Page 27 of The Kiss of Deception

I’m at the island now, the last thing that separates his fury from mine, so I throw my bag on top of it. “I don’t want nice things from you.”

Instead of an answer, Miles gives me his back, washing his hands in the sink.

“Why was the bleached blond touching you?” He forcefully spurts soap onto his palm, taut muscles betraying his casual tone.

“What?”

The oven dings, and I can smell the underlying sugar beneath all the spices in the air. Vanilla.

“He touched you.” His voice dips low, slightly muted under the flow of the faucet.

Liam. He means Liam.

“I see how the possessive act does add a nice, convincing touch to this farce, but tone it down a notch. Or knock it off altogether. Play it like you’re the cool, confident boyfriend, and jealousy is beneath you.”

The faucet whines under his punch as he turns it off and grabs a towel that stretches beneath his grip, barely drying his hands.

“Why are you so concerned about this guy’s feelings? Why do you care so much?”

I slam my palms against the island, letting my bag tumble to the ground. In the distance, the boiling bubbles blabber louder as the steam condensates into a murky veil over the stove.

“Liam is my partner. I won’t jeopardize our work relationship because you decided to host a dick-measuring contest on a whim.”

Miles slams his hands on the other side of the marble, the sound muffled by the rag. He looks up at me and says between gritted molars, “He shouldn’t be touching you without your permission.”

“He has permission!” I don’t understand why he looks like he’s on the verge of a stroke, jaw so tight it makes my teeth hurt. “He’s my friend. Hell, strangers touch you all the time and it has never bothered you.”

Perhaps it’s different as a public figure. Yet it isn’t.

It’s about the boundaries, respect.

“You still won’t even let me hold your pinkie without trying to cut my hand out for touching you.” His jaw jumps with every word, but otherwise he’s still. So still it looks like he’s a statue cut from marble.

“You’re not my friend,” I say.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” he snaps.

“Good to know we’re on the same page,” I spit. Then I speak, slowly and evenly, in a tone that I hope delivers finality and doesn’t leave space for a retort. “Now stop acting like a jealous jerk.”

Miles looks at me like I’m asking him to stop breathing altogether.

Apparently, to him, being a jerk is as natural as breathing.

I retreat, resorting to pacing on my side. If I stare at his face—at the cutting angle of his cheekbones, the dark edge that sharpens his stormy irises—I might go mad.

Miles seems to share the sentiment. The faucet runs again, the flow of water furiously tapping his hands, spattering his white T-shirt.

We seem to have reached common ground, or a standstill, too heated to proceed and too heated to relent.

The growing smell of burning food fills the silence, settles in the air between us.

“Why did you interview Gus?”

The sudden subject change trips my pacing steps.

I face him again. “You mean, why did I do my job?”

“Why didn’t you interview me?”

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