Chapter Nine

Zoe

O ur second public outing as a couple arrives only three days later on the occasion of Miles's best friend's birthday.

I would rather be anywhere else, like stuck in traffic during rush hour without my playlists, but at least there's free cake to look forward to. Hopefully. With professional athletes and their rigorous diets, one can't be sure.

Nicholas Hale is the captain of Boston FC, my fake-boyfriend's rivals—currently, anyway—and, apparently, the owner of a corner brownstone beauty in historic Beacon Hill.

It's a little hard to reconcile the stoic man with the welcoming house before me. In my misconceptions, he lived somewhere off in the woods, secluded to the world to appease his allergies to humans and friendly faces.

Impressive, the way our minds fabricate entire stories based on something so shallow as a first impression.

Seven weathered stairs end at a bright-red door. The vivid greenery of a tall potted plant greets visitors on each side of the door, looking as healthy as the rainbow of flower boxes cascading from every window. I keep my distance, afraid I might murder them with my mere aura.

A girl I don't recognize stands right in the middle of the sidewalk, all white clothes and the messiest messy braid—if it can be called that. With the way she scowls at the pots, I suspect she might share my black thumb.

Miles bypasses her, climbing the steps two at a time to tap on the door once, twice. Without hesitation—or answer—he trudges inside.

"Honey, daddy's home!"

Mystery Girl—a guest, I suppose—redirects her scowl to my fake-boyfriend's retreating back. Before I can argue we shouldn't invade the place, Nicholas's bark rings through the air, propelling the three of us forward. I'm the last to enter, just as Mystery Girl unexpectedly hits the brakes.

I try and avoid colliding with her, but I barrel right into her back with an oof . Before I can mumble an apology, an actual bark denounces the culprit behind the traffic accident in the hall.

"I thought you were coming over early to help me, not to hang out with my dog, honey ," Nicholas says dryly at Miles, who sits on his haunches cooing over a dog, from somewhere actually inside his home.

"You have a dog?" the brunette shrieks. "You have a dog!"

One second later, Nicholas' blue stone gaze appears under the door frame on the left, bouncing to the dog briefly before taking root on Mystery Girl.

"I have a dog," he says. "Nala."

"I love your dog," she cries.

She hasn't even seen the dog yet—she hasn't looked away from Nicholas, as a matter of fact. It could be a ugly dog or a mean dog or a… bad dog, for all she knows.

But Nala is cute.

The Frenchie has black fur that coats her entire frame except for the perfect white tie that comes into view in her chest as she rolls, satisfied with all the attention. Her little mouth parts, almost like she's smiling, but it's the snorting sounds of her breathing that rush out.

The stranger may be right. Nala is the cutest dog I've ever seen.

With a final stroke on Nala's forehead, Miles leaves the dog all to Nicholas' strange friend. His black slacks stretch deliciously over carved muscle and tan skin as he straightens to his full height, a contrast to the brunette falling to her knees, content to ignore our presence in favor of the dog.

Nicholas is taller than Miles, two giants in my eyes as they clap each other's backs in the universal way men always do as a greeting.

"Nicholas." Their hands untangle and Miles returns to my side to rest his arm around my shoulder. He looks down at me with an adoring expression. "This is Zoe. My girlfriend."

My stomach does a somersault as we add another name to our list of victims.

Nicholas tips his head in acknowledgement. I offer a smile in return, thankful. Physical touch is not a language I'm fluent in, especially when it comes to virtual strangers.

Leaning down in a conspiring manner, Miles's breath fans my ear in a false whisper. "He's the one that got away."

"Is that a nicer word for the one that ran away?" I raise an eyebrow.

"For the sake of my dignity and my ego, I'll pretend your words were ‘That's his loss, love. You leveled up. I'm much prettier.'—which you definitely are—, in that exact order."

"What dignity, love ?"

The birthday boy observes us with more interest than he lets on.

"Nicholas, you have my admiration. How you have been able to put up with him for so long is beyond my comprehension," I declare solemnly.

Nicholas doesn't smirk or grin or show one hint that we share a joke—to be fair, neither do I, because I'm not sure we are.

"Likewise," he answers.

"Traitor." Miles glowers. I'm unsure whether he means his best-friend or his girlfriend .

Foreign cooing words waver into nothing as the girl promptly—and un prompted—inserts herself in the conversation with the stretch of her arm.

"I'm Camila. The one who's gonna steal him away."

I don't take her stretched hand, so Miles does. The grin she aims at us is blinding, brighter than all the led lights that hang from wall sconces.

Miles introduces himself, but the last syllable stretches into a hiss as he snatches his hand back, inching slightly behind me as he shifts away from Camila.

We all watch my fake-boyfriend flex his hand.

"Did she leave a bruise?" Nicholas's face doesn't waver, but his question is mocking, like Miles is a child.

"On my ego." Miles frowns at his own hand. "She's unusually strong."

"I've been told men assert dominance by crushing each other's fingers in handshakes," Camila explains proudly.

Her words end with a lilt, like ornate calligraphy, with a barely there accent that I can't quite pinpoint on the map.

"So you were asserting your dominance? Over Miles ?" I ask.

There goes the last of his ego.

"No." Her grin dips devilishly. "I just enjoy watching men squirm."

Camila shoots Miles with a pointed stare, prompting him to launch immediately into a list of reasons she should like him.

"I'm the boyfriend. And the best-friend. Though I highly doubt either of them would willingly volunteer that information," he mutters, hand rising again automatically as if he's offering an introductory handshake—again. He catches himself, messing with his hair instead. "Nice to meet you. I think."

Camila doesn't return his pleasantries, addressing me as she praises Miles. "Congrats! He's hot. Careful not to get burned."

"Fire is underrated." I finally let my lips turn up at the edges. "Who wouldn't burn with pleasure in order to play a little?"

Camila's head tilts to the side with the weight of her appraisal. Her braid falls behind her shoulder as she nods with satisfaction, like I passed a test. "We're absolutely going to be besties."

"Yes. You two should get along great on sunny days. Even better on all the others." Something that resembles a smile blooms at the edges of Nicholas's mouth, but his thumb wipes it with a swipe. "And we should get far away."

Miles regards us like he doesn't recognize us. One of us, anyway. He grabs my hand, tugging me somewhere else like he owns the place as he announces over his shoulder,"We're gonna—" The unsubtle halt lasts as long as it takes him to invent an excuse. "—go get burned!"

My footprints struggle to keep up with his until he slows his pace. He veers right, directing us into a large room that revolves around a traditional limestone fireplace. On either side, high cabinets in a rich shade of walnut fade into walls of warm beige, shelves clean and uncluttered.

The potted plants seem to be the common theme, featuring in every room we pass. My expertise on the matter is null, but they don't appear fake. I didn't see Nicholas as the kind of guy who'd have the patience or a penchant for tending to flowers, but appearances are misleading.

There are two pictures on the fireplace mantel. Both pixelated, they feature a beautiful brunette, a delicate, feminine version of Nicholas. In one of them, she wears a giant sunhat and red gloves, behind her a bush of blooming flowers and the porch of a white house. In the other, her arms wrap around two little boys, one smaller than the other, each a photocopy of the other.

"He's not the warm and welcoming type. But he's my best-friend." Miles interrupts my perusing. I find him leaning a shoulder against the door, watching me. He sighs, scratching the stubble that shadows his jaw. "I know he seems cold and he's occasionally a little rude, but try not to take it personally. Don't… hate him."

"Am I warm and welcoming?"

He hesitates, gauging whether I expect honesty or a lie. "No."

"Exactly."

He folds his arms, the pitch in his brow a question mark. Given our history, I understand his reluctance .

What Miles doesn't realize is that he isn't the rule.

I roll my eyes, deciding to ease his worries and warnings. "I've known him for years."

His ankles uncross, the muscles under his slacks stretching the fabric to its limits. The lines between his brows become parallel indentations of suspicions rather than questions, so I continue.

"We've met at games and other work occasions. Our career paths do entwine constantly, have you not noticed, Blackstein?"

Miles nods once, turning the words in his hands, looking for hidden meaning. "Hm. You two are actually very alike. Hiding behind sarcasm and emotionally closed off."

I flick an invisible piece of lint from my oversized olive blazer—one of a three-piece set that includes a spaghetti-strap crop-top and wide-legged pants—and counter without indignation or offense—a statement to my own words. "I'm not emotionally closed off. I'm emotionally controlled."

Miles has the good sense to try to stifle his snort. "Sure."

"Having a grip on my emotions doesn't make me ‘emotionally closed-off', Blackstein." I struggle to keep the evenness of my tone—a problem I only ever have around him . "Just because my face doesn't translate every one of my emotions doesn't mean I don't feel them."

I was raised with the solid belief that for women, emotion can only ever be weakness—whether too much or the lack thereof. So, I learned to conceal all its traces beneath a hard-earned veil of apparent apathy, subdued under the hand of logic.

All the things I feel are for me to understand, not for the world to witness. They don't belong out in the open to be scrutinized, judged, and used as a weapon against me.

They aren't meant to be tainted by external interpretations or opinions. People wrongfully assume acknowledging someone's feelings gives them some sort of right or entitlement to an opinion. It doesn't.

Tucked deep inside me, my feelings are free, safe to be true and raw away from vultures. They're mine, and they belong to me only.

"That's kind of what it means, though. The tight leash you have on them isn't very healthy. It'll end up choking you someday."

Anyone else would be ignored and disregarded with the flick of a finger. With Miles, I'm reduced to barbs.

"You're a shrink, now, are you? It is a step-up from your philosopher wannabe status, I suppose."

Unflinching in face of my rudeness, almost as if he expected it, and recognizing nothing good will come from any response, Miles gives me all the time in the world to regret using his confidence against him.

The stubborn part of me revolts, but I break the tense silence in a small concession. "We're adults, Miles. Shoving our feelings deep into a dark hole is what we do."

He waits for one, two, three beats. Then his faint reflection in the glass unfolds bulging biceps and straightens. "I'm gonna go fetch us some drinks."

Without another word, he's gone.

His steps fade, but it's not long before the sound returns. I promptly turn, but it's Nicholas, a rainbow of macarons of all shapes and flavors in his hands.

When his bottomless blues catch sight of me, they fill with realization .

"Would you lend me a hand?" he says.

At the opposite end of the room, there's a long table.

"I'm surprised you're doing this. Actually doing this—not paying someone to do it." I move plates and platters around to make room for one more on the already replete table. "Anyone with the unholy amount of money you must have would pay someone and sit sipping champagne, watching the struggle of underpaid labor."

"I don't like strange people in my space."

I share the sentiment.

"I'm not sure what happened. I'm not sure what you two are doing. He won't tell me much, which is unprecedented—and tells me he's hiding something."

Well, that's my fake-boyfriend—his own saboteur, with his penchant for too many words.They'll be his downfall, someday.

"He's exhausting and utterly annoying most days, but he has a golden heart. A heart as big as his, yet he never gave a piece away."

Nicholas rearranges every plate millimetrically to his taste. When he finally deems himself satisfied, he pins me under his unnerving gaze. I appreciate the blunt approach of his traditional best friend duties.

"Then you came in and he handed it to you with a bow—all of it. If you're gonna take it, be sure you want to keep it, take care of it. Because he sure as hell doesn't look like he's ever gonna ask for it back."

Listening to his words, I hear so much more that I have to concede to Miles.

Perhaps Nicholas and I are alike. Perhaps he shares my stance to mine on emotion .

"For the record, I'm happy. He's never lacked female attention. He smiles and any girl and guy in the perimeter melts into a pool at his feet. But no one ever stayed for what's beyond and behind the smile—not that he's wanted them to, anyway. I'm happy you did. I'm happy he has you."

"Yeah? Tell that to your face," I finally say. My voice betrays the raging storm that sends my heart palpitating.

Our small scheme isn't so small anymore, and it's taking proportions that are starting scare me. It's supposed to end soon, but it might first become a beast that'll swallow us whole.

The corner of Nicholas's mouth twitches as he leaves me in the eye of my tornado.

The crowd amounts to just under twenty people, mostly people from Nicholas' club, Boston Football Club, teammates and coach—and spouses.

I circle the room for minutes, muttering a few hellos, as Miles throws his dimples around, ever the well-mannered charming boy he was raised to be—always by my side.

He returned right after Nicholas left to change into the dark-denim jeans and black button down he wears now, almost as if he timed his friend. Two drinks in hand—water for him, white wine for me—as though our previous exchange had never happened.

"Who's the weird girl?" Miles asks.

Nicholas blinks slowly, pointedly glaring at his best friend .

"Who's the pretty girl?" Miles amends.

The glare darkens a notch, and I join in.

Miles throws his hands in the air. "Who is Camila? "

Finally, Nicholas's unnerving blue eyes show mercy, traveling towards the table to land on Camila, who stretches to reach for a macaron. He leans against the gorgeous unlit fireplace, spring blooming in temperature and in the aroma of flowers in the wind, watching his party like he's waiting for it to end .

"Castro's sister. She moved here with him. From Portugal."

Thus, the mystery of the exquisite accent is resolved.

"I thought you didn't like Castro," Miles prods, nodding at the man next to Camila.

"He's my teammate. I like him as much as I like any other teammate." Preparing the final blow, Nicholas times his pause. "I like him as much as I like you."

Miles inhales sharply. His head whips to the table again, studying the pair. "He's siblings with a remarkably beautiful brunette."

Feeling like an intruder eavesdropping on a private conversation, I announce my departure with a loud click of my glass on the fireplace stone. "He's remarkably handsome, too. I'm gonna introduce myself. See what all the fuss is about."

And off I go, smiling tight-lipped through the crowd as the boys' gaze heats my back.

I look down at Camila, the curve of my mouth less strained. "Mind if I sit with you?"

"Yes." She beams. "I saved you a seat!"

My eyes narrow. "You did?"

The brother swipes on his phone, one ear on our conversation. He seems to know the answer already, shaking his head—amused yet clearly used to her peculiarities.

"Nope," Camila says. "But you can pretend I did."

A massive hand appears in front of my eyes as I sit, painted in delicate ink that stretches and swirls around corded forearms until it disappears under rolled up cardigan sleeves.

"Rodrigo," the brother says.

I look up into a different pair of eyes that are the same as Camila's. Same beautiful shade of brown, same tilt at the edges, same wrinkles that indent the corners.

"She has a boyfriend," Camila intervenes—because my relationship status is more relevant than my name—as she swats his hand away.

"Why would I care about her boyfriend?" The scar that curves from the corner of his mouth gently softens as his lips unpurse, taking a positively intrigued angle. "Do they come as a package?"

A heated shadow blooms in my back, and any bewildered answer dissipates in my tongue.

"Miles," my fake-boyfriend introduces himself. I crane my neck, and he locks eyes with me. "The boyfriend."

" And the best-friend!" Camila adds promptly, echoing his fumbling words. I scrunch my eyes shut, hoping to contain my amusement. "This is my brother. The one who taught me handshakes."

It isn't a warning—more like a pitch—an offer that Rodrigo could teach Miles the art of masculine-dominant-assertive handshakes.

Unable to hide my laughter, my forehead drops to Miles's hip as I try to bury it in his shirt. He's all hard muscle and warmth, patiently allowing me to ride out my amusement before plowing his fingers in my hair, tugging the roots just above the nape of my neck.

His other hand is occupied until he sets in front of me a plate with a single square piece of cake.

"Nothing for you?" Camila takes offense, scrunching her nose. "Are you one of those aliens who refuses to eat sugar or carbohydrates or whatever?"

Miles pulls the chair next to mine, the last one on this side of the table.

"I'm one of those aliens whose diet regimen before a game doesn't include certain food groups, yes."

Camila's face alone conveys that rules are meant to be broken.

I take pity on my fake-boyfriend, anticipating another snide remark already halfway out of her mouth. Miles can't eat his cake, and he's getting obliterated by a pretty girl with a sunny smile and a wicked tongue.

"Want some of my cake?" I stab my slice with the fork, turning to him. "Here, just a taste."

Miles shifts in his seat so his body fully faces mine and drags my chair close to his. It screeches against the floor but the sound is muffled in my ears as my knees are trapped between his massive legs, the density of his muscles, each hard line, each intricate contour, molding my legs as he gives them a squeeze.

My gaze bounces up from all the points of contact to meet his, finding it already awaiting.

"Yeah?" he rasps. "You're gonna share your cake with me?"

I blink, reminded of the fork that hangs midair. My eyes tumble to his mouth.

"Open."

Miles obliges without hesitation, I feed him my piece of sweetness. His lips glide down the fork with deliberate thoroughness, wiping it clean. He chews the delicious chocolate intently, and I follow it just in time to watch a groan lodge in his throat.

Another chair screeches—this one much more dramatic—but we still don't look away from this lingering intimacy that fills the distance between us.

"Holy shit!" Camila punctuates her exit with a curse. "I'm the one who might get burned if I don't move away right now."

I spear another piece, and we finish my cake.