Chapter Seven

Zoe

B oston's blue team wins again.

After the greatest achievement of their history—an international trophy—they're on a winning streak in the national league, close to securing a spot in the play-offs. Their season is taking the proportions of an epic movie, with their beloved star striker as the protagonist.

Miles Blackstein, the team hero, is aiming to top his best numbers, breaking records left and right. Tonight, to nobody's surprise, he was one of the best on the field: although he didn't score, he made the final passes for two of his team's three goals.

Oddly pointy fingers poke my ribs. I step away and adjust my work-backpack like it might protect me from future stabs.

Then, I send Liam a glare that could freeze the Sahara.

"There was smoke coming out of your facial orifices," he says, attempting to justify his crimes. "It was a matter of public safety."

We're leaving the press hall, a small corner tucked in the opposite side of the locker rooms, to preserve the teams and club's privacy.

"Stop inserting the word ‘orifice' into every sentence," I instruct, aware it'll fall on deaf ears.

"I know it freaks you out." Liam manages to shrug as he carries all his equipment.

"It does not freak me out. It conjures mental images I don't appreciate."

The navy-blue walls have recently been adorned with a film of the international odyssey. A shot of the starting eleven followed by the highlights of the match such as a picture of Miles and the net, fans faded in the background. His left leg prepares the shot that would score the winning goal, name shining with immortality above the famous number 9. He looks carved by the hands of the Gods; the Discobolus in blood, bone, and beauty.

The film climaxes with the award ceremony, the trophy enveloped in white and blue confetti.

"Oh, look!" Liam's voice—and pointy nails—grab my attention. "Speaking of orifices…" he enunciates each letter of the last word, mouth shaping and reshaping in exaggerated motions as he inclines his head in the opposite direction.

Warily, and just as unsubtly, I spin in search of whatever he's referring to.

The press and private halls are on opposite sides of the floor, coming face-to-face in a perfect intersection intercepted by the wide lobby that sprouts from the main entrance and stretches to the tunnel that ends in the turf.

From the private premises emerges an unusually stoic-faced Miles.

Many people mill around in the foyer, press, club employees, families… I feel their gaze like a pendulum, swinging be tween us and scorching my cheeks.

Unlike me, Miles doesn't seem surprised to find me here. His strides, long and purposeful, don't erase the distance; they consume it entirely, in less time than I needed to prepare myself for what's coming.

Because, next thing I know, he's on me—his body glued to mine like that's where it always belonged.

He gently lifts the long curls that curtain the sides of my face, letting it fall on my back instead, on its way to drape the weight of his arm on my shoulders and pull me close to flush our bodies together. And then his mouth brushes the crown of my head in the softest kiss I've ever been given.

I'm still staring at him, my mouth agape in contrast to his serene smile, when I feel his hand travel down my side. It lands, possessively sprawled from rib to hip. Warmth seeps and spreads over the spot that's tender from my colleague's nails.

I should order him to move away, but my focus is stuck in that hand—and how massive it is. Like if he splayed it over my stomach, the base of his palm just above my panties, the tips of his fingers would reach the curve of my breasts.

"Hi, love." The nickname drips with intimacy from his charming dimples, tearing me out of my haze.

Goddamn, he's a good actor. For a second, I almost believed his act.

"Hey," he addresses Liam, extending his free hand. But his smile takes an edge. "I'm Miles. The boyfriend."

"Liam. It's a pleasure to meet you."

My fists flex around the straps of my bag, ready to smack his throat until he chokes on the innuendo. At least, it's highly effective in killing the weird palpitations that had been just making my belly quiver.

Miles wears his smile like a weapon. Not a blatant warning of violence. A subtle will make you drop your panties for me promise.

But it's not his traditional smile. This one is as sharp as a dagger pointed directly at my work-partner.

"Thanks for looking after my girl, out there."

My burgundy nails dig deeper into the straps, and Miles tilts his face down as though he heard the crack of faux-leather straps.

"I know you don't need anyone else to take care of you. That you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, love. But it's nice to know you've got someone watching your back."

"Aw."

I don't have to look at Liam to know he's pouting.

"Adorable. But let's be honest, she takes care of me. Like, I'm pretty sure if we ever need to kick someone's ass, she'd be the one doing all the kicking. Not just figuratively."

Miles's smile hasn't wavered from me, softening further and further into the one I know until he declares, just for me. "That's my girl."

I think I gape—or I gasp.

Miles burrows me further into him. "What time will you be home?"

The man sweats for a living and never once has he smelled anything but fresh and warm, all at once.

Like ocean air in the summery sunshine.

The unthinkable happens, and, embarrassingly, I stutter, "I— Wha—"

It's like my thoughts trip over themselves, tackled by the fury and frustration he pours directly into my bloodstream .

I clear my throat and try again—one single syllable. "Why?"

"I'm cooking you dinner. Come home soon?"

I scramble for answers.

Why does he look different from this angle?

Which sea does he smell like?

It's dizzying and disconcerting, his cologne, and it should be studied because it must be laced with some modified version of chloroform—the only explanation as to why I'm numbed into silence.

"If you're worried you won't be able to micromanage me from home, I'm sure you'll find a way," Liam deadpans. "Or is your internet connection not good enough?"

Something glints like the metal of a knife in Miles's silver irises every time he glances at Liam. "I happen to have excellent Wi-Fi. You can finish work while I cook. I'll wait for you."

Wait.

Alone time with him won't help us in our common goal.

I rack my brain for a plausible excuse that I don't need. I can simply say no.

Why don't I simply say no?

Why do I nod instead?

Miles bends to brush a soft kiss on my cheekbone. "Good girl."

My eyes close as a reflex when his breath whispers against my skin. It tingles as my body reacts accordingly, rejecting his touch.

Cold air replaces his warmth, and when my eyes open, he's almost out of sight.

"Aw. So that "—Liam shoots a pointed look in the vicinity of my fake-boyfriend's ass—"is why you were lingering. Understandable. And delectable."

"I did not linger." I compose my hair. "And that doesn't make sense."

"It rhymes and it's true!"

"You're prettier with your mouth shut," I say over my shoulder, pondering leaving him stranded.

A walk would provide the perfect opportunity to reflect upon his words or simply learn to enjoy the absence of his voice.

Without Miles, I'm unshielded, and the pointed stares sear my skin. If they're any indication, I'd say they believe our tale. Many wish they were in my place.

Little do they know…

We are nothing. A shimmering illusion, carefully curated to portray the ideal image of love.

My title will soon suffer the addition of two little letters, all the why 's he picked me twisting into all the reasons I wasn't enough to keep the most eligible bachelor on the East Coast.

The fairy tale whose ending was not happy or ever after.

By the time I arrive at The Lucilla, the moon has clocked in for its night shift. Like her, hours of work await me. Paragraphs to write, research to do, questions to prepare.

"Come in," Miles hollers the instant I touch the doorknob.

Scowling at it, I snatch my hand back like my fingerprint triggered an alarm that warned him of my presence before I announced it .

"You actually cooked." I stop behind the snowy sectional, watching steam rising from boiling pots.

Isn't this scene becoming a recurrence? In a matter of days, I've visited this house more times than I had in a lifetime.

Without turning from the glass-ceramic stove, he angles his face just enough to give me a glimpse of his frown. "That's what I said."

"I assumed it was part of the lie." I admit with a shrug.

My bag slides down my arm. I hike it up, leaning forward despite myself, trying to catch a glimpse of what he's cooking. My height fails me once again.

His face falls but he turns back to the pots. "Well, I'm not a jerk—"

"Arguable."

"I said I'd cook for you. Therefore, I'm cooking for you." He ignores my caustic retort.

Miles does it quite a lot—ignore my blatant rudeness. Unlike me, my pocket filled with registers of each time he was less than proper.

"I'm not hungr—"

"Sit down, love." Miles halts my lie, pointing the wooden spoon behind me toward the living room side of his open plan, still without turning. "Finish your work. Then we'll eat."

"Do not order me around." I straighten, clutching my backpack to keep my tone even. "And do not interrupt me."

"Yes, love."

And I fail. "Blackstein!"

The hand stirring the contents of an Inox pot briefly halts. He's finally listening, I think.

Then he tilts his indented cheeks to the ceiling—and he grins.

"I love making you scream. And I love it when you scream my name."

I'm particularly prone to flippancy when I'm mad.

And I'm furious a lot in his presence.

"Do you get off on embarrassing me?"

"I can assure you that embarrassing you was never my goal." The divots on his cheeks deepen as he watches mine. "I do like to see you blush, though."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I take one step forward, crossing to the kitchen space.

My internal temperature spikes to new records, and I'm not surprised my cheeks are red—justifiably so.

Like he sees the storm approaching, Miles secures the wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and turns down the stove.

"I was trying to do a nice thing for you," he says, giving me his full attention. "It's like you purposely misinterpret."

I'm at the island now, the last thing that separates his fury from mine, so I throw my bag on top of it. "I don't want nice things from you."

Instead of an answer, Miles gives me his back, washing his hands in the sink.

"Why was the bleached blond touching you?" He forcefully spurts soap onto his palm, taut muscles betraying his casual tone.

"What?"

The oven dings, and I can smell the underlying sugar beneath all the spices in the air. Vanilla.

"He touched you." His voice dips low, slightly muted under the flow of the faucet .

Liam. He means Liam.

"I see how the possessive act does add a nice, convincing touch to this farce, but tone it down a notch. Or knock it off altogether. Play it like you're the cool, confident boyfriend, and jealousy is beneath you."

The faucet whines under his punch as he turns it off and grabs a towel that stretches beneath his grip, barely drying his hands.

"Why are you so concerned about this guy's feelings? Why do you care so much?"

I slam my palms against the island, letting my bag tumble to the ground. In the distance, the boiling bubbles blabber louder as the steam condensates into a murky veil over the stove.

"Liam is my partner. I won't jeopardize our work relationship because you decided to host a dick-measuring contest on a whim."

Miles slams his hands on the other side of the marble, the sound muffled by the rag. He looks up at me and says between gritted molars, "He shouldn't be touching you without your permission."

"He has permission!" I don't understand why he looks like he's on the verge of a stroke, jaw so tight it makes my teeth hurt. "He's my friend . Hell, strangers touch you all the time and it has never bothered you."

Perhaps it's different as a public figure. Yet it isn't.

It's about the boundaries, respect.

"You still won't even let me hold your pinkie without trying to cut my hand out for touching you." His jaw jumps with every word, but otherwise he's still. So still it looks like he's a statue cut from marble .

"You're not my friend," I say.

"I don't want to be your friend, " he snaps.

"Good to know we're on the same page," I spit. Then I speak, slowly and evenly, in a tone that I hope delivers finality and doesn't leave space for a retort. "Now stop acting like a jealous jerk."

Miles looks at me like I'm asking him to stop breathing altogether.

Apparently, to him, being a jerk is as natural as breathing.

I retreat, resorting to pacing on my side. If I stare at his face—at the cutting angle of his cheekbones, the dark edge that sharpens his stormy irises—I might go mad.

Miles seems to share the sentiment. The faucet runs again, the flow of water furiously tapping his hands, spattering his white T-shirt.

We seem to have reached common ground, or a standstill, too heated to proceed and too heated to relent.

The growing smell of burning food fills the silence, settles in the air between us.

"Why did you interview Gus?"

The sudden subject change trips my pacing steps.

I face him again. "You mean, why did I do my job?"

"Why didn't you interview me?"

Miles Blackstein isn't sane.

I've always known it as a concept, but each time I experience his insanity, I lose grip on reason all over again.

"I sincerely hope you're fucking joking."

"I'm your boyfriend." He crosses his arms. "And as your boyfriend I should take precedence—or right of preference."

I brush my curls behind my back and flex my fists, shaking the itch to hit him .

I want to yell and curse and slam his pinkie-toe with the door.

"That doesn't mean whatever you think it means. In case you're unaware, I do not choose which players I get to interview." The team's communications departments select which players speak to the press after the matches. "Not that I'd choose you, if it were up to me."

Miles scowls like the simple notion hasn't occurred to him—or he simply doesn't like it.

He hasn't dried his hands this time, so the white cotton T-shirt turns transparent with water as he taps his own chest.

"You should interview me," he repeats. "Not any other guy."

Without further argument, he resumes stiffly stirring the pot, effectively dismissing me. Somehow, of all the bullshit he's said and done, that's what angers me most.

Irrevocably seduced by the food, my stomach tries to steal the decision from my hands.

It can't.

I'm nothing if not stubborn and prideful to the point of conscious self-destruction.

So I stomp out of here.

I slam the door, effectively silencing his call.

And I try to remember the reasons that led me to the conclusion that putting myself through this was a good idea.