Page 89 of The Kiss of Deception

“Why?” she asks, chocolate painting her white teeth.

“I was writing, but my phone pinged and it was the horoscope. I couldn’t ignore the horoscope.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even blink. Used to my interests by now, she’s aware I’m a believer of the stars.

“At least give me the short version.”

“Oh.” I’m surprised she wants to know, but I recover quickly. “Okay. This week is prone to misunderstandings for Aquarius, so be aware of communications, miscommunications and all that. For Leos it was supposed to be a week of professional accomplishments, though, so considering we lost today, maybe I should switch apps.”

Her hand reaching for my cookie dough freezes. Her face crumples drastically, a poem of astonishment and hilarity.

“The answers, Miles. A short version of your answers!” She laughs furiously, clutching her stomach as she rolls to her side on the carpet.

“Oh.” I scratch the blush in my cheeks, but I’m laughing, too. “That makes more sense.”

“Oh my God, you are ridiculous.”

Zoe stutters between gulps of air and laughter, mist pooling in the corners of her eyes.

And just like that, all that matters is she’s radiant and I’m the reason. I would change careers and become a full-time clown if it made her laugh like that, hard and heartfelt, only once more. Maybe not a clown—she hates them, and I’m… not a fan. But anything she finds funny, I’d be it.

She sobers, pulling her body to a sitting stance and launching about her project in between mouthfuls, all rushed words and twirling hands.

And like this, looking like she knows she’s exactly where she belongs, I can pretend she’s mine just as much as I’m hers.

All my life, I’ve wanted so many things. So many dreams… Yet, if this is all I ever get, I’d be a lucky man. The happiest fucking guy in the world.

But what about Zoe? Can I steal her future just because I want to be happy?

“What’s the worst part of all of this for you?” I blurt out.

For a moment, she picks at the crumbs in her plate, pursing her mouth in thought. “I guess I can’t go out in pajamas anymore.”

Not what I expected. “I’m gonna need you to elaborate, love.”

“Pajamas are my favorite clothes.” And here she is, wearing my t-shirt. “I’d go to work in pajamas, if I could. Not those cute silk things or sexy nightgowns—I don’t even own one of those. I like my comfy ratty things that make me look like I’m having a midlife crisis.”

“I happen to see the appeal of the look.”

I do. I love her all messy, all raw, real, rough edges.

With a stern look, she reprimands me for the interruption. I mime the zip of my mouth, and hand her the invisible key.

“Since this,” she says, signaling us with the wave of a finger, “started, people recognize me. Not often, but it’s happened. I shit you not, a kid asked me for a selfie. A selfie. With me.” She pokes her chest in disbelief. “So there’s a possibility someone might see me and snap a pic. Imagine I end up a meme online? I don’t have the psychological structure or the self-confidence to be a joke on social media. I’m the wicked ice queen.”

Doesn’t she see? She’s the furthest thing from wicked or icy.

“Now I always get all dressed up when I go out. Even if it’s only a run to the grocery store,” she surmises with a shrug, busying herself unwrapping red velvet.

“I’m sorry. I never meant to put you through any of this when I steamrolled you into… us.”

I am.

Sorry.

I unleashed the chain of events that brought us here. I’m responsible for the scar on her forehead. I cost her the job she loves. I made it impossible for her to feel completely free in her own daily life, whether that means her outfit or her itinerary.

I know she’s everything I want, but is it right for me to want her to want me? Is it selfish?

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