Chapter Four

Zoe

A fter listening to my grandpa dissect my life—and blatantly lying to the face of my favorite person on Earth—I should've gone home to plan how I would tell him the truth without breaking his hear. Then promptly torture myself for my lies.

Yet, I end the night at the door of the most insufferable man in Boston, the very reason I find myself trapped in this predicament.

A predicament that I seal by signing a verbal contract with nothing but three measly words.

"I'll do it."

It's almost absurd, if not tragic, how a single decision can be life-changing in ways one could barely fathom.

How one action can trigger a chain of events that leads to the unexpected.

How three little words can merge two fates into one, two hands forever intertwined.

Miles watches me like I'm an apparition. Struck silent, a sight I'd never seen before. A wicked part of me is delighted to reduce him to a fish mouthing for air. My temporary insanity was a little worth it, after all.

It takes him a while to snap his mouth closed, but for once I can't fault him. I barrelled into him with the force of a destructive tornado.

"Come in," he finally says.

The parallel indentations dig deeper between his brows when I obey without snarky retorts, a rare occurrence that attests to my current state of complete resignment to defeat and guilt-fueled self-hatred.

And just like that, we've broken a new record.

The longest we've ever gone without fighting.

My legs feel heavy as I enter the dim foyer, the low click of the door locking us inside together—Miles, me, and our lies.

Our future.

All lights are off except for a floor lamp at the end of the corridor are, like he had been getting ready for bed. It's not late, but I suppose athletes need their sacred hours of rest more than the rest of us common mortals.

The city lights, full of life, trickle into the living room from, casting an ominous glow over what we're about to do. Miles doesn't flip any switches—and I don't ask him to—an unspoken agreement that our sins must be discussed in the dark.

Barefoot and bare chested, Miles wears only a pair of charcoal sweatpants as he strolls to the kitchen. The sharp white light of the refrigerator outlines his powerful figure in cold contours before he shifts in the darkness. Opening the cabinet on the left, he grabs two tall glasses and fills them with his fancy bottled mineral water.

My eyes track every little movement, fluid but with a hint of tension, purposeful but with no purpose other than to buy time. No doubt he's processing the sudden development.

I accept the glass he hands me, mindlessly marching to the floor-to-ceiling windows to observe the splendor of the city at night like my feet are greedy for the last semblance of freedom before this lie shackles them to him.

What is freedom, anyway?

In the darkness, in the distance, flickering moonlight dances along the river shimmering soundlessly with serenity.

"Should I ask about the change of heart?"

The question pulls me back from my internal wanderings.

I drove home to the soundtrack of Grandpa's words on loop until all the reasons why this lie makes sense blinds me to the point I couldn't see how it wasn't the right option. The only option.

"You can, though you already know the answer. Doesn't concern you."

"Arguable. Whatever your motives are, they have to be strong enough to convince you. If they hold weight over you, they might be of importance for the credibility of this thing."

Much like earlier, Miles sits against the back of the long white sectional drowned in pillows, muscular arms folded across his wide chest, concealing a tattoo, ankles crossed at the end of his long legs. His own water, untouched, forgotten somewhere along the way.

"That's a whole lot of words to say you're nosy. My reasons are mine only, Blackstein," I say with finality.

As if that would matter to him.

This is Miles, after all. He thrives on pushing, pressing, plaguing me.

"Unfortunately, the pleasure of enjoying your company is not one of them."

I think a corner of his lip twitches, but it's too dim, the movement too quick, to be sure. He plants a hand dramatically across his chest. "Oh love, you wound me!"

My poor eyes roll, as they tend to when he's in the perimeter. "You'd have to care to be wounded."

The wider bulge of his shoulders is the only indication that he stiffens before he drops his arms, hands pushing on the sofa as he stands.

"I do care." Several slow strides, not lazy but measured, place him at my side. Looking out the large window, watching the city with faraway eyes, he says, "About you… what you think. Contrary to what you seem so adamant to believe."

I hum noncommittally.

He's too close, too unclothed. Any other person would be inevitably vulnerable.

Not Miles Blackstein.

Miles Blackstein looks powerful and imposing—makes me feel exposed and vulnerable.

Pointedly ignoring his semi-nakedness, I face Boston and take a breath to gather my thoughts.

A rush of him invades my lungs.

Of him.

I've noticed before, reluctantly, how delicious he smells, but we've never been close like this. In the darkness, in the silence, in the privacy of his home, without others to taint or tame it—or to distract me from it—I find an heady undertone of earthiness just under the oceans.

It enters my lungs, poisoning my bloodstream.

A yawn, long and loud, sneaks up on my entire body. I rest a shoulder against the glass, letting it support some of my weight. I don't have to wonder if it's possible to fall asleep while standing.

Tonight, I know I could.

"You're tired." His fingers tear through his damp hair, slicking it back. A few rebellious strands jump back to his forehead, eager to caress his face. "Let's talk more tomorrow. Over dinner."

"Let's not." My head tilts and rests against the window, too. "I do not intend to spend more time together than strictly necessary."

A sigh rushes out of him as he mimics my stance, stuffing his hands inside the sweatpants pockets, crossing his legs at the ankles.

I think he's tired too, if the shadows under his eyes and his attitude—or lack thereof—are any indication

"How do you want to do this?"

Raising the glass, I wet my lips, consider my answer.

The blatant truth is, I have no idea.

In my haste, I hadn't given second thought to how we'd navigate this… peculiar situation. I'm also severely unprepared. I wouldn't know how to navigate a real relationship, let alone convincingly sell a fake one.

Love and relationships have always seemed inconsequential. I'm aware they exist, but I haven't paid much attention.

"That's a question for you. You came up with this genius idea, so you tell me." I throw the ball back to his court, tipping the glass in his direction. "What do you suggest?"

"Okay." His head bobs, pleased with my answer—and my question. "The answer is simple." He shrugs, pinning me with a serious gaze. "We date. "

My very unladylike snort almost makes my head bang against the glass. "There's literally nothing simple about that."

I'd give it fifteen minutes until the need for an appointment with Annalise Keating arises.

Miles shushes me with the arch of an eyebrow. I comply, reminding myself that the sooner we wrap up this mad agreement the sooner I can leave.

"We go out on dates, post pictures on social media, you come to my games." I track his fingers brushing his lips in a pensive manner. "My manager and my agent are a little… displeased with this turn of events."

"Oh? Do they veto all the people you date? Do they line up the contestants and—"

When his lips purse, I wave my hand in the air like I'm erasing my words, and water sloshes in the glass. I don't have the mental battery to start an argument right now, and I really just want to leave. "Back to the logistics of this shitshow. Where do you propose we start?"

Miles glances out the window.

I wonder what he finds in the river.

If the same precise thing can be different to different eyes.

If two radically different people can look at something and see the same.

The fridge buzzes in the kitchen, humming as Miles straightens with some kind of resolution.

"Well, uh—" He scratches the nape of his neck, bringing his gaze back to me. "I was thinking maybe we could get to know each other?"

"Oh, I think I know more than enough already." I'm quick to reply. "And everything I know I learned against my will."

"Yeah." He deflates a little, revealing the moon, barely curtained by the clouds just above his head. "But do you, Zoe? Do you know me?"

The question throws me, strangely charged with some kind of urgency I can't understand.

I straighten and glance away. The numbers in the built-in glass ceramic stove say 21:22.

It's too late.

It's time to go.

Now.

"I think we can do it." Miles finally says, recovering the thread of our agreement.

"Not like we have another option. Thanks to you," I fire back, to remind us of what we are, why we're here. "I suppose we can go without strangling each other for a few weeks."

"I'd be more than willing to let you choke me, love." The familiar smirk comes back with full force. "All you have to do is ask. Doesn't even have to be nicely."

"See, when you say things like that, I get this itch to let the cat out of the backpack. Spill the coffee beans. Blow the whistle."

My lips pull up in a sardonic smile that doesn't last.

"Oh, but there are many much more pleasant things we could be blowing."

I breathe. Remind myself of the man I'm here for.

I'll endure this only until he's convinced I'm the same—just as happy. I would endure any torture until the day he dies, if needed—though chances are I might die first from this predicament.

I glare, hoping to transcribe that I am mentally giving him the finger. He chuckles, low and hearty, no meaning lost in translation .

"I'll do it," I say. "You're in charge of the coupley public appearances and pictures. Just text me location and time in advance, and I'll confirm my presence. No more than once a week. No PDA. No family things."

"Are you asking for my number, love?" he drawls. Then his brows snap to his hairline, like he finally catches on to something. "Wait, you're voluntarily putting me in control?"

Well, when he puts it like that… I question my own sound mind.

But how would I know how to sell this tale? If I want this charade to work—if I want to show my Grandpa I am as happy with some guy holding my hand as I am on my own—I might need Miles Blackstein's storytelling skills.

Not that he needs to know that.

"I'm not putting you in control. I have no intention of wasting any more of my time than strictly necessary on this shitshow." I give him half of the truth. "But I won't let you dictate or push me around."

Before I think anything of it, I poke the ink on his ribcage as I speak, willing the words to penetrate his stubborn skull through the warm, bare chest so he knows how serious I am.

A rush of air rushes from his parted lips. I get a glimpse of the shadows that eclipse his eyes before they snap down to my finger.

I look down too, realizing I'm currently touching him.

It's the first time I've initiated physical contact with Miles Blackstein.

With the pad of a finger, I might as well have broken the barrier of the time-space continuum for how we stare at it.

I draw back like he's just burned me, while he watches the tattoo like I just inked my fingerprint onto it .

"Every idea will be pre-approved." I tuck my hand under my crossed arm, shooting him a withering glare. "So don't even think of coming up with some shit to embarrass me or get some laughs at my expense. I won't be a joke to you."

The shadows have vanished by the time he looks up, replaced by something disturbingly similar to a kicked puppy—which I also don't understand. I do, however, decide I must kick the puppy once more.

"Which reminds me, no other women. Or men. Anyone. I won't be a joke to the worl—"

"There's no one else I want," he says with unwavering eyes. "I would never do that. If you don't trust anything else, trust this. I wouldn't risk my career."

I nod once. Of course he wouldn't jeopardize his career. He doesn't hate me that much, not to the point of self-sabotage.

Considering this impromptu meeting as finished, I start to leave, pausing at the island to set down my glass right next to his.

One half full, the other half empty.

"Zoe?"

Something in my name beckons me to look back at him.

Standing shadowed in the starless night, Miles is quite the painting. A fallen angel holding on his hunched shoulders the weight of the world that stretches behind him.

"I'm sorry."

It's barely a rasp, a voice I don't recognize. I almost want to spin and look around to see if another person has been in the room this whole time when I thought it was the two of us.

"For touching you without your consent. I—You—" It's him. I see the words leaving his lips as they purse and stretch to form them, but I don't think I see him. "I hope you know why I did it. I need you to know I never meant to force myself on you or anything like that."

Miles pins me with a serious gaze, his face devoid of all the things that make him Miles Blackstein. The shine that makes his gray eyes silver, the mischief that tickles his cheeks, the mask he wears for the world.

"I should never have touched you without your consent. It wasn't right—circumstances or not, there is no justification for what I did. I'm sorry," he blows out again, another sharp breath.

For all his many, many faults, being a predator or a pervert is absolutely not one of them.

I scramble for something, but sentences are hard to derive from the mess of my thoughts. One thing is clear, though. "Yes, you shouldn't have. I appreciate you acknowledging that."

Then, I leave him alone to be swallowed by Boston's beauty beyond.

I'm fucked, for more reasons than the hundreds I can list in my head.