some time together?”

“I mean, there’s definitely a chance one of us might die.”

“We’re all gonna die someday,” Miles returns. “Get over it.”

On the screen, Nick shrieks dramatically.

I laugh. Then I catch myself.

Miles reaches for the fork—the fork that was in my mouth—and puts a mouthful of lasagna in his mouth, thoroughly cleaning it, licking his lips with an unconscious swipe of his tongue.

“Hey! I wasn’t finished.” I pout before I know I’m doing it.

His eyes drop to the twist of my lips. “Sorry. Was getting hungry again.”

I take the hint to wipe the sauce from the corners of my mouth with a napkin, then snatch the fork back.

“Chandler Bing,” I say then.

Miles seems to have the uncanny capacity to read me, like he possesses a panoramic view to my inner musings, so I let him figure out what it means.

“Unsurprising,” he drawls, dry but amused.

“Sons of Anarchy,” I shoot again.

Apparently, to him, I am nothing if not predictable.

“Again, unsurprising.” He tilts his head, regarding me with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Do you have a thing for blond guys?”

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