Page 43 of The Kiss of Deception

“Difference is you’re too blind to see it. I’m not. Zoe is the strongest, most intelligent woman I know. But you wouldn’t know because all you see is yourself. You don’t know your brilliant granddaughter, and that’s your loss. I won’t make the same mistake.”

Chapter Eleven

Zoe

I’m a girl on a mission.

A mission I tasked myself with, but a mission nonetheless.

I’m deeply committed to it, too.

Avoid any and all contact with Miles Blackstein, at all costs.

Unparalleled master at avoidance, I’ve been rather successful, thus far, going strong on the fifth day in a row.

And then, a knock on my door.

I’m tempted to stay quiet in hopes he’ll assume I’m not home and go away—in the name of the success of the mission, of course. It would be futile, though. He seems to have a keen sixth sense attuned to my presence.

My Jeep parked in the garage right beside his car would probably give me away too.

In slow tiptoe-steps, I make my way to the door, wishing I could delay this confrontation one more day.

Judge Hopkins, also known as dearest Grandfather, didn't take long to return to his luxurious retirement hotel—two hours more than enough to leave behind a trail of broken beliefs with the echo of words spoken in private.

I’m afraid those words that didn’t belong to my ears will be in his face, demanding I stop ignoring them.

Instead, tulips greet me. Countless stems, green and slender, erupt in a rainbow of white and pink petals.

“Hey, lo—” His greeting is cut short by a troubled forehead. “What’s wrong?”

My attention is stuck on the flowers, incapable of deciphering the meaning of his question. “Huh?”

“Where are your bees?”

“What?”

“You always wear your bees at home.”

My bees. My… pajamas. He’s asking about my pajamas? I officially abandon my short-lived tirade to decipher the man.

“On the bottom of my laundry pile. Why? Are you volunteering to do my laundry?”

His concern fades as the corners of his lips stretch up. “I can think of other fun chores, if you’d like me to find out the color of your panties.”

Two can play this game.

“Joke’s on you, Blackstein.” I mirror him with a tilt of mine. “I don’t wear panties.”

The smirk drops with his jaw. He stares unblinking, then squeezes his eyes shut, tipping his head up to the ceiling to show me the shape of his Adam’s apple with hard swallows.

“I can’t tell if you’re serious or just messing with me—or both.” He directs to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall from the sky. “And somehow that’s all the more torturous.”

Welcome to my current dilemma, dude.

I reach for the bouquet. “Were the flowers for the bees? Were you hoping to promote pollination or something?”

He frowns at the colors in his hand, like he forgot them for a moment, letting my sarcasm go unnoted. “No. They’re for you.”

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