Chapter Two

Zoe

"H ey! Hands off."

I wield my fork like a sword across the round table. "I don't share my food."

"Alright, Joey Tribbiani!" Liam dramatically throws his hands up in surrender. "No need to stab me over one fry."

My phone beeps, dragging my scowl to it.

I ignore it.

It beeps again.

Two days and it hasn't yet tired. I turn it face down on the table.

With each ping, the throb in my temples escalates. The smart move would be to switch to silent mode—preferably, turn it off—but I can't bring myself to, on the off-chance I might miss an emergency call.

"I solemnly swear I will not steal a single fry," Liam mocks.

Untamed dirty-blonde hair curls frame his face and amber eyes that always glint with the levity with which he faces life—and the amusement he draws from teasing me.

"You have murder in your eyes," he explains. "Just covering all my bases, since there's a rumor you collect your enemies' bones under your bed."

I do feel liable to kill someone .

Someone .

I refuse to, however, before I learn how to dispose of a body—along with which is the most painful method of murder.

"They keep my dreams interesting," I hum.

"Speaking of interesting things…"

Liam Lawrence is my camera operator; we've been working together for almost a year, so I know him well enough to expect what comes next.

"When were you going to tell me about your dirty little secret?" He aggressively raises his suggestive eyebrows.

His dirty-blond hair looks fairer against the sun shining from the large window of the quaint burger house, overshadowed by the tall buildings of the city.

I shovel one, two fries in my mouth, chewing them meticulously. In silence.

The tilt of his grin grows around his glass of water. I know I won't escape his jokes. I can only hope he gets it all out of his chest, otherwise my workdays will be a little more uncomfortable.

"Just say whatever it is you want to say, Liam." I stab my veggie burger and cut an impeccable square.

"I have nothing to say. I'm not surprised. All that sexual tension between you two had to be worked off sometime. It was bound to happen." He chuckles, but his response comes so matter-of-factly he might as well be reporting the latest on the stock market. "It's only a wonder it took so long."

I don't dignify the preposterous assumption with an answer, though a stout denial sits on the tip of my tongue. I've never entertained rumors—and I'm not about to set a precedent.

Being the granddaughter of a founding father of the historic Boston Football Club objectively put me in a delicate spot in the soccer world. On top of that my father is a well-known journalist on the other side of the pond—so it's the perfect recipe for a good dose of animosity at work.

Though I never resorted to my last name to open any doors for me, I can't be sure if it ever was the key to unlock them. That little seed of doubt often sprouts into late midnights wondering whether all I am is my last name.

Regardless, come morning, I always put on my professional pants and throw myself into my work. If I can't know for sure the motive behind the opportunities I've received, I can confidently say I excel in every single one.

Which is what I did, when all my colleagues—including Liam—decided to spend the night out before the final.

The gluttonous Marianne, who was meant to conduct the flash interviews, deemed it an ideal occasion to eat shrimp. Long story short, she succumbed to a serious case of food poisoning, and her microphone fell into my hand.

Thus, after three years of working for the biggest sports channel in the country, fresh out of college as an intern in the soccer department of the Boston offices and slowly climbing the ladder, my first tango on the sidelines happened on an unassuming tropical Saturday night in Monterrey, Mexico.

I interviewed Coach Brown, Sporting Boston City's head coach. I interviewed Coach González, the losing team's head coach. Then the voice of the defeated team, captain Manu Castillo. And finally, the voice of the triumphant team—Miles Blackstein, the best player on the field .

Everything was going flawlessly—all I had to do was congratulate Miles Blackstein, hand him his award, nod at his words, and in three short minutes, it would've been over. Yet the knot in my stomach only twisted tighter as the interviews progressed.

I don't consider myself camera-shy, but I'm also not a fan of surprises and unforeseen circumstances. Plus, something about sharing a camera with Miles Blackstein gave me something akin to symptoms of food poisoning .

He seems to unbalance me—to throw me off balance. It's like being on the edge of a cliff, the possibility of falling or being pushed—or jumping—always heavy in the air.

Unlike a fairy tale in which the prince's kiss awakens the princess, his skin froze me completely. My bones turned to stone, my mind fogged, and I was rooted to the floor as he whispered his plea.

Miles is not the prince everyone seems to think. His blinding smile in the center of a ridiculously attractive face has women, men, everyone of all ages panting after him. To them, his arrogance is humor, his vanity, charm.

My cheeks still tingle, every square millimeter still on edge with the residue of his touch I can't scrub away. His kiss was poison. It never even happened, and yet it seeped and sank deep into our lives, leaving no corner or cranny untouched.

In reality, he's the poison, the spindle, the damnation.

My tachycardic phone startles me, disperses the spiral of my thoughts.

For the umpteenth time, I curse Miles Blackstein's existence.

I would keep cursing him, but I'm distracted by distinct prickles in the nape of my neck .

A little kid sidles up to me, staring through blond eyelashes. I know nothing about kids, so I can't tell his age—or who he is.

I chance a look at Liam, but he seems to share my interrogation.

"Hi?" I smile at the child.

Has he mistaken me for someone else?

"Hi." He looks like a cartoon, tiny voice adorably shy and the cutest pink in cheeks as opposed to his navy-blue shirt.

Oh.

Oh.

"Can I take a pic with you?" he says.

For the first time in my life, I stutter. "I—Uh—Why—Uh—"

Why would he want a picture with me?

Looking around as though I'd find answers hanging from the chandeliers, I find more eyes studying me. An older woman's head swinging like a pendulum catches my attention. Following her line of sight, I watch her eyes dart from my face to the wall-mounted TV.

Because my face is on that TV. Next to Miles Blackstein.

But he's massive, and I'm tiny, and somehow, his whispered plea has become a kiss in full HD.

At least, according to some morning show's gossip column, where it plays on loop.

As if on cue, my phone screeches again.

And I think it happens again.

I think I freeze when reality hits me with the magnitude of an earth-splintering earthquake.

I think my lips twitch and my head bobs, because the little kid huddles closer and smiles up at the flash from the hands of a woman I never saw approaching. It blinds me but I think I babble gratitude I can't hear through the pounding in my head.

I look up at the screen.

I wasn't even kissed, and I already know I've been fucked .

My fingers curl inside my hand, an iron fist falling repeatedly, relentlessly, on the white door adorned with four golden digits.

39-02

"Open up! I know you're in there."

I don't care that I'm almost strident.

Two apartments inhabit the thirty-ninth floor of The Lucilla, a forty-four floor high-rise in Back Bay. I'm lucky, oh so lucky, to have inherited one of the doors.

I used to love it. Found, in the silence, the freedom of being me.

Until Miles Blackstein brought his life to the next door.

His arrival eviscerated the peace, and his presence became a vacuum that sucked every last sliver of serenity on this floor.

Working in the same world, with similar schedules and calendars meant our paths cross more often than any neighbors in the city have any business to.

"Blackstein!"

My impatience grows like weed around my fist. It itches with the need to hit something again.

When the door finally creaks open, even a sliver of the bright blue of his foyer crashes against the dull hallway where the only light pours from floor lighting embroidered where white walls meet the gray floors.

"Hello, love."