Page 93 of The Kiss of Deception

“No. I never gave him a chance to. Even if he had, I’m not sure I would’ve believed him. At that point, my mind had been made up. Whatever he could have said, I would have just seen it as an attempt to fool me.”

“I guess I can understand that. Kinda. You do have the stubbornness to hold a grudge.”

I grin proudly, knowing very well she didn’t mean it as a compliment.

“Remind me to not leave loose ends when I cross you. Back to your fucked up love story.”

I bark out a laugh. “It’s a story, alright.”

“You hated him. He didn’t like you. Or did he?”

“Every single time we saw each other, he made fun of me. I was always a joke to him.” I straighten, carefully keeping any hurt from my voice. “Yeah, I think it’s safe to say he wasn’t my biggest fan.”

“So, how do two people who can’t stand each other end up making out on TV?”

I nibble at my bottom lip, measuring my next words. This is where my honesty has to stop. I won’t tell her a secret that isn’t mine to tell—one I promised to keep.

“He actually never kissed me that day. It just looked like that on camera.” Liam always got my best angles. “He said something that upset me during the interview. As payback, I was going to say something… bad. I guess he saw it coming, so he hugged me to shut me up before I could kinda potentially ruin his reputation. Then, he begged me not to.”

“Damn girl, you are a spiteful, vindictive bitch.” Her words come with a snicker and stamp of approval.

She throws her head back, palming her forehead. “You guys are worse than a rollercoaster. I’m getting dizzy just listening.” She checks the smartwatch on her wrist, a hint of delicate ink peeking from under the pink band. “Or maybe just hungry. It’s been three hours since I ate my cereal. The least you could’ve done was bring popcorn if you planned on dumping all this information on me.”

I roll my eyes at her. “You get sugar after I get that advice you promised.”

Camila holds up a finger. “I never make promises.” Then another. “I wouldn’t trust my own advice.” And another. “And I never negotiate with terrorists.” Out of nowhere, she produces a pack of chocolate-chip cookies. “I steal from them!”

Her mouth opens to free a loud laugh and start munching on the chocolate. She’s wearing a fuchsia tank-top tucked inside white cutoff shorts—I can’t fathom where she could have hidden the cookies.

“I’m gonna be honest with you. And remember you asked for help, so you don’t get to get mad at the messenger.” My knuckles go white around the wheel as I brace for her blunt honesty. “All I’m hearing is miscommunication and unresolved sexual tension.”

I turn so fast I almost pull a cord in my neck—or throw us into a pole. My first instinct is denial, but even I wouldn’t believe myself now.

“You should talk to him, Zoe. Tell him.” I widen my eyes at her, to which she answers with a lifted shoulder. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

“He might like me back,” I deadpan.

She sends me a meaningful look from behind her cat-eye sunglasses. “You have nothing to lose. If he doesn’t feel the same, you end this thing. You were always going to end it anyway, right? But if he likes you, Zoe—and I would bet all my money and my virgin ass that he more-than-likes you—well, it would change everything. And nothing. Because you’re basically already dating without the perks.”

“Why would you bet your virgin ass on anything? And what would I do with your virgin ass?”

“That’s how sure I am he’s not faking his feelings.” She squeezes my hand on the shifter. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

“And how is that, Camila?” My foot hits the brake pedal a little too hard to stop at an intersection. “With star emojis in his eyes? You’re a romantic. A dreamer. I love that you are. I hope you never stop. But this shit only happens in movies.”

For a small second, her face shuts down. Then, we enter the tunnel to cross the river. “You want logic? Is that what you need? Alright, then.” Her tone is sober, serious. “This thing started—what? Six months ago?”

“Three.” And 16 days. Who’s counting?

“Three months,” she repeats. “Four months, and you two haven’t found a moment to put an end to it? Have you even talked about it?”

We haven’t. All our conversations are short and similar. Miles insists the time isn’t right yet or makes a joke and the conversation goes a different direction. I haven’t pushed the subject—because I’m not ready for the end, I finally admit to myself. “Well, no—”

“Instead, in four months, he’s bought your dream home in record time and handcrafted it to your tastes. He went mad when you were attacked, Zoe. You don’t fake that. He’s taking care of you—happily. Because he wants to, not because he feels obligated to. From an outside perspective, let me tell you it looks like you are both dragging your feet. Actually, no. You’re walking in the opposite direction of your plan—and neither of you seem keen on changing that.”

I can’t counter that. There’s nothing I can prove to my Grandpa, or to myself, that hasn’t been proven in the past. Whatever reason I might spew to justify the fact that I’m still here, on my way to meet the fake-mother-in-law I invited to town, is a poor excuse.

Somewhere along the way, Grandpa became an excuse to stay, not the reason.

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