Chapter Three

Zoe

"I f this is a booty call, you could've at least waited until I showered."

My fist twitches, violence running along the ridges of my knuckles like electricity.

"I'll admit." Miles leans his slack-pant-clad hip against the doorway. He's ditched the jacket, giving me a full view of the white dress shirt halfway haphazardly unbuttoned. "When I imagine you screaming my name so enthusiastically—and I have imagined plenty—it usually involves a lot more fun and a lot less clothing."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" That applies to his greeting statement, his actions in Monterrey and his general existence, really.

I don't wait—or ask—for permission before I brush past him and charge into his home. I'd never been inside, but I expect a mirror of my own.

Either way, I just walk forward unseeing, with thundering steps that bring me to a vast kitchen-living-room open plan. I amble down the makeshift corridor, framed by the marble island and a huge white sectional, towards the floor-to-ceiling window.

Miles follows me, unhurriedly. "I see you were eager to see me, too, my love."

Silly me, assuming he'd be at least a little concerned with our current predicament. Miles Blackstein is perpetually untroubled, likely the result of having a team whose job consists of cleaning up his messes.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I stop halfway to the window, forcing his abrupt halt with an index finger threatening to stab him in the chest.

In that spot at the base of his throat.

Miles smiles, dimples and all.

I despise those dimples, the evidence of his mockery of me. Every single time he makes me the butt of a joke, there they are, those damn indentations taunting me with all their cuteness.

People like Miles Blackstein do not deserve cute dimples—or chiseled jaws and cutting cheekbones and plush lips. They cause more devastation than any weapons, hypnotizing the masses. Because people trust dimples—it's one of those weird facts that science can't explain.

"I intentionally ignored you the first time you asked, love," he drawls. "Can't take a hint?"

"What the hell are you thinking?"

His thick lashes droop as his gaze drops down my body, a slow perusal that makes my oversized burgundy pantsuit feel much more suffocating than it is. "I'm not sure you want to know all the things I'm thinking."

I focus on the Charles River, picturing water sloshes to lower my blood pressure before I do something out of character.

I trip on the duffel he must have dropped on his way in, righting myself with a hand on the velvety couch—and refrain from kicking the bag.

"Can you be an adult for five fucking minutes? This is serious, Blackstein."

"I'm perpetually serious," he says.

Something tumbles on the couch while I check the time on my tired phone. Shit. I'll be late..

"You agreed you wouldn't say anything," he says like that explains everything.

I open my mouth to deny his statement-slash-accusation, and close it before uttering a word.

It's true. I was going to say things I had promised not to speak of—not yet.

I raise my chin. "And I didn't."

"Because I stopped you." He arches a knowing brow, long legs spread as he leans against the back of the sofa.

He's right. He knows it, he knows I know it. But I'll be damned if I ever say those three words out loud.

In my defense, I always keep my word. I'm strategic and calculated, deliberating before doing. Impulsivity and spontaneity often lead to problems that can be entirely avoided by five minutes of prior consideration—case in point, Monterrey-gate.

Yet this man seems to possess the uncanny ability to obliterate my good senses and reduce me to an entirely different woman. His words, his actions, and his face scratch against my skin like a match, burning away at my rational control until it's nothing but cinders.

"Yeah, and now apparently you kissed me! "

We're way past the hypothetical scenario of what I could have said. Right now, our un-hypothetical issue is much bigger.

"I stopped you. You were ready to spill everything, for millions to see." Miles seems keen on dwelling on what could have happened instead of dealing with what actually happened .

I want to scream that it's pointless.

"You were speechless, so it worked. Maybe I should've done that before," he muses in a low voice, more of a contemplation escaping the privacy of his thoughts before he catches it than a snide remark.

"People are calling us the American Iker and Sara Casillas!" My tone escalates again. Not that it had de-escalated.

His brow creases, and I think finally, finally, he understands.

But then he tilts his head. "Your eyes are bluer, and your hair is darker and curlier and prettier. I don't think they're together anymore, though."

"Well then, people might be right after all." I throw my hands in the air. "Seriously, have you lost your entire mind?" I can only hiss, poisoned with fury and all its friends.

"I'd like to think we all go a little crazy at some point. It's like a requirement of adulthood. At least, I hope I'm not the only one."

I don't even know what he's saying anymore. He is insane. He can't possibly inhabit the same realm as I do.

"Do you not understand this isn't some inconsequential joke? This impacts our lives—my life. We're not Iker and Sara. There's nothing between us, yet half of the country seems to see in us the new reason to believe in love."

I retrace my steps, with half a mind on kicking the damn bag, but it's gone—a giant gray dot on the white sectional .

"Half of the world would be more accurate," he hums, pulling back his legs to give me passage before stretching again.

It's not sarcasm, and he's not wrong, but his light tone snaps my last hold on reason. I never claimed to have a saint's patience, much less when it comes to Miles Blackstein, but this is unthinkable.

My nostrils flare with a resigned breath. I'm a problem-solver, but I refuse to solve his mess—even if I'm the person who'll end up under the rubble.

If he refuses to understand the magnitude of the problem—or simply doesn't care—let him deal with it.

"You know what? You made the mess, you fix it. And whatever your people come up with had better work well on my side."

"Or else?" he taunts like he can't help himself.

"You know what happens." I prowl to him with deliberate steps to add credibility to a threat I have zero intention of perpetrating. "The cat might escape the bag sooner than you intended."

I might not like him, but I wouldn't destroy his season. If there's one thing I respect about him—and it's literally one thing—it's his passion, dedication and work ethic. He's more talented than the average player, but devoted too.

"That's not really how the saying go—"

Is he seriously more bothered with my wording than my threat, empty as it is? My exasperation peaks.

Miles must see it in face, because he shuts up and raises his palms. And he smirks. "Let's keep our pussy locked up tight, then."

Yep, there'll be tears before the day is over—not mine .

For now, I focus all my efforts on ignoring him, a skill I've perfected over the last months—seemingly the only way I'll avoid becoming a felon before I hit thirty.

Nothing good will come out of his mouth. It never does.

"As I said, the world is convinced we're together. Let's just feed that story. Let's confirm without words what they already believe: we're happily in love. People love to see beautiful people in love."

And nothing good comes out of his mouth.

Only the confirmation that he has, indeed, lost his mind.

Sighing, I spin. I find his jaw locked with determination, no traces of his signature mischievousness.

"We're not dating. Ever." I enunciate like he's a child learning to pronounce his first words. I make sure he learns them right.

Miles is undeterred, speaking like he's given it a prior half-thought. "We'll pretend until all the fuzz goes away. I'm not proposing marriage." His smirk comes back. "Not before I'm sure you'll say yes, anyway."

It's slightly preposterous that he thinks I would willingly put up with this. But mostly, it's amusing that he truly believes we could pull off such a fa?ade—convince anyone that we're in love.

We.

Us.

Me and Miles Blackstein.

In love .

A perplexed laugh startles us.

It's me.

I laughed.

I'm laughing again .

I'm laughing until I'm cackling and my belly aches from exertion with the sheer absurdity of his proposal.

Miles stares, a little bewildered, when I peel my eyes open to leave without banging my face against a wall, not bothering to dignify his ridiculous proposal with an answer.

"Just… think about it, Zoe!" he shouts.

I shush him with the slam of door 39-04.

I see him before he sees me.

A smile graces my face as I serpentine through tables filled with chatter and laughter.

His back faces me, so I place one hand on each shoulder and shake as I whisper-scream, awfully dramatic, "Oh my Goood!"

Tobias Westwood startles under my palms, batting me away playfully with movements too swift for a man of his age. Accompanied by my heartfelt laugh, his creative curse is drowned in the chorus of a full house at our favorite Indian restaurant.

With a feigned frown, he places a palm over his heart. He keeps falling for these half-expected scares that have become a tradition of sorts over the years.

"Young lady, are you trying to kill me?"

Thank God I didn't inherit the dramatic tendencies from my father's father.

"Do you expect me to confess to attempted murder out loud, old man?" I cluck my tongue. "You taught me better. "

"A little demon with angel eyes," he says. His soft accent carries the undiluted affection that makes my heart ache.

"Grandpa, we've talked about this. If I were from hell, I'd be the queen-devil!"

His hand envelops mine, a warm blanket of comfort, his chuckles soothing like a burning fireplace on a chilly winter night. "Hi, sweetheart."

"Hi, Grandpa." I embrace him in a bear hug. "How are you?"

"One day closer to death but still breathing, last time I checked. And how are you, little bee?"

Settling across from his seat, I use his own words against him. "One day closer to death, still breathing last time I checked."

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he makes a show of shaking his head in faux disapproval. "Always had a smart mouth on you, ever since you were a little devil…"

"We both know this smart mouth is one of the many, many, many reasons why I'm your favorite grandchild," I fake a whisper.

We grin at each other like we've just shared a secret. Of course, I'm his favorite grandchild—I'm his only grandchild.

The waiter interrupts our grinning contest with the menus we already know by heart, though we rarely venture further from the traditional Murgh Makhani.

The starless night takes over the city sky as we rattle off a predictable order and catch up with inconsequent conversation until dinner is served—and it is absolutely heavenly.

"When were you planning on telling your old grandfather—whom you see every week—that Miles Blackstein is your boyfriend?"

I draw a sharp inhale that doesn't reach my lungs, clogged in my throat by the tender chicken. I cough and cough behind the red napkin until my eyes are blurry, somehow managing to keep my dance with death discreet.

Miles Blackstein will be the cause of my death.

With a greedy gulp of water, I try to soothe my burning throat as my brain splits, scrambling for an answer while instructing my mouth to chew-then-swallow, in that precise order, so I won't choke and perish before I finish the meal.

Then I shovel another piece of buttery chicken into my mouth, bite it thirty-two times until there's nothing left to do except answer. Even then, all I manage is, "What?"

"I'm old, sweetheart," he says as he tracks his fork spearing food. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't have time for subtleties anymore."

Truly, I'm not at all surprised.

Of course, Tobias Westwood is aware of the whole shit-show—he probably witnessed it live and in HD. The source of my passion for football— not soccer, as any proud Englishman like himself would announce—Grandpa Toby wouldn't miss the final game of an international tournament, even if he supports the rival team.

What does understandably surprise me, though, is that he, too, believes the not-kiss. As if he doesn't know his granddaughter at all.

My back straightens and squares my shoulders against the wooden chair, waiting for the inevitable.

"One day, sooner rather than later, I won't be here anymore. It's been my biggest fear that I would leave you alone. You go through life convinced—convincing yourself—that you don't need anyone else—and maybe you don't need anyone else . But life is happier when it's shared with someone who adores and appreciates you. The burden is easier to carry when shared with someone who loves you."

We stare at each other, but we see different things. I see only blue eyes clouded with memories, he sees the love of his life—his late wife whose death destroyed him.

He wipes away the emotion with his knuckles, and the light that erupts from his sky-blue eyes is distracting.

"I'm happy you found your person. Someone who'll take care of you, so you don't have to be so damn strong all the damn time. I know Miles will."

I blink.

I think I do, at least.

But his words are a sucker punch swinging from the deepest pit of love. It hits harder than whatever I anticipated, steals my breath, scrambles my senses.

I blink again, look at my dearest grandfather. The soft set of his lips curves with peace, calm wrinkles frame the light in his irises like the weight of a dark veil I never knew existed has lifted.

My mouth opens with all the things I want to say—the truth, the promises.

I'm not Miles's anything , but I'm happy.

I am happy.

It hangs open, my mouth, with all the things I can't say.

Because I can't muster the courage to break his heart. I can't bring myself to smother the beaming hope with something as fickle as the truth and replace his happiness with disappointment.

I'm selfish, greedy, already excusing my lies with his own greater good, even as I know, deep down, what I want is to bask in his happiness forever.

So I nod.

I fake a smile.

I say, "Guess who went to bingo night and won a million bucks?"

Servers bustle around, chatter narrates the instrumental music, pots clatter and aromatize the space. The yellow chandeliers hang above with unblinking eyes that judge and convict me of my crimes.

"I don't doubt you'd get competitive with old ladies." Grandpa chuckles, not at all fazed with the sudden change of topic, like he's picturing me screaming at the elderly.

I roll my eyes but keep an impassive fa?ade as I speak.

"Not me." I pat the corners of my lips with the napkin. "I did get a promotion though."

When I arrived at my cubicle this morning and found a Post-It signed by my boss with instructions to see him immediately, I expected a lot of things—unemployment, to name the first.

But he didn't utter a word about the scandal. His expression said enough about silent intentions as he made an offer, not particularly bothered to disguise the reason behind it—my recent rampant rise in notoriety.

"The sidelines are about to get their ass kicked," I say to Grandpa. "Any suggestions on how to spend that raise?"

"Since you mentioned it." He grins, his words seasoned with unrestrained pride. "I think I need a bigger TV. More memory space, too."

Grandpa's words haunt me all through dinner as I plaster a smile I only feel in brief intervals, and all the way home as I navigate the nightlife of Boston's ever-congested traffic .

It's nothing if not humbling to see myself through the sincerity of someone who loves me unconditionally.

The only person that knows me better than I know myself doesn't think I'm happy—or that I'm enough to make myself happy.

But I am. I know I am, and even that certainty doesn't convince him and relieve his fears.

The pressure in my chest morphs into something familiar that solidifies my questionable decision.

If being someone different is what it takes, I'll be whatever I must for the sake of his peace and happiness.