Page 37 of The Kiss of Deception

“Castro’s sister. She moved here with him. From Portugal.”

Thus, the mystery of the exquisite accent is resolved.

“I thought you didn’t like Castro,” Miles prods, nodding at the man next to Camila.

“He’s my teammate. I like him as much as I like any other teammate.” Preparing the final blow, Nicholas times his pause. “I like him as much as I like you.”

Miles inhales sharply. His head whips to the table again, studying the pair. “He’s siblings with a remarkably beautiful brunette.”

Feeling like an intruder eavesdropping on a private conversation, I announce my departure with a loud click of my glass on the fireplace stone. “He’s remarkably handsome, too. I'm gonna introduce myself. See what all the fuss is about.”

And off I go, smiling tight-lipped through the crowd as the boys’ gaze heats my back.

I look down at Camila, the curve of my mouth less strained. “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Yes.” She beams. “I saved you a seat!”

My eyes narrow. “You did?”

The brother swipes on his phone, one ear on our conversation. He seems to know the answer already, shaking his head—amused yet clearly used to her peculiarities.

“Nope,” Camila says. “But you can pretend I did.”

A massive hand appears in front of my eyes as I sit, painted in delicate ink that stretches and swirls around corded forearms until it disappears under rolled up cardigan sleeves.

“Rodrigo,” the brother says.

I look up into a different pair of eyes that are the same as Camila’s. Same beautiful shade of brown, same tilt at the edges, same wrinkles that indent the corners.

“She has a boyfriend,” Camila intervenes—because my relationship status is more relevant than my name—as she swats his hand away.

“Why would I care about her boyfriend?” The scar that curves from the corner of his mouth gently softens as his lips unpurse, taking a positively intrigued angle. “Do they come as a package?”

A heated shadow blooms in my back, and any bewildered answer dissipates in my tongue.

“Miles,” my fake-boyfriend introduces himself. I crane my neck, and he locks eyes with me. “The boyfriend.”

“And the best-friend!” Camila adds promptly, echoing his fumbling words. I scrunch my eyes shut, hoping to contain my amusement. “This is my brother. The one who taught me handshakes.”

It isn’t a warning—more like a pitch—an offer that Rodrigo could teach Miles the art of masculine-dominant-assertive handshakes.

Unable to hide my laughter, my forehead drops to Miles’s hip as I try to bury it in his shirt. He’s all hard muscle and warmth, patiently allowing me to ride out my amusement before plowing his fingers in my hair, tugging the roots just above the nape of my neck.

His other hand is occupied until he sets in front of me a plate with a single square piece of cake.

“Nothing for you?” Camila takes offense, scrunching her nose. “Are you one of those aliens who refuses to eat sugar or carbohydrates or whatever?”

Miles pulls the chair next to mine, the last one on this side of the table.

“I’m one of those aliens whose diet regimen before a game doesn’t include certain food groups, yes.”

Camila’s face alone conveys that rules are meant to be broken.

I take pity on my fake-boyfriend, anticipating another snide remark already halfway out of her mouth. Miles can’t eat his cake, and he’s getting obliterated by a pretty girl with a sunny smile and a wicked tongue.

“Want some of my cake?” I stab my slice with the fork, turning to him. “Here, just a taste.”

Miles shifts in his seat so his body fully faces mine and drags my chair close to his. It screeches against the floor but the sound is muffled in my ears as my knees are trapped between his massive legs, the density of his muscles, each hard line, each intricate contour, molding my legs as he gives them a squeeze.

---