Page 48 of The Kiss of Deception

“Let’s see how long you can keep his attention,” blondie, the viper, concludes victoriously.

Instead of rising to the bait, I give her the practiced smile I perfected over the years—icy and unflappable. The one that tells her I have many fucks to give—none to her.

When the reaction she expected doesn’t come, her demeanor falters, mouth twitching, struggling to hold the tilt of the corners.

Just then, a possessive arm snakes over my shoulder as Miles sidles up to me, breathing a kiss in my hair. An unspoken hello, or perhaps an apology.

The relief he brings isn’t assuaged by the fact this arm was recently busy being mauled by unbelonging hands.

“Kylie!” The cheer in his greeting grates on my ears. “I trust you’re giving my girl the famous welcome to the family.”

She blanches at the knowing inflection, but the grin that erupted for Miles doesn’t wither. “Sure. Yes. Uh—It’s Quincie, though.”

I thank all the times I was reproached as a little girl, all the years spent learning to school my face, or I’d be gasping, probably choking on my tequila. Much like Aaliyah, to my side, who abruptly swivels to the bar to conceal her near-death.

“Oh? Are you sure?” His question sounds so earnest he almost fools me.

“Uhm? Yes?”

He nods like he understands. “Kylie is a beautiful name.”

She smiles even though it appears to not be her name. “Thanks.”

Miles spins my stool to lock our eyes. “Come on, love.”

On my feet, the difference is brutal. Quincie has a handful of inches on me, just as many more on her heels—yet I don’t feel inferior.

Always the short one in the room, it took me years to not feel like the small one—to not feel the need to compensate with shoes that murdered my toes. Perhaps other women like the hard-earned empowerment of the shoes. I do, too, on particular occasions. But most of the time, they serve as a painful reminder of a young girl trying too hard, of falling short in every way, metaphorical and literal.

Pettiness is a part of me that never wavers. I wave my fingers at (apparently) Quincie and snake my arm around Miles to slip a hand inside his pocket, singsonging, “See you around, Quinbee.”

The huff of my fake-boyfriend’s smothered laugh fans my cheek as his hand cups my shoulder, securing me against him. The sudden urge to slap it away makes my skin heat under it.

From the corner of my eye, I see his white shirt—and phantom red nails, touching, trespassing.

I want to erase their trace and their taint. I want to strip him of that shirt immediately, perhaps incinerate it like it’s contagious.

Oblivious, the man in question contentedly maneuvers us to a flourishing table with a variety of foods, selecting two small bowls of fresh fruit slices.

“What are you doing?” I extricate myself from him, trying to conceal my hiss behind an adoring smile.

Keyword: try.

“Is that a trick question?” His puzzled gaze swings between me and the fruits. “I’m eating a—Wait, is this about the peach? This is not an attempt at foreshadowing or a subliminal message or anything, I promise.”

He interprets my stunned speechlessness as acceptance of his ridiculous reply, slipping his free hand to the small of my back to guide me beyond the sliding doors. With a little over twenty minutes to the start of the game, the stands are starting to look less empty by the minute.

We descend a couple of steps, electing first-row seats right behind the veranda that secures the second floor. Miles sits precisely in the direction of the midfield line, procuring a perfect view to the entire field. Hooking his forefinger in the loop of my pants, he tugs me between his spread legs, trapping me between him and the balcony.

“Are you on drugs?” I hope I don’t sound hopeful, but drugs would be the answer to all my questions.

“Not at the moment.” His frown drops to the fruit, which he placed on the seat to his right. “Unless you slipped something into my peach. The pineapple is for you, though, so be aware of that.”

I catch the faint trace of red lipstick on his face—lipstick I’m not wearing.

“I don’t need you to protect me, Blackstein.” I’m not sure which occasion I’m referring to. Tyrannical grandfathers, creepy bosses, hostile agents, or mean girls. Maybe all of them.

I pet the cheek that greeted the beautiful brunette with a heavy hand until his large palm covers mine, stills it. “I know. I’ve never done it because you need me to. I do it because I want to.”

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