Page 35 of The Kiss of Deception

“I’m the boyfriend. And the best-friend. Though I highly doubt either of them would willingly volunteer that information,” he mutters, hand rising again automatically as if he’s offering an introductory handshake—again. He catches himself, messing with his hair instead. “Nice to meet you. I think.”

Camila doesn’t return his pleasantries, addressing me as she praises Miles. “Congrats! He’s hot. Careful not to get burned.”

“Fire is underrated.” I finally let my lips turn up at the edges. “Who wouldn’t burn with pleasure in order to play a little?”

Camila’s head tilts to the side with the weight of her appraisal. Her braid falls behind her shoulder as she nods with satisfaction, like I passed a test. “We’re absolutely going to be besties.”

“Yes. You two should get along great on sunny days. Even better on all the others.” Something that resembles a smile blooms at the edges of Nicholas’s mouth, but his thumb wipes it with a swipe. “And we should get far away.”

Miles regards us like he doesn’t recognize us. One of us, anyway. He grabs my hand, tugging me somewhere else like he owns the place as he announces over his shoulder,“We’re gonna—” The unsubtle halt lasts as long as it takes him to invent an excuse. “—go get burned!”

My footprints struggle to keep up with his until he slows his pace. He veers right, directing us into a large room that revolves around a traditional limestone fireplace. On either side, high cabinets in a rich shade of walnut fade into walls of warm beige, shelves clean and uncluttered.

The potted plants seem to be the common theme, featuring in every room we pass. My expertise on the matter is null, but they don’t appear fake. I didn’t see Nicholas as the kind of guy who’d have the patience or a penchant for tending to flowers, but appearances are misleading.

There are two pictures on the fireplace mantel. Both pixelated, they feature a beautiful brunette, a delicate, feminine version of Nicholas. In one of them, she wears a giant sunhat and red gloves, behind her a bush of blooming flowers and the porch of a white house. In the other, her arms wrap around two little boys, one smaller than the other, each a photocopy of the other.

“He’s not the warm and welcoming type. But he’s my best-friend.” Miles interrupts my perusing. I find him leaning a shoulder against the door, watching me. He sighs, scratching the stubble that shadows his jaw. “I know he seems cold and he’s occasionally a little rude, but try not to take it personally. Don’t… hate him.”

“Am I warm and welcoming?”

He hesitates, gauging whether I expect honesty or a lie. “No.”

“Exactly.”

He folds his arms, the pitch in his brow a question mark. Given our history, I understand his reluctance.

What Miles doesn’t realize is that he isn't the rule.

I roll my eyes, deciding to ease his worries and warnings. “I’ve known him for years.”

His ankles uncross, the muscles under his slacks stretching the fabric to its limits. The lines between his brows become parallel indentations of suspicions rather than questions, so I continue.

“We’ve met at games and other work occasions. Our career paths do entwine constantly, have you not noticed, Blackstein?”

Miles nods once, turning the words in his hands, looking for hidden meaning. “Hm. You two are actually very alike. Hiding behind sarcasm and emotionally closed off.”

I flick an invisible piece of lint from my oversized olive blazer—one of a three-piece set that includes a spaghetti-strap crop-top and wide-legged pants—and counter without indignation or offense—a statement to my own words. “I’m not emotionally closed off. I’m emotionally controlled.”

Miles has the good sense to try to stifle his snort. “Sure.”

“Having a grip on my emotions doesn’t make me ‘emotionally closed-off’, Blackstein.” I struggle to keep the evenness of my tone—a problem I only ever have around him. “Just because my face doesn’t translate every one of my emotions doesn’t mean I don’t feel them.”

I was raised with the solid belief that for women, emotion can only ever be weakness—whether too much or the lack thereof. So, I learned to conceal all its traces beneath a hard-earned veil of apparent apathy, subdued under the hand of logic.

All the things I feel are for me to understand, not for the world to witness. They don’t belong out in the open to be scrutinized, judged, and used as a weapon against me.

They aren’t meant to be tainted by external interpretations or opinions. People wrongfully assume acknowledging someone’s feelings gives them some sort of right or entitlement to an opinion. It doesn’t.

Tucked deep inside me, my feelings are free, safe to be true and raw away from vultures. They’re mine, and they belong to me only.

“That’s kind of what it means, though. The tight leash you have on them isn’t very healthy. It’ll end up choking you someday.”

Anyone else would be ignored and disregarded with the flick of a finger. With Miles, I’m reduced to barbs.

“You’re a shrink, now, are you? It is a step-up from your philosopher wannabe status, I suppose.”

Unflinching in face of my rudeness, almost as if he expected it, and recognizing nothing good will come from any response, Miles gives me all the time in the world to regret using his confidence against him.

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