Page 8 of The Kiss of Deception

“Yeah, and now apparently you kissed me!”

We’re way past the hypothetical scenario of what I could have said. Right now, our un-hypothetical issue is much bigger.

“I stopped you. You were ready to spill everything, for millions to see.” Miles seems keen on dwelling on what could have happened instead of dealing with what actually happened.

I want to scream that it’s pointless.

“You were speechless, so it worked. Maybe I should’ve done that before,” he muses in a low voice, more of a contemplation escaping the privacy of his thoughts before he catches it than a snide remark.

“People are calling us the American Iker and Sara Casillas!” My tone escalates again. Not that it had de-escalated.

His brow creases, and I think finally, finally, he understands.

But then he tilts his head. “Your eyes are bluer, and your hair is darker and curlier and prettier. I don’t think they’re together anymore, though.”

“Well then, people might be right after all.” I throw my hands in the air. “Seriously, have you lost your entire mind?” I can only hiss, poisoned with fury and all its friends.

“I’d like to think we all go a little crazy at some point. It’s like a requirement of adulthood. At least, I hope I’m not the only one.”

I don’t even know what he’s saying anymore. He is insane. He can’t possibly inhabit the same realm as I do.

“Do you not understand this isn’t some inconsequential joke? This impacts our lives—my life. We’re not Iker and Sara. There’s nothing between us, yet half of the country seems to see in us the new reason to believe in love.”

I retrace my steps, with half a mind on kicking the damn bag, but it’s gone—a giant gray dot on the white sectional.

“Half of the world would be more accurate,” he hums, pulling back his legs to give me passage before stretching again.

It’s not sarcasm, and he’s not wrong, but his light tone snaps my last hold on reason. I never claimed to have a saint’s patience, much less when it comes to Miles Blackstein, but this is unthinkable.

My nostrils flare with a resigned breath. I’m a problem-solver, but I refuse to solve his mess—even if I’m the person who’ll end up under the rubble.

If he refuses to understand the magnitude of the problem—or simply doesn’t care—let him deal with it.

“You know what? You made the mess, you fix it. And whatever your people come up with had better work well on my side.”

“Or else?” he taunts like he can’t help himself.

“You know what happens.” I prowl to him with deliberate steps to add credibility to a threat I have zero intention of perpetrating. “The cat might escape the bag sooner than you intended.”

I might not like him, but I wouldn’t destroy his season. If there’s one thing I respect about him—and it’s literally one thing—it’s his passion, dedication and work ethic. He’s more talented than the average player, but devoted too.

“That’s not really how the saying go—”

Is he seriously more bothered with my wording than my threat, empty as it is? My exasperation peaks.

Miles must see it in face, because he shuts up and raises his palms. And he smirks. “Let’s keep our pussy locked up tight, then.”

Yep, there’ll be tears before the day is over—not mine.

For now, I focus all my efforts on ignoring him, a skill I’ve perfected over the last months—seemingly the only way I’ll avoid becoming a felon before I hit thirty.

Nothing good will come out of his mouth. It never does.

“As I said, the world is convinced we’re together. Let’s just feed that story. Let’s confirm without words what they already believe: we’re happily in love. People love to see beautiful people in love.”

And nothing good comes out of his mouth.

Only the confirmation that he has, indeed, lost his mind.

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