Page 45 of The Kiss of Deception

Unusually unsure, I inspect my clothes again, like I can see them through his lens. “Do I not look fit for the role?”

“No! No,” he rushes to assure me. Four quick strides and his hands are on their way to my face. They stop mid-air, hanging for an interval before becoming fists he thrusts inside his pockets. “You look perfect. You’re perfect, love.”

I can’t hold his eyes, a new wave of doubt swallowing me.

Perhaps this, all of this, isn’t such a good idea. Every day, we seem to venture closer and closer into dubious territory.

Maybe it’s been long enough and Grandpa has realized by now, especially after seeing us together, that nothing has changed in his granddaughter. That I’m as happy as ever.

But there’s a little voice in my head that urges me to go on. The reminder of Nicholas’s words. I can’t fathom Miles lacking people in his corner, but no matter what lies I tell myself, a part of me wants to be there for him, too—like he was there for me when he was there for Grandpa, or when he confronted Judge Hopkins.

It’s all part of our deal of deception, I remind myself. Just like today’s public appearance at his team’s game, while he’s out due to an injury.

If I’m not careful, I might end up deceived, too.

In the stadium, Miles parks his car in an exclusive corner of the garage, reserved for team members only, jogging around the hood to open the door for me. We get the last glimpse of privacy as he towers over me, our last full breath before we dive into deception mode.

“I’m gonna hold your hand, now.”

It’s a question in the form of a statement, a request for permission that I grant with a raise of my palm. He takes it, dark grays under the sharp illumination never wavering from my blues.

The night is abnormally cold for June in Boston. Spring is making way to a fast-approaching summer, though the weather doesn’t quite know that yet.

A brisk wind blows my hair into my face. Miles gazes down at me with a funny frown as I wiggle. Before I laugh at his expression, he tucks the unruly strands behind my ears with his free hand.

My body instinctively seeks his warmth, and he notices. Twirling me through our connected hands, Miles pulls me flush against the wall of his chest. His hand still clasped in mine, a locket around me resting against my heartbeat.

Then, sure feet attentively match mine in stride, guiding me through a collection of expensive cars toward the heart of the team.

I’ve spent countless hours in this stadium, but tonight is a first. Journalists aren’t welcome in a club’s lair. I’ll be trespassing into hostile territory through the front door, armed with nothing but a smile and a lie.

The sporting director—Andrew Bass, with his brown hair was cut short and neatly trimmed, age tempering his receding hairline with gray—is the first to spot our entrance. His smile is wide, all sharp teeth and charm, but there’s something about him that puts my defenses on alert.

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” He spreads open his suit-clad arms. “Miles B., it's time you brought your beautiful lady friend.”

“His girlfriend,” I correct him. Then I correct myself. “Zoe Westwood.”

“I know who you are, my darling.” He starts to lean forward, so I thrust out my hand. He eyes it before grabbing it between both of his. “You know what they say about journalists.”

“I don’t, actually.” And I don’t particularly care to find out, though I’m sure I will.

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists, and we don’t negotiate with journalists.” He peppers his statement with a wink, a chuckle that awaits reciprocation.

It never comes.

As I reclaim my hand, I tip my head in contemplation. “Sounds more to me like a statement about you.”

His face falls, but he recovers just as quickly. “In any case, you’re always welcome here, dear.”

“If you’ll excuse us,” Miles jumps in, just as eager to get away. “We’re going to get settled in.”

“Of course. Please act like this is your home.”

I level him with a pointed stare, ready to reply.

This is Miles’s home, for all intents and purposes. He’s a member of this team. He belongs here.

And the fact that this man has decided to act like he owns the place, like he’s granting us the charity of being welcomed in with the sole purpose of feeling some sense of superiority grates against my nerves.

---