Page 88 of The Kiss of Deception

When I look up again, they’re on my mouth.

“Yeah. Pretty.”

I tie a new bow, this time around her ponytail. With my arms around her, we’re enclosed in an even tighter cocoon—the entire world neatly folded in the inches that host our breaths.

Her knuckles mirror the hue of the beige marble, keeping her upright—keeping her back. “You undid it, though.”

“Yeah?” A tug at her ponytail—it falls into cascades of curly ink. “I rather enjoy undoing pretty things.”

We follow the silky strip, floating as it falls.

“You’re good at it, too.” The natural rasp of her voice dips deeper with light breathlessness.

And she dips below my arms to bury her hot cheeks in the cold breath of the fridge.

On the tips of her toes, Zoe reaches for a carton of milk, which she places on the counter before she bends to rummage the freezer. The stolen hoodie rises higher to flash barbed wire and—

Time to retreat!

I carry plates and the box to the coffee table, listening for her steps. What comes next, though, is more cabinets opening, closing.

From the sofa, I see her deposit ingredients into a blender. Cubes of ice, oreos, vanilla ice cream are scattered along the countertop.

“Don’t forget to close the lid!” I yell in fake panic, seeing it already closed and secured.

I see the fraction of a second she ponders taking the lid off again just to contradict me, but the imminent mess—and her lack of cleaning skills—determine her decision. Not worth it.

Unimpressed, she locks eyes with mine and taps the button, unflinching at the loud noise, with a deadpan look like she’s envisioning using the machine on me. She splits the liquid in two tall cups, topping each with a pink paper straw.

“Milkshakes,” I conclude. “We’re going crazy tonight, I see.”

“All in or nothing, love.”

My heart punches my ribs, once, twice, stopping my wishful thinking, my overthinking all the possible meanings of a simple statement.

“Turns out you do learn things with Camila. No whipped cream, though. That would’ve been too much.”

I shoot a pointed look at the sugar overdose in front of us. “The whipped cream would be too much.”

She shrugs. “We also don’t have any since Mila came for brunch and finished it with strawberries and melted chocolate.”

I snort. Camila would need to hop up on sugar to fuel her chaotic energy.

Zoe sits on the carpeted floor, salivating at the spread of muffins: two of each flavor. Red velvet, carrot with chocolate chips, triple chocolate, blueberry, and my personal favorite, cookie dough with extra chocolate chips. A sweet-tooth heaven. And possibly diabetes.

Instead of saving the best for last, as she tends to, she surprises me by starting with her favorite. If the long moan is any indication, the carrot surpasses her expectations. It’s getting hard to watch her, so I focus on my own.

“I’m not even mad at the oven anymore,” she confirms my earlier assumptions. “It knew better than I.” With the windows ajar, a balmy August draft trickles inside, replacing the cool conditioned air. “Have you finished your answers?”

Chocolate smudges the corners of Zoe’s mouth. The girl who won’t let anyone lay an eye on her, unless she looks pristine, doesn’t hide from me anymore. Damn if that doesn’t make my stomach jump, flip, and do all the crazy things it only does when it comes to Zoe.

For a moment too long,I relish in the comfort and intimacy we’ve created.

“No,” I confess sheepishly.

Since she had to step back from her job, she’s decided to busy herself with a new project, unable to stay still. She hasn’t fully disclosed the entirety of her idea, revealing only the premise: reclaiming a pro-athlete’s humanity, whatever that means.

I can’t say no to her.

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