Page 39 of Heated
“Thank you.” He walks over to the couch, jerking his chin toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Thinking of the censorious looks and admonishments I left behind, I let “Anything with a hundred proof” slip out before I can trap it. And when his dark eyebrow shoots toward his hairline, I smother a groan.
“Water will be fine.” Because imbibing alcohol around him is not a winning idea.
He doesn’t say anything, but his lingering look is speaking a damn dissertation. Ignoring it, I head over to the couch and sink down on the far end of it. A football game plays out on the TV screen, and my father would probably sacrifice one of us to watch his beloved Broncos on this monster. Forget that ram-in-the-bush thing.
“Here you go.”
A cold bottle of water with condensation running down the sides and a napkin appear in front of my face, and I accept both.
“Thanks.” After twisting the cap off, I down a grateful sip, then glance at Cyrus as he sprawls out on the middle of the couch. Idon’tstare at his powerfully muscled thighs and how they press against the light denim. And I definitely don’t imagine how they could so easily control a woman underneath him. Or over him, for that matter ... shit. “So why am I here?”
He lifts a beer to his mouth, then peers at me while he takes a long drink. Another thing I don’t do: stare at those beautifully cruel lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle.
“Doing what couples do. Hanging out.”
I stare at him. Blink. Stare some more. Because my ears have heard what he said, but my brain is having a difficult time computing the meaning.
“You mean to tell me you called me all the way over here from a family dinner just to sit on this couch andentertainyou?” I narrow my eyes on him. “Is this a rich-people thing?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
I twist on the cushion, exaggerating as I scan the room and the obvious display of wealth surrounding me. “Excuse me; my bad. But I could’ve sworn I was sitting in your Washington Park house, where a high-end vehicle sits in your two-car garage, a chandelier that costs more than a year’s rent of my Park Hill bungalow hangs from your ceiling, and a home bar that is better stocked than top shelves in some bars occupies your den. But like I said, my bad. Didn’t mean to assume you were rich.”
“Sarcasm duly noted.” He folds his hands across his flat stomach, his measured gaze resting fully on me. I almost order him to look at the game. That blue-fire stare borders on too much. Too intense. Too invasive. Too. Damn. Much. “And thank you for enumerating the possessions in my home. I nearly forgot for a moment there.”
“Now whose sarcasm is duly noted?” I grumble.
“But what I meant is,” he continues, as if I hadn’t interrupted, “I wasn’t born wealthy. Didn’t grow up in it either. So I don’t understand entitlement since I’ve worked, bargained, and possibly schemed foreverything I have. Although, that last one you’ll have to prove because there’s no evidence.” A faint flicker of amusement barely curves his mouth before it disappears. “So like I said, I wouldn’t know if that’s a rich-people thing. I asked you over here to get to know you since we’re friends now. I didn’t intend to interrupt your family dinner, but I also offered you the opportunity to use one of your free passes. It was your choice not to use it.”
Call me genuinely chastised. Because, dammit, I feel like a grade-A bitch. He’s right. I did decide not to take the out; I could’ve stayed at my parents’ house and finished the evening with them, Levi, and Miriam. But I didn’t. Truthfully, I saw his text as an escape, a reprieve.
But I can’t tell him that. Can’t explain. Because that would be getting personal.
Speaking of that ...
“I thought we agreed not to get personal,” I remind him.
Ineedhim to agree. Not just so I don’t become more of a liar and leave him feeling more stained and dirty, but because knowing more about him forges connections. It transforms Pinocchio into a real boy. Just the bit of information about his past stirs my curiosity, feeds my insatiable hunger formore. I can’t have more of him. More has the potential of threatening my business, my brother’s and sister’s futures.
Threatening me.
Because if I give myself that “more” and he finds out the truth about BURNED, about my connection to Val ... unease curdles in my belly. He would leave scorched earth behind, completely razing me to the ground. I can’t allow that.
“I did,” he says, tilting his head. “You said, and I quote, ‘You can’t compel what I give you of myself.’ But you failed to add a stipulation regarding whatIgiveyouofme.”
My lips part. Then snap shut.
Sneaky bastard.
“How long is this arrangement supposed to last?” I blurt out. “We never discussed that.”
And I need an end date for my sanity.
“You already want to get rid of me, Zora?” Another one of those faint not-quite-there smiles.
Yes. But not for the reason he probably thinks.
