Page 36 of The Kiss of Deception

The stubborn part of me revolts, but I break the tense silence in a small concession. “We’re adults, Miles. Shoving our feelings deep into a dark hole is what we do.”

He waits for one, two, three beats. Then his faint reflection in the glass unfolds bulging biceps and straightens. “I’m gonna go fetch us some drinks.”

Without another word, he’s gone.

His steps fade, but it’s not long before the sound returns. I promptly turn, but it’s Nicholas, a rainbow of macarons of all shapes and flavors in his hands.

When his bottomless blues catch sight of me, they fill with realization.

“Would you lend me a hand?” he says.

At the opposite end of the room, there’s a long table.

“I’m surprised you’re doing this. Actually doing this—not paying someone to do it.” I move plates and platters around to make room for one more on the already replete table. “Anyone with the unholy amount of money you must have would pay someone and sit sipping champagne, watching the struggle of underpaid labor.”

“I don’t like strange people in my space.”

I share the sentiment.

“I’m not sure what happened. I’m not sure what you two are doing. He won’t tell me much, which is unprecedented—and tells me he’s hiding something.”

Well, that’s my fake-boyfriend—his own saboteur, with his penchant for too many words.They’ll be his downfall, someday.

“He’s exhausting and utterly annoying most days, but he has a golden heart. A heart as big as his, yet he never gave a piece away.”

Nicholas rearranges every plate millimetrically to his taste. When he finally deems himself satisfied, he pins me under his unnerving gaze. I appreciate the blunt approach of his traditional best friend duties.

“Then you came in and he handed it to you with a bow—all of it. If you’re gonna take it, be sure you want to keep it, take care of it. Because he sure as hell doesn’t look like he’s ever gonna ask for it back.”

Listening to his words, I hear so much more that I have to concede to Miles.

Perhaps Nicholas and I are alike. Perhaps he shares my stance to mine on emotion.

“For the record, I’m happy. He’s never lacked female attention. He smiles and any girl and guy in the perimeter melts into a pool at his feet. But no one ever stayed for what’s beyond and behind the smile—not that he’s wanted them to, anyway. I’m happy you did. I’m happy he has you.”

“Yeah? Tell that to your face,” I finally say. My voice betrays the raging storm that sends my heart palpitating.

Our small scheme isn’t so small anymore, and it’s taking proportions that are starting scare me. It’s supposed to end soon, but it might first become a beast that’ll swallow us whole.

The corner of Nicholas’s mouth twitches as he leaves me in the eye of my tornado.

The crowd amounts to just under twenty people, mostly people from Nicholas’ club, Boston Football Club, teammates and coach—and spouses.

I circle the room for minutes, muttering a few hellos, as Miles throws his dimples around, ever the well-mannered charming boy he was raised to be—always by my side.

He returned right after Nicholas left to change into the dark-denim jeans and black button down he wears now, almost as if he timed his friend. Two drinks in hand—water for him, white wine for me—as though our previous exchange had never happened.

“Who’s the weird girl?” Miles asks.

Nicholas blinks slowly, pointedly glaring at his best friend.

“Who’s the pretty girl?” Miles amends.

The glare darkens a notch, and I join in.

Miles throws his hands in the air. “Who is Camila?”

Finally, Nicholas’s unnerving blue eyes show mercy, traveling towards the table to land on Camila, who stretches to reach for a macaron. He leans against the gorgeous unlit fireplace, spring blooming in temperature and in the aroma of flowers in the wind, watching his party like he’s waiting for it to end.

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