I check the time on my phone and see that it’s just after midnight. Everyone else in the house has drifted off to bed long ago, which means it's the perfect time for me to get the hell out of here. I grab my bag and head for the door before pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

Not for the first time, I consider leaving a note explaining my bizarre actions. It would mostly be for Martha – their mother – but they all deserve an explanation for why I did what I did. Believe it or not, I do have a small sense of shame. I know I pulled a total dick move by abusing their kindness and hospitality the way I did. It just felt so nice to be welcomed so warmly by complete strangers. I really enjoyed being around the Churchills. They're good people. I'm not going to lie, it was nice to live in the lap of luxury – if only for a few days.

But, it's probably for the best if I just leave without a word and let them draw their own conclusions. I'm sure they'll figure out my deception before too long. It's a thought that sends a sharp stab of guilt through my heart. Frankly, I'm shocked I haven't been found out by now. But, with the oldest son – my supposed boyfriend – coming home in the morning, my time here has officially run out.

There's nothing I can do about it now. If I want to stay out of trouble and not spend Thanksgiving in jail, I need to go.

The door faintly squeaks as I pull it open. Pausing in the doorway, I strain my ears and listen, searching for any indications that someone could be awake and moving about the house. After a minute or so of not hearing a single peep, so I assume I'm safe.

Stepping out into the hall, I leave the door open behind me and head for the stairs. The wooden floors beneath me quietly creak every now and again, forcing me to move at a painfully slow pace. After what feels like an eternity, I make it to the staircase and descend as quickly as I can. The air around me is thick. Heavy.

I try to shut out all of my doubts and fears. I try to quiet my anxious thoughts and the thundering of my heart as I turn the corner, keeping an eye out for Harold or Marina – who both live on the grounds as well. I don’t know what kind of hours they keep. Everything is dark, save for the soft glow of the wall sconces, now turned down to provide the slightest hint of illumination – probably to prevent someone from taking a tumble if they happen to come down for a midnight snack. I'm immensely grateful for that. On my best day, I'm not exactly the most graceful person traveling through a house I don’t know that well in the dark would be a challenge I really don't want or need right now.

I make it down the hallway without knocking over any of the antique vases or statuary and say a silent word of thanks for my good luck. I turn into the darkened kitchen and head for the French doors at the rear. I can practically taste my freedom and salvation, just a few steps away.

As I reach for the door handle, the kitchen is suddenly flooded with light. I gasp as I spin around, my heart racing, ready to jump out of my skin. Miles is standing in the doorway, a bemused smirk on his face.

“Having trouble sleeping?” he asks.

I'm trembling, and my throat is dry. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Clearing my throat, I manage to work up some saliva and find my voice – shaky as it is.

“Oh, Miles, you startled me,” I say. “Yeah, I guess I'm kind of restless tonight.”

He looks very pointedly at the bag I somehow managed to forget was in my hand. “Yeah, I'd say so.”

I stare up at him and have no answers. My face is burning and I'm pretty sure I might burst into flames at any minute now. My worst nightmare is coming true. Miles walks into the kitchen and leans against the center island, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving mine.

Even at this late hour, he's in jeans and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It's like he never went to bed. Or – an ominous thought suddenly floats through my mind – he knew. He’s been waiting up for me.

“So this is your grand plan? To sneak out in the middle of the night?” he asks, a note of amusement in his voice. “Honestly, I kind of expected it to be better than this. After all the trouble you went through to con us, I thought you'd go out with some kind of grand finale.”

“I – I don't know what you're talking about,” I reply lamely.

“Cut the shit, Sasha,” he snaps. “I know everything.”

The second my real name tumbles from his mouth, a torrent of ice-cold fear begins pounding through my veins. I stand there, staring at him while my heart does somersaults in my chest. I open my mouth to speak, but no words are able to come out. When they finally do, my voice is nothing more than a croaking gasp.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Are you going to call the cops?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure yet,” Miles replies calmly. “I thought the two of us could have a little talk first and figure it out from there.”

“I – I think it would be better if I just left, Miles,” I say.

“I don't,” he replies, his voice cold and emotionless. “You and I are going to have a chat. Now, sit down.”

As if my body is on auto-pilot and moving entirely without my consent, I do as Miles says, taking a seat at the kitchen island while he puts on a pot of coffee. His back is to me and I'm half-tempted to bolt out the back doors and run my ass off. The only problem with that plan is that he would probably run me down before long – Miles looks like he's in much better shape than I am. Plus, since he knows my real name, I have no idea how much else he knows about me, which means he could turn it all over to the cops and let them deal with me. I can’t run from him – or them – forever.

No, the fact that he wants to have a talk gives me some small spark of hope that he's not going to call the cops on me after all. I'm hoping that he just wants me to answer a few questions – which is certainly understandable. If I was in his place, I'd want answers too. And if I'm lucky, after he gets what he wants, he'll send me on my way without any further drama or confrontation.

Getting out of here without a pair of handcuffs around my wrists feels like a reach right now, but if I sit and talk to him for a bit, at least I’ll have a shot.

Miles sets two mugs of coffee down and then fetches a tray with cream and sugar. He sits down and silently fixes his mug. My hands are shaking too bad to do it, so I just drink it black. I probably shouldn't drink coffee at all right now – it feels like my anxiety is already running at an all-time high. My handsome interrogator stares at me over the rim of his mug as he drinks but I don't detect any malice in his eyes. He doesn't seem nearly as angry as I initially expected.

“So, Sasha Gates,” he says, stressing my name to underscore his point. “What was your plan? What are you doing here?”

I give him a small shrug. “No real plan.”

“When you saw me at the airport, you had to have a plan,” he presses. “I mean –”

“When I saw you in the airport, I approached you just because I needed a ride,” I say. “My original plan was to have you drive me to a certain point where I'd get out and bail.”

“The truck stop,” he says. “I saw you looking at it as we passed by. You had the weirdest expression on your face.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I reply. “I was going to get out there and bounce.”

“So, why didn't you?” he asks. “What changed?”

The churning in my belly is getting worse and I'm half-convinced I'm going to throw up. My head is spinning rapidly, only adding to my misery. I feel like a child who just got caught playing with matches or shoplifting or something and now has to explain why they did it – and I don't have a good reason.

As I look into those green eyes of his, I feel my breath catch in my throat. He's not looking at me the way I thought he would – like I’m a piece of human garbage. He's not judging me. Which eases my mind, if only a little. I don't feel crushed under a sense of impending doom like I did a few minutes ago. I really don't think this is going to end with me going to jail.

I could be wrong, of course. I hope I'm not. Having that sense of hopelessness lifted off my shoulders makes it easier to speak. It makes me feel like I can give him truthful answers to the questions he has. And maybe, it'll help alleviate some of the guilt that's rampaging through me right now.

“Honestly, I don't know,” I say. “When I found out your brother wasn't going to be here for a few days, I just thought...”

My voice trails off because I really don't know how to finish that statement without sounding like a complete asshole. I just thought I could use you and your family for a while? Yeah, that would sound really great.

“You just thought what?” Miles inquires, not letting me off the hook that easily.

I sigh. “I just thought that hanging out here would be a nice change of break from my shitty life,” I say. “It was a nice vacation from reality. I'm sorry, Miles. I know I shouldn't have done it. It was a shitty thing to do.”

“Yeah, it was a shitty thing to do,” he says. “What are we supposed to tell my mom now? She really likes you, Sasha. How is she going to feel knowing you're a fucking liar?”

That's the first hint of anger I've heard in his voice and it sends a white-hot bolt of anxiety soaring through me. It's then I realize that having his mom involved in my deception takes it up a few notches for Miles. He's protective of her – which I find incredibly endearing, oddly enough.

“I know. I didn't think about that, Miles –”

“No, because you were only thinking of yourself.”

“You're right,” I admit. “You're absolutely right. I'm so sorry. Please believe me.”

He takes a drink of his coffee and falls silent for an awkward moment. I know that he must be mulling things over. I would give anything to know what's going on inside his head right now.

“For whatever it's worth,” I offer, “I really liked your mom. A lot. And it kills me to know she’ll be hurt from my actions.”

“Yeah. That makes it all better,” he replies, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue thicker than honey.

“I don't know what you want me to say, Miles,” I fume, anger flaring in my voice. “I can apologize until I'm red in the face, but I can’t change what I did. Did I screw up? Absolutely. I can admit that. But I can't go back in time and fix it. All I can do is say I'm sorry. You can take it or leave it.”

Miles takes another drink of his coffee and I can see the amusement in his eyes. He obviously finds something about this situation funny – which, honesty, irritates me. Is he mocking me? I really hope not. I get enough of that shit from my sister.

“What?” I snap. “What do you find so damn funny?”

“You,” he says. “My mom said you were a free spirit. She she was right. I enjoy seeing it come out. I enjoy your fire.”

“I'm so glad I amuse you,” I mutter.

“Yeah, me too.”

I lift my mug and take a drink of my coffee just to give myself something to do so I don't punch him right in his perfect teeth. Being laughed at and mocked is something I've hated ever since I got bullied in primary school.

“Tell me, what's so bad about your life that you resorted to assuming Alice’s identity to escape it?” he asks.

I let out a long breath and tug on the ends of my hair. I know this is probably going to sound ridiculous to him. I mean, his family is close, and they all seem to get along really well. They act like they genuinely accept and care about each other. It's not that I don't love my family or that they don't love me back. It's just… different. There isn't that same sense of warmth or mutual respect that is so obviously an integral part of Miles' family.

I mean, I’ve never experienced anything like that before – sitting around the table, swapping stories and joking around with so much laughter, my cheeks were sore after. My family isn't like that. Never has been and never will be. So, to be a part of that, to be included in that – even though I'm not actually family – felt really nice.

“I doubt you'd understand,” I say, unable to keep my misery from coloring my voice. “I don’t think you’d be able to relate.”

“Try me,” he says.

“Believe me, you won't get it.”

“Maybe not,” he says and shrugs. “But, at the very least, you owe me an explanation.”

I can't deny that. I take another sip of my coffee to fortify myself – wishing it was something stronger – and prepare to give him a brief oral history of the Gates clan. Once I start talking though, I can't seem to shut myself up. I go on and on, not holding anything back.

Through it all, he attentively listens while occasionally sipping his coffee. I honestly have no idea why I told him what I did – basically everything about me – or why I felt the need to unburden my soul like that. But I did. Everything about me is out there now. He can do with it as he pleases, I guess.

I don't know what it is exactly, but there's something about Miles that makes me want to be open and honest with him. Now that I can drop the pretense of being Chris’s girlfriend, I feel like I can be myself again. Apparently, that includes being an open book with a man that I'm insanely attracted to but barely know. There's just something about him that draws me in.

It's crazy and it makes no sense whatsoever. I know that Miles and I are polar opposites in so many important ways. I don’t know if our personalities could possibly be more different. And yet, as we sit there staring at one another, I still feel a spark starting to smolder between us.

When he looks at me, a soft expression on his face, a small part of me wants to believe the mask he wears has slipped a bit, allowing me to see behind it. It's just a glimpse, but the way Miles is looking at me and the way his eyes bore into mine – it makes me think that he feels the heat between us too.

“Believe it or not, my family isn't nearly as perfect as you think,” he says. “We have our fair share of issues too.”

“Every family does,” I reply. “It's just so different than what I'm used to.”

“Which makes it easy to idealize,” he retorts. “But things aren't always so perfect around here, I assure you. They're on their best behavior in front of you.”

I laugh softly. “Of course. No family is perfect,” I say. “No family is – not all the time. But I get the sense that deep down, you all genuinely like each other – and respect each other. Things aren't like that at my house. I know for a fact that my sister doesn't respect me. Most of the time, I don't even know if she likes me..”

He shrugs. “I can't say. I've never seen the dynamic between you two,” he says. “But I understand how you feel. Christopher and I share that same sort of contentious relationship at times. I can assure you, at the end of the day, even after fighting, Chris loves and respects me. I would be shocked if it wasn't the same for your sister.”

I stare out at the grounds, doing my best to avoid Miles’ gaze. “Yeah, I don't know about that,” I reply. “She was shielded from the worst parts of our family. She grew up idolizing a man I despise and thinking he walks on water. To her, our family is pretty much perfect – except for me – the outcast and black sheep who doesn't appreciate anything.”

“Have you ever talked to her about it?” Miles implores gently. “About your father and everything that happened growing up?”

I shake my head. “No, she doesn't need to know about that,” I say. “Plus, I'm pretty sure it will only lead to a fight because she won’t believe me. She'll assume I'm vilifying a dead man just because I can.”

“You're not really doing her any favors by protecting her from the truth,” he presses.

“Blowing up the fantasy she has about her childhood wouldn’t do her any good either.”

He rubs his jawline and seems to concede the point. Silence descends upon us as we both sit there, staring into our coffee mugs. We seem to have hit a bit of an impasse in the conversation. Which naturally leads me to wonder what comes next.

“So, what are we doing here, Miles?” I ask. “Are you going to call the cops?”

He chuckles softly. “I was never going to call the cops,” he says. “Why would I?”

“Umm... because I deliberately lied to you and deceived your entire family?”

God, the more I think about it, the creepier I feel about the whole situation.

What the hell was I thinking?

He waves me off. “I don't care about that,” he says. “As weird as it is to say – and I'm sure even weirder to hear – it was kind of nice to have you around, actually.”

I cock my head and look at him. “Yeah, that’s pretty weird,” I admit with a chuckle. “I mean, I did purposefully trick you.”

“Yeah, you did,” he agrees, locking his gaze onto mine. “But honestly, I'm glad you got a couple nights of peaceful sleep.”

As we stare into each other's eyes, an electric current passes through the air that's so powerful, it’s almost overwhelming. The moment is fleeting, however, and passes when he looks away. An incredulous look crosses his face – like Miles finally realized his mask has slipped and is struggling to pull it back up.

I don't want him to, though. Now that I've gotten a look at the man behind the mask, I’m hungry for more. He hides it well, but I can see through his bullshit. Miles has a heart filled with care and compassion. It's practically bursting with emotion, even though he chooses to hide it away beneath layer after layer of cold indifference.

“Why didn't you just ask me for a lift that night at the airport?” he asks, suddenly interrupting my train of thought. “Instead of going through all of this, why not just ask for help?”

I fall silent. I just know I’m turning an unnatural shade of red right now. Asking for help has never been my strong suit… I don't know. I’ve always stupidly considered it a sign of weakness or something. For whatever reason, for as long as I can remember, I’ve had an immensely difficult time asking others for help.

Miles chuckles. “Yeah, I get it. I'm the same way,” he says. “I'd almost rather have my teeth pulled without painkillers than ask for help. Something like that?”

I nod. “Yeah, something like that,” I confirm quietly.

I look up at him and even though his mask is back on, his eyes show me something different. Miles clears his throat and looks away, obviously trying his best to remain cold and aloof.

“So, what now?” I ask.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Why don't you let me give you a lift home?”

“What are you going to tell Martha and your brothers?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure yet, to be honest,” he admits. “I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

I give him a tight smile. “I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble,” I say. “But, thank you – especially for listening.”

His expression may be purposefully blank, but his verdant green eyes sparkle with untold emotions. “You're welcome.”