Page 13 of Heated
Don’t even think about picking up that wineglass,my subconscious hisses.
“Through a mutual friend.” Friend. Client. I’m kind of horrified with myself at how easily that white lie slides off my tongue.
Once more his dark eyebrow wings high, and a reclusive mole could spot his skepticism.
“Excuse me, sir, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get you? Dessert? Another glass of wine?” The waiter appears at the side of the table and doesn’t even bat an eye at the exchange of my dinner partners. Talk about professionalism.
“The check, please,” Cyrus says, reaching into his suit jacket, withdrawing a thin black leather wallet, and removing a credit card. It, too, is black. “And a double Glenlivet neat.” That knowing gaze alights on my nearly empty drink. “And another glass of whatever she’s having.”
“Very good.” With a nod, the waiter discreetly accepts the credit card and disappears.
She.He calls meshe. Probably because he doesn’t know my name—kind of difficult to introduce yourself when you’re narrating a Dear John letter—and he hasn’t asked me for it since he sat down. And I don’t offer it. Maybe it’s wishful or even desperate thinking, but the omission of my name keeps this from becoming too personal. Too ... intimate.
Like I said, wishfulanddesperate.
“Do you feel like you’re going to need whiskey for this conversation?” I ask, only half teasing.
“If I needed it, I wouldn’t have ordered it,” he replies, and God, isn’t he the king of enigmatic answers tonight? I wish it didn’t make himeven more fascinating. Or impossible to glance away from. “You and Val don’t seem to be the type of women who have anything in common.”
My chin jerks toward my chest, as if his words delivered a verbal blow.Thatcomment succeeds in making him a little less fascinating.
“Why? Because she’s a white woman from Cherry Hills who can trace her family tree back to the original settlers and I’m ... not?”
“Do you mean because you’re a Black woman not from Cherry Hills whose ancestors probably have more to do with actually building this country than hers? No, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m not going to lie and claim Val is color blind, but your race wouldn’t be as much of a factor as your social connections, financial portfolio, and career growth. I’m proof of that.”
As I’m digesting that bit of information—not about Valerie but the taunting and tantalizingI’m proof of that—our server appears again with the check folder as well as a tray bearing our drinks. He sets the dark-red billfold in front of Cyrus, then carefully delivers our drinks.
Once Cyrus signs the bill and hands it back to the waiter, he picks up his whiskey and sips it. To avoid staring at those beautiful lips wrapping around the edge of his glass, I echo his movements and gratefully sip my sauvignon blanc.
Let it go.I should let it go.Don’t ask.Dammit, I shouldn’t ask.Don’t you ask ...
“So why am I not the type of woman who Val would be friends with?”
I stifle a groan. And then another one when he swipes the pad of his thumb over his full bottom lip. I’ve already crossed the line of professionalism, so why shouldn’t I wonder if the flavor of his skin adds a complementary or sharp contrast to the smoothness of the Glenlivet? Why can’t I admit that my stomach twists in hunger pangs to find out for myself? It’s not like I’ll ever see this man again after tonight.
Well, if one doesn’t count dreams.
I don’t.
“Your dress tonight and the pantsuit from the other evening. A little boring, still fine. But they’re off the rack and not designs offered by stylists or the designers themselves. Same with your shoes.” He dips his chin toward the table, as if he can see my gray stilettoes with the asymmetric branch of crystals across the front underneath. “Knockoff Manolo Blahniks. Beautiful. But still knockoffs. Your earrings are obviously real, but they’re too flashy, too loud. Not understated or considered ‘elegant’ enough. Everything I’ve mentioned is fine for most people. But most people aren’t Valerie Summers.”
My breath shimmers in my throat, and it’s rimmed in shards of glass. Humiliation razes a path through me. Not just because everything he’s listed is true. It’s the matter-of-fact tone. The cold measurement of his gaze. Screw giving him my name. He didn’t need it to make this personal. I’ve been stripped, picked over, and catalogued and categorized underlacking.
Fuck him.
“Now who’s getting off on being an asshole?” I allow the corner of my mouth to kick up in a small smirk when, really, I want to tell him where he can shove that tumbler of whiskey and how hard.
“You’re offended,” he states without the tiniest inflection of apology in his voice. Something tells me this man doesn’t even understand the concept. He raises his glass for another sip, his gaze narrowed on me over the rim. But then he sets the drink down hard enough for the crack of glass meeting wood to echo between us. “I’m not an asshole; I’m stating facts. Facts that don’t reflect negatively on you. If anything, they speak more about Val and her values.”
“And yours,” I point out, not willing to let him off the hook. He, after all, spent months in a relationship with the woman. Might still be in one if she hadn’t ended it.
“And mine,” he easily agrees.
Surprise bolts through me, and I blink.
“I notice things like brands and originals versus a reproduction because of my clientele. Also, as an entertainment attorney, I can’t walk in with a knockoff Brooks Brothers suit because they will spot it right away, as will my colleagues. On the other hand, I grew up with a mother who didn’t give a fuck about labels. Why spend her hard-earned money on something as foolish as a name when she could buy a similar piece of clothing for less and put the rest toward far more important things like bills, her family, or even something simple like a damn ice cream cone that would put a smile on her son’s face?” His sky-blue gaze flicks over my chandelier gold-filigree-and-ruby earrings. “And she would’ve adored your earrings.”
His lips flatten into a firm line, and for the first time since sitting down at the table, he glances away from me, a tiny muscle flexing along his hard jaw. As if regretting his admission to me. But that doesn’t really make sense to me. Because, like apologies, regret doesn’t seem like a thing Cyrus Hart indulges in either.
