Chapter Eleven

Zoe

I 'm a girl on a mission.

A mission I tasked myself with, but a mission nonetheless.

I'm deeply committed to it, too.

Avoid any and all contact with Miles Blackstein, at all costs.

Unparalleled master at avoidance, I've been rather successful, thus far, going strong on the fifth day in a row.

And then, a knock on my door.

I'm tempted to stay quiet in hopes he'll assume I'm not home and go away—in the name of the success of the mission, of course. It would be futile, though. He seems to have a keen sixth sense attuned to my presence.

My Jeep parked in the garage right beside his car would probably give me away too.

In slow tiptoe-steps, I make my way to the door, wishing I could delay this confrontation one more day.

Judge Hopkins, also known as dearest Grandfather, didn't take long to return to his luxurious retirement hotel—two hours more than enough to leave behind a trail of broken beliefs with the echo of words spoken in private.

I'm afraid those words that didn't belong to my ears will be in his face, demanding I stop ignoring them.

Instead, tulips greet me. Countless stems, green and slender, erupt in a rainbow of white and pink petals.

"Hey, lo—" His greeting is cut short by a troubled forehead. "What's wrong?"

My attention is stuck on the flowers, incapable of deciphering the meaning of his question. "Huh?"

"Where are your bees?"

"What?"

"You always wear your bees at home."

My bees. My… pajamas. He's asking about my pajamas? I officially abandon my short-lived tirade to decipher the man.

"On the bottom of my laundry pile. Why? Are you volunteering to do my laundry?"

His concern fades as the corners of his lips stretch up. "I can think of other fun chores, if you'd like me to find out the color of your panties."

Two can play this game.

"Joke's on you, Blackstein." I mirror him with a tilt of mine. "I don't wear panties."

The smirk drops with his jaw. He stares unblinking, then squeezes his eyes shut, tipping his head up to the ceiling to show me the shape of his Adam's apple with hard swallows.

"I can't tell if you're serious or just messing with me—or both." He directs to the ceiling, hoping answers will fall from the sky. "And somehow that's all the more torturous."

Welcome to my current dilemma, dude.

I reach for the bouquet. "Were the flowers for the bees? Were you hoping to promote pollination or something? "

He frowns at the colors in his hand, like he forgot them for a moment, letting my sarcasm go unnoted. "No. They're for you."

"Why?"

Here he is contributing to my quandary again with pretty flowers and observant questions and all sorts of gestures that aren't part of our deal, adding more stuff to the pile of actions I can't comprehend. A pile that sits considerably lower than laundry on my to-do list. I want to keep ignoring it, but he won't let me.

"I saw them and I thought of you." Miles doesn't elaborate further, as though it's that simple: flowers remind him of me—so he gets them for me.

So simple that it doesn't make sense.

I breathe in the floral aroma. "They're beautiful."

"Exactly." My eyes whip up to him only to find his are already on me, heavy with answers to questions I hadn't dared to voice. With things I desperately don't want to know.

And still, I can't look away.

He's the first to drop his gaze, dragging it down all of me once more. "Ready? Interesting choice of fashion, but it suits you."

Free from his gray spells, I frown at the outfit in question—another pair of ratty pajamas, these with panda bears, that survived from my teenage days. If there's an advantage to my small stature, it's the fact that I've never outgrown my favorite items—and I'll keep them until they're tatters.

Grateful for the merciful change of topic, I gladly go along. "Hilarious."

I trudge back inside, veering for the living room. When he follows, he finds me kneeling in front of the laptop on the coffee table. I feel his eyes on me as I save the document I've been working on all day, but only when he's in front of me, on the opposite side of the small table, do I meet his cloudy grays.

"I thought we'd agreed to go to the match as a date." His voice sounds lower, as though he's dipped it to reach me, given the asymmetry of our positions.

My knees tremble a little as I push myself to my feet, with the urgency to clarify the terms. "We established it would be one of our public appearances, yes."

"Yes," he says with a tug on my messy ponytail. "Our public appearances." My raven hair falls in long tresses around my shoulders with the faintest slosh. Then, his fingers are on the tangles, combing through them, and my argument melts into a moan I barely stifle. "Perfect."

But it isn't his work on my hair that he admires.

He blinks.

"Very in tune with the outfit. Let's go." He playfully turns to leave, giving me the time to analyze his fashion choices.

A white dress shirt fits his strong shoulders like it was tailor made for them, clinging to his abs in a way that leaves little to my imagination. Three buttons were purposely forgotten to allow me a peak at the sparse hair of his chest. The sleeves are rolled up to show me corded forearms and carved muscles—and the scrunchie he stole.

On his blessed feet, white sneakers, pristine, polished with the symbol of his sponsors in blue. The slight limp as he favors his left leg—a perk of the injury he's been dealing with for the past few weeks—is almost gone, unnoticeable to anyone who isn't analyzing the slightly faded stitches of the back pockets of his jeans .

When he swings his head in my direction, his grin is smug. Knowing.

My cheeks flame, caught red-handed, but I shrug. "Informed decisions regarding important matters such as the outfit for a key public appearance require due investigation on the dress code."

Big words sound an awful lot like an incriminating justification, so I scurry away before I inflate his ego further to avoid an accidental explosion.

Barricaded myself inside my room where his chuckles can't catch me, I allow a few breaths to compose myself, though I don't have an answer as to why my knees wobble.

The mirror gapes horrified at the mess he made of my curls. I look like I just rolled out of bed—or rolled around in bed. I apply some cream to tame the mane, giving them a squeeze to solidify the shape.

I don't own anything denim, so I select a black crop top with spaghetti straps that I'll pair with an unbuttoned white oversized shirt tucked into black wide pants. Finally, I resort to my collection of sneakers for a splash of color, picking a pair that's a tapestry of pastel pink, green and beige.

With a final breath, I adjust a strap over my collarbone tattoo and steel myself for what's coming.

I find Miles where I left him, agonized face bent over the book I've been reading.

"Why would you willingly read—" He stops as soon as his gaze darts to me.

"Happy to know you don't like horror. That's what you get for snooping."

"You look…" He stares at the chandelier, as though the answer hangs there. "Fuck." It was a mutter that wasn't meant fo r my ears, but they caught it all the same.

Unusually unsure, I inspect my clothes again, like I can see them through his lens. "Do I not look fit for the role?"

"No! No," he rushes to assure me. Four quick strides and his hands are on their way to my face. They stop mid-air, hanging for an interval before becoming fists he thrusts inside his pockets. "You look perfect. You're perfect, love."

I can't hold his eyes, a new wave of doubt swallowing me.

Perhaps this, all of this, isn't such a good idea. Every day, we seem to venture closer and closer into dubious territory.

Maybe it's been long enough and Grandpa has realized by now, especially after seeing us together, that nothing has changed in his granddaughter. That I'm as happy as ever.

But there's a little voice in my head that urges me to go on. The reminder of Nicholas's words. I can't fathom Miles lacking people in his corner, but no matter what lies I tell myself, a part of me wants to be there for him, too—like he was there for me when he was there for Grandpa, or when he confronted Judge Hopkins.

It's all part of our deal of deception, I remind myself. Just like today's public appearance at his team's game, while he's out due to an injury.

If I'm not careful, I might end up deceived, too.

In the stadium, Miles parks his car in an exclusive corner of the garage, reserved for team members only, jogging around the hood to open the door for me. We get the last glimpse of privacy as he towers over me, our last full breath before we dive into deception mode.

"I'm gonna hold your hand, now."

It's a question in the form of a statement, a request for permission that I grant with a raise of my palm. He takes it, dark grays under the sharp illumination never wavering from my blues.

The night is abnormally cold for June in Boston. Spring is making way to a fast-approaching summer, though the weather doesn't quite know that yet.

A brisk wind blows my hair into my face. Miles gazes down at me with a funny frown as I wiggle. Before I laugh at his expression, he tucks the unruly strands behind my ears with his free hand.

My body instinctively seeks his warmth, and he notices. Twirling me through our connected hands, Miles pulls me flush against the wall of his chest. His hand still clasped in mine, a locket around me resting against my heartbeat.

Then, sure feet attentively match mine in stride, guiding me through a collection of expensive cars toward the heart of the team.

I've spent countless hours in this stadium, but tonight is a first. Journalists aren't welcome in a club's lair. I'll be trespassing into hostile territory through the front door, armed with nothing but a smile and a lie.

The sporting director—Andrew Bass, with his brown hair was cut short and neatly trimmed, age tempering his receding hairline with gray—is the first to spot our entrance. His smile is wide, all sharp teeth and charm, but there's something about him that puts my defenses on alert.

"Well look what the cat dragged in!" He spreads open his suit-clad arms. "Miles B., it's time you brought your beautiful lady friend."

"His girlfriend," I correct him. Then I correct myself. "Zoe Westwood."

"I know who you are, my darling." He starts to lean forward, so I thrust out my hand. He eyes it before grabbing it between both of his. "You know what they say about journalists."

"I don't, actually." And I don't particularly care to find out, though I'm sure I will.

"We don't negotiate with terrorists, and we don't negotiate with journalists." He peppers his statement with a wink, a chuckle that awaits reciprocation.

It never comes.

As I reclaim my hand, I tip my head in contemplation. "Sounds more to me like a statement about you."

His face falls, but he recovers just as quickly. "In any case, you're always welcome here, dear."

"If you'll excuse us," Miles jumps in, just as eager to get away. "We're going to get settled in."

"Of course. Please act like this is your home."

I level him with a pointed stare, ready to reply.

This is Miles's home, for all intents and purposes. He's a member of this team. He belongs here.

And the fact that this man has decided to act like he owns the place, like he's granting us the charity of being welcomed in with the sole purpose of feeling some sense of superiority grates against my nerves.

A tug on my hand disrupts my thoughts as Miles leads me further into the den of the blues. With every step, the smell of the shift is stronger in the air.

There are stares and side-glances. The suspicion and the scrutiny are scorching fire as the many pairs of eyes search every inch of me as though they'll find the red cross that marks me as the master spy plotting to bring their club down.

I hold my chin up with the blank look drilled into my face from a young age, feeling a twisted thrill as I walk in like the hot villain who'd snatched their Prince Charming.

Mother knows best indeed.

I huff a laugh, scolding and shaking away the ridiculousness of my train of thought.

"What?" Miles stopped to look down at me.

"Just remembering this time I was told I looked like Mother Gothel." He tips his head, concern giving place to contemplation, as he seeks the character in me. "I was a little traumatized back then, but I think I might've grown to like the edge of being the hot villain."

"Yeah, the hot villain suits you." A heated glance, fleeting. "What am I?"

I don't hesitate.

"The side character who thinks he's so funny but is not."

"That's what makes him funny. So, all in all, one could argue he is funny," he argues, before catching himself and redirecting the argument. "Wait, no. That's not me, though. I'm the Prince. I certainly look like the Prince."

I make my eyes heavy to drag over him, much like he had. He doesn't squirm under their weight, instead seeming to feed off it.

"Am I sensing some animosity here? Aren't they usually fan favorites?" I step into his space to speak lower. With the height difference, I have to tilt my face up to talk to his dark grays. "I know the funny side characters are always the ones I like the most. "

"And so, I finally have the pleasure of meeting the elusive journalist who captured the heart and good sense of my favorite client." The intruder's voice pulls me back a couple staggered steps, Miles's hand still clasped in mine, steadying me. With a discreet tug, he drags me back into his orbit.

Intrigued at his sudden protectiveness, I shift my focus to a face that tickles recognition. The man is considerably shorter than Miles, smaller too. His slender limbs swim in an indigo suit that matches the color palette of our surroundings. Harry Potter frames round blue irises, cold and assessing, unlike Bass, gauging all my shortcomings and weak spots.

"I can see why he kept you a secret for so long." And that seals my inner debate on whether to be a hater or not bother.

"It has never been a secret how I felt about Zoe."

"Charles Cox." Miles' agent, I remember now, doesn't bother with further greetings. I'm glad.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

His eyes shrink to slits. "Excuse me?"

Miles's body shifts one almost imperceptible step, as though he isn't aware he's shielding me. I, on the other hand, am well aware of the steps I take to meet those blue slits.

"It's nice to meet you, I said. Very nice things I've heard about you, Mr. Cox ." I urge angelic innocence into the tilt of my lips. "Charlie."

His cold blues are loud in all the ways his voice can't be. "If you'll excuse us for a moment."

Without further notice, he walks away with the arrogance that he'll be followed.

Fuck him very much, but also, good riddance.

In the wake of passive aggressiveness, I search Miles's features for any traces of reticence. I'd jump in with an excuse to extricate him from the one-on-one with his agent. He does the same, reading me for any clues that I'll be uncomfortable on my own.

I give him a nod, unlocking our hands at last, surprised at how natural they felt together—like they fit.

I'm not eager to explore the den of vipers alone, but the last thing I'll do is ask Miles to hold my hand all night.

"It'll be just two minutes. Try not to miss me." He drags the knuckles I freed over my cheekbone.

I huff a laugh. "Such an arduous challenge."

As he hurries away, I let my gaze dart around to decide where to next. Circles close in on themselves with whispers, heads of smooth hair fluffed and curled to perfection set in my direction. The answer winks at me from the far corner of the room.

I hop on a barstool, greeting the cute bartender with a buzz-cut and tattoos peeking out from underneath his shirt all over his neck.

He grins back at me. "What can I get you?"

"Anything with a high alcohol volume."

"They got to you this quick?" The owner of the question takes a seat on the neighboring stool with no judgment, only curiosity—perhaps assessment.

"I would argue it's for their safety."

"You do look like you could freeze them with a look." She hums with an approving nod. "You're the newbie. No one likes the newbie. They're trying to figure out which kind of threat you are. Until they decide you're not one, though, I'm afraid you get the mean girl treatment."

"So this is the typical high school drama I've been missing?" I reach for the glass that Cute Bartender sets on top of a blue coaster. "Delightful."

"It's the first time Miles has brought a girl around. Most of them are nice. Some are nice but have… a crush. A dream."

"And Miles is a dream ."

Something tastes sour in my mouth. I wash it with a gulp of my drink.

She shrugs, running her fingers through her ponytail of long braids, deep brown skin glowing under the lights of the bar.

"Who are you here for?" I ask.

The bartender tops off her glass, and she lifts it. "The free drinks."

I arch a brow as she takes another sip, awaiting her answer.

"Gus," she relents. The goalkeeper. "My mother married his uncle," she clarifies, avoiding eye contact for the first time to fiddle with the stem of the glass. My journalistic curiosity is sparked but I refrain from prodding.

"Zoe." I tip the tumbler in her direction.

She hits with a click. "Aaliyah."

We smile as we dip our toes in alcohol, our toast cut short by a haughty voice.

"Well, hello."

Aaliyah and I share a look before turning our attention to the blonde.

"Hello," I return simply.

I swivel on my stool to face her, presenting her with the perfect angle to assess me. I don't think I passed.

"So you're the famous girl Miles has been pining for. Underwhelming."

I mirror her, though no trace of disgust or disdain filters through my features, only boredom and apathy. It seems to kindle her contempt.

"Are you not going to answer me?" She bares perfect white teeth at me, twirling a straight lock around a pointy nail.

I wait one, two, three seconds before giving a slight tilt to my head. "I didn't hear a question in there."

Aaliyah remains in the corner of my sight, content to sip her drink with keen attention and mild amusement. Long-legged blondie flares her perfectly symmetrical nostrils, which I'm only slightly envious of, but her gaze snags on something above my head and her sneer twists into a smirk like the cat caught the canary.

A beautiful brunette with the longest lean legs engages my boyfriend in a cheery conversation. Her shy smile tells a story her bold hands don't corroborate as they greedily grope his bicep. Miles flashes his dimples and she swoons. Like he's the sun, everyone who enters his orbit is destined to melt at his feet.

So that is why his two minutes turned to ten or twenty.

"Let's see how long you can keep his attention," blondie, the viper, concludes victoriously.

Instead of rising to the bait, I give her the practiced smile I perfected over the years—icy and unflappable. The one that tells her I have many fucks to give—none to her.

When the reaction she expected doesn't come, her demeanor falters, mouth twitching, struggling to hold the tilt of the corners.

Just then, a possessive arm snakes over my shoulder as Miles sidles up to me, breathing a kiss in my hair. An unspoken hello, or perhaps an apology.

The relief he brings isn't assuaged by the fact this arm was recently busy being mauled by unbelonging hands .

"Kylie!" The cheer in his greeting grates on my ears. "I trust you're giving my girl the famous welcome to the family."

She blanches at the knowing inflection, but the grin that erupted for Miles doesn't wither. "Sure. Yes. Uh—It's Quincie, though."

I thank all the times I was reproached as a little girl, all the years spent learning to school my face, or I'd be gasping, probably choking on my tequila. Much like Aaliyah, to my side, who abruptly swivels to the bar to conceal her near-death.

"Oh? Are you sure?" His question sounds so earnest he almost fools me.

"Uhm? Yes?"

He nods like he understands. "Kylie is a beautiful name."

She smiles even though it appears to not be her name. "Thanks."

Miles spins my stool to lock our eyes. "Come on, love."

On my feet, the difference is brutal. Quincie has a handful of inches on me, just as many more on her heels—yet I don't feel inferior.

Always the short one in the room, it took me years to not feel like the small one—to not feel the need to compensate with shoes that murdered my toes. Perhaps other women like the hard-earned empowerment of the shoes. I do, too, on particular occasions. But most of the time, they serve as a painful reminder of a young girl trying too hard, of falling short in every way, metaphorical and literal.

Pettiness is a part of me that never wavers. I wave my fingers at (apparently) Quincie and snake my arm around Miles to slip a hand inside his pocket, singsonging, "See you around, Quinbee . "

The huff of my fake-boyfriend's smothered laugh fans my cheek as his hand cups my shoulder, securing me against him. The sudden urge to slap it away makes my skin heat under it.

From the corner of my eye, I see his white shirt—and phantom red nails, touching, trespassing.

I want to erase their trace and their taint. I want to strip him of that shirt immediately, perhaps incinerate it like it's contagious.

Oblivious, the man in question contentedly maneuvers us to a flourishing table with a variety of foods, selecting two small bowls of fresh fruit slices.

"What are you doing?" I extricate myself from him, trying to conceal my hiss behind an adoring smile.

Keyword: try.

"Is that a trick question?" His puzzled gaze swings between me and the fruits. "I'm eating a—Wait, is this about the peach? This is not an attempt at foreshadowing or a subliminal message or anything, I promise."

He interprets my stunned speechlessness as acceptance of his ridiculous reply, slipping his free hand to the small of my back to guide me beyond the sliding doors. With a little over twenty minutes to the start of the game, the stands are starting to look less empty by the minute.

We descend a couple of steps, electing first-row seats right behind the veranda that secures the second floor. Miles sits precisely in the direction of the midfield line, procuring a perfect view to the entire field. Hooking his forefinger in the loop of my pants, he tugs me between his spread legs, trapping me between him and the balcony.

"Are you on drugs?" I hope I don't sound hopeful, but drugs would be the answer to all my questions .

"Not at the moment." His frown drops to the fruit, which he placed on the seat to his right. "Unless you slipped something into my peach. The pineapple is for you, though, so be aware of that."

I catch the faint trace of red lipstick on his face—lipstick I'm not wearing.

"I don't need you to protect me, Blackstein." I'm not sure which occasion I'm referring to. Tyrannical grandfathers, creepy bosses, hostile agents, or mean girls. Maybe all of them.

I pet the cheek that greeted the beautiful brunette with a heavy hand until his large palm covers mine, stills it. "I know. I've never done it because you need me to. I do it because I want to."

All my truths are getting tangled, an intricate web of lies—infinite threads that tie my hands and render me useless.

But right now, all I can see is red.

I want to erase those words. I want to erase the red nails, red lipstains. I want to erase so many things I'm not sure I know all of them.

I free my hand roughly to fists the lapels of his shirt.

"Don't."

And I yank his mouth to mine.