Page 28 of The Kiss of Deception

Miles Blackstein isn’t sane.

I’ve always known it as a concept, but each time I experience his insanity, I lose grip on reason all over again.

“I sincerely hope you’re fucking joking.”

“I’m your boyfriend.” He crosses his arms. “And as your boyfriend I should take precedence—or right of preference.”

I brush my curls behind my back and flex my fists, shaking the itch to hit him.

I want to yell and curse and slam his pinkie-toe with the door.

“That doesn’t mean whatever you think it means. In case you’re unaware, I do not choose which players I get to interview.” The team’s communications departments select which players speak to the press after the matches. “Not that I’d choose you, if it were up to me.”

Miles scowls like the simple notion hasn’t occurred to him—or he simply doesn’t like it.

He hasn’t dried his hands this time, so the white cotton T-shirt turns transparent with water as he taps his own chest.

“You should interview me,” he repeats. “Not any other guy.”

Without further argument, he resumes stiffly stirring the pot, effectively dismissing me. Somehow, of all the bullshit he’s said and done, that’s what angers me most.

Irrevocably seduced by the food, my stomach tries to steal the decision from my hands.

It can’t.

I’m nothing if not stubborn and prideful to the point of conscious self-destruction.

So I stomp out of here.

I slam the door, effectively silencing his call.

And I try to remember the reasons that led me to the conclusion that putting myself through this was a good idea.

Chapter Eight

Zoe

The mirror stares at me with scrutinizing eyes.

Usually, I make a point to ignore it, just as I disregard opinions that say nothing about me. Today, it’s emboldened by whispered agreements in the back of my skull, dodging my appearance, diving straight to something beyond the blue sleeveless jumpsuit with an elegant turtleneck that exposes my shoulders before falling in wide-legged pants.

The knock on the front door startles me as I’m applying a final layer of dusty pink lipstick, but I take my time combing my french tips through the straightened strands before my all-white toenails trudge to the rising sound.

A whiff of air comes bearing sun and sea before the door peeks open. I don’t linger, knowing he’ll follow—which is confirmed by quiet tap of his steady footsteps behind mine.

When I’m safely standing in the middle of my rug, a hideous family heirloom that unquestionably doesn’t belong with the minimalist decor, I spin.

Miles’s loafer-clad feet kiss the edges of the handmade Persian ugliness, carefully avoiding the pool of red with a diamond-shaped dark-blue elaborate work surrounded by a puzzle of other intricate patterns.

He remains statuesque—still, silent, stunning—as my gaze rises from his shoes to the slacks that cling to the muscled legs that earn him a living, to the white designer polo shirt, buttons undone low enough to showcase golden skin and sleeves folded to expose corded forearms.

“You look…” He trails off, eyes on my lips. I wonder if I smudged some lipstick. His throat bobs once, twice—I swear I see the words rolling up and down until he finally spits them out. “Good. You look good,” Miles says, hoarse and pained, like the words have claws and scratch his throat raw.

The roughness of the rug digs into my bare feet, shooing me to the tile, where the chill takes root, snuffing all traces of fire from my recent short-circuit.

“I don’t need—or want—your validation. Save your compliments for when we’re in public,” I remind us. “And try to be a little more convincing.”

We’re here for one reason. A temporary façade.

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