Page 34 of The Kiss of Deception

But Nala is cute.

The Frenchie has black fur that coats her entire frame except for the perfect white tie that comes into view in her chest as she rolls, satisfied with all the attention. Her little mouth parts, almost like she’s smiling, but it’s the snorting sounds of her breathing that rush out.

The stranger may be right. Nala is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen.

With a final stroke on Nala’s forehead, Miles leaves the dog all to Nicholas’ strange friend. His black slacks stretch deliciously over carved muscle and tan skin as he straightens to his full height, a contrast to the brunette falling to her knees, content to ignore our presence in favor of the dog.

Nicholas is taller than Miles, two giants in my eyes as they clap each other’s backs in the universal way men always do as a greeting.

“Nicholas.” Their hands untangle and Miles returns to my side to rest his arm around my shoulder. He looks down at me with an adoring expression. “This is Zoe. My girlfriend.”

My stomach does a somersault as we add another name to our list of victims.

Nicholas tips his head in acknowledgement. I offer a smile in return, thankful. Physical touch is not a language I’m fluent in, especially when it comes to virtual strangers.

Leaning down in a conspiring manner, Miles’s breath fans my ear in a false whisper. “He’s the one that got away.”

“Is that a nicer word for the one that ran away?” I raise an eyebrow.

“For the sake of my dignity and my ego, I’ll pretend your words were ‘That’s his loss, love. You leveled up. I’m much prettier.’—which you definitely are—, in that exact order.”

“What dignity, love?”

The birthday boy observes us with more interest than he lets on.

“Nicholas, you have my admiration. How you have been able to put up with him for so long is beyond my comprehension,” I declare solemnly.

Nicholas doesn’t smirk or grin or show one hint that we share a joke—to be fair, neither do I, because I’m not sure we are.

“Likewise,” he answers.

“Traitor.” Miles glowers. I’m unsure whether he means his best-friend or his girlfriend.

Foreign cooing words waver into nothing as the girl promptly—and unprompted—inserts herself in the conversation with the stretch of her arm.

“I’m Camila. The one who’s gonna steal him away.”

I don’t take her stretched hand, so Miles does. The grin she aims at us is blinding, brighter than all the led lights that hang from wall sconces.

Miles introduces himself, but the last syllable stretches into a hiss as he snatches his hand back, inching slightly behind me as he shifts away from Camila.

We all watch my fake-boyfriend flex his hand.

“Did she leave a bruise?” Nicholas’s face doesn’t waver, but his question is mocking, like Miles is a child.

“On my ego.” Miles frowns at his own hand. “She’s unusually strong.”

“I’ve been told men assert dominance by crushing each other’s fingers in handshakes,” Camila explains proudly.

Her words end with a lilt, like ornate calligraphy, with a barely there accent that I can’t quite pinpoint on the map.

“So you were asserting your dominance? Over Miles?” I ask.

There goes the last of his ego.

“No.” Her grin dips devilishly. “I just enjoy watching men squirm.”

Camila shoots Miles with a pointed stare, prompting him to launch immediately into a list of reasons she should like him.

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