Page 95 of Hoax and Kisses
I drag a hand down my face and rub at my clenched jaw. I’m so fucked.
Zoey wasn’t lying about stuffed shells being her favorite. Goddamn, did this woman eat tonight. Even Daph, who is a sucker for Oli’s food, has never cleaned her plate as well.
She also didn’t lie about making my clothes look sinfully good on her. When she came out of the bathroom, barefoot, with my sweatpants rolled at the waist and the ankles, my shirt damp from the tips of her hair, I could have fallen to my knees.
It hit me like a brick to the chest. You’d think it’d be impossible for her to look more beautiful than when she’s wearing her pantsuits and high heels, her makeup and hair done, ready to take on the world.
But no.
It’s the sight of her in those ridiculously large sweaters that drives me over the edge. And her inmyoversized shirt? I’m a goner. I’m honestly surprised I haven’t burned holes in them with how often I’ve stared, secretly desperate to rip them off her body or slip my hands under the hem and roam her soft skin.
“Did you know that your name is also the name of a flower?” Daphne asks Zoey, snapping me out of my dangerous spiraling thoughts. She’s been firing off questions the whole evening, and Zoey’s answered every single one without showing an ounce of irritation.
“I did not,” she says, leaning forward. “Which one?”
My sister’s face lights up at the question. “Camano Zoe. They’re one of the forty-nine species of the genus Dahlia. More specifically, part of the sixth group of dahlias called ball dahlias.”
“Are they pretty?”
Daph nods vigorously. “Very. They could easily be confused with mini balls of clouds. And they’re groundbreaking for diabetes research because of the high concentration of inulin in their tubers.”
“That’s fascinating,” Zoey says, padding to the sink with her empty glass. “I’m impressed by how much you know about flowers.” She smirks at me. “You’re putting your brother to shame. You should be the one running his store.”
Daphne breaks into a wide smile. “Maybe when he’s too old, I can take over.”
“Okay, okay.” I snort. “Don’t bury me yet.”
“Is that why you’re called Zoey, then?” Daphne asks, ignoring me completely. “Because of the flower?”
Zoey pauses to think. It’s adorably cute. The way she so easily humors Daphne with her endless questions warms up a little abandoned corner of my chest. “Hmm, I don’t think so, but that would’ve been fun. My mom is francophone. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, of course.” My sister straightens in her seat. “That she speaks French.”
Zoey fills her glass with water. “Exactly. She’s from Quebec. She grew up in the francophone part of Montreal. I was born in BC, so I went to English school, but my mom made sure I learned French. She gave me my name so I never forget my roots.”
Zoey speaks French.Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Nothing super sexy about that new tidbit of information. I tuck it away. Later. This is a thought for later.
“Zoey doesn’t sound very French.” Daphne wrinkles her nose.
I hold back a laugh. She can be so blunt sometimes.
“You’re right again,” Zoey says as she returns to her seat. “That’s because the true way of pronouncing my name isZoé.”
I snap my attention to her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Why don’t you pronounce itZoé,then?” My sister frowns.
She’s not the only one confused as fuck.
“Can we focus for a minute on the fact that I’ve been calling you by the wrong name this entire time?”
“Calm down.” Zoey—or Zoé?Who knows now—pats my arm. “It’s not a huge deal. Only my mom calls me Zoé. It’s not easy to pronounce for English-speaking folks because of the sound that doesn’t exist in this language.” She shrugs. “I tried to spell it Z-O-E, without an accent, but I ended up being called Zo most of the time. Zoey is easier for everybody.”
I stare at her. “I can’t believe I didn’t know your real name.”
She flips her hair off her shoulder, fighting a smile. “You’re being dramatic. It’s the same name, only pronouncedslightlydifferently.”
“Still,” I mumble.
