Page 70 of The Kiss of Deception

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.”

Miles wraps his arms around me, holding me tight until the trembling subsides and my hands that fist his shirt let go.

Suddenly, I’m as exhausted as I am wired, a current of electricity having shifted my instincts to fight mode. And Miles is the only punching bag in sight.

So I push him away.

“What are you doing here?” I say. “I thought your flight was in the morning.”

The words scrape my sore throat, rough and accusatory.

But he isn’t supposed to be here. His team is staying in Philadelphia for the night after the game, scheduled to catch a flight back early tomorrow—well, today, to be accurate. He isn’t supposed to be back before lunchtime.

And yet, he is.

Black Henley all wrinkled, sleeves bunched around forearms like he didn’t take the time to roll them up. Dark hair the mess of waves it always becomes when he washes it without styling it. Purple smudges under his eyes sharpen the hardness of his cheekbones.

God, he looks beautiful, all broken and disheveled and here.

Why is he here?

“I drove.”

“You... You drove,” I parrot his words, because what else can I say to that?

“You were alone.” His eyes trace every inch of my face, still scanning for any signs of distress. He should find many, because I am distressed. “And you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Then his gaze trails down, and I know what he sees. I’m a mess in more ways than one, swallowed by a stolen hoodie and sweatpants.

His clothes.

All the rage that electrifies my blood vanishes instantly, leaving behind only the strength to whisper a question to which I don’t want the answer—I already know it. “You drove almost 6 hours at night so I could sleep.”

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” he repeats, running a hand through strands of messy hair, messier every time he replicates the movement. “I didn’t want you all alone here.”

Something lumpy materializes in my throat. I swallow, but it won’t dislodge, so I’ll blame it for my silence. I can pretend it isn’t because I don’t know what to say. I can’t form or find the words to translate the things inside me.

So, my eyes decide to let it out.

As the first tear falls, so does Miles.

He stares at the droplet with an astounded, agonized look. Before the next one descends, he’s kneeling on the floor. Quickly, carefully, he pulls me against his chest.

I go willingly. I let myself fall into him. Somehow, somewhere deep inside my core, I know he’ll catch me.

“It’s okay. I got you,” Miles murmurs against my hair in a tender voice that makes the tears fall faster, hard pelts running down my skin, soaking his shirt.

In his arms, Miles gathers me, all my broken pieces, and holds me together as I fall apart.

“I got you, Zoe.”

He’s got me.

He’s got me.

And he does.

Miles hugs me as I cry, the turbulent ocean bursting through the confines of my emotional walls.

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