Page 46 of Heated
“You might want to keep that under wraps if you want that partnership,” she says, picking up her fork and scooping up macaroni and cheese.
“Keep what under wraps?”
She slips the food between her lips, chewing and staring at me, and no one—not my aunts, not old social workers, not opposing council, not senior partners—has ever stirred the urge to fidget in me. But this woman ...
Suddenly, I’m rethinking the reason I asked her to meet me here. She threatens me in a way Valerie never did.
“That heart,” she continues, circling her fork in the direction of my chest. “The powers that be might be okay with it growing three sizes bigger during Christmas, but the rest of the year?” She shakes her head. “Do better.”
I stare at her. Then snort. Christmas was—and still is—another day for me, but even I catch that Grinch reference.
“My turn to ask a question.”
It’s a phenomenon watching the warmth ebb from her eyes and witnessing a brittle cold seep into her features. If I hadn’t been studying her so closely, I might’ve missed it; she covers that ice with a small polite smile so fast it must be practiced. And it serves to deepen my curiosity about her profession. Service industry of some sort. Because a distant but conciliatory expression like that comes only from working with the public.
Here’s where I should let her off the hook since she so obviously doesn’t want to answer any of my questions.
But I don’t.
I’m too insatiable for more information about her.
I prop my folded arms on the tabletop, my gaze tracing the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the proud slope of her nose, the flagrantly erotic curves of her mouth.
“What’s your idea of a romantic date, Zora?”
She blinks, then in the next second narrows her eyes on me.
“What are you playing at?”
I shrug a shoulder, anticipation beating inside of me like falcon’s wings. Hard. Loud. Determined. “Just what I asked you.” I lean closer, peering into those chocolate, perceptive eyes. “Do you want to know one of the reasons I asked you to be my friend as well as my fake girlfriend? I need you to teach me to be different. One of the lessons I learned early in high school and college was behave your way to success. And though I’m not an idiot—Val was obviously fucking another man behind my back before she sent you to my house—I own some of the fault in why our relationship failed. So I need to do differently the next time around. And that’s where you come in. Show me where I can be a better partner, what a woman wants from her man.”
Somewhere during my explanation, she went as still as that brick wheel sculpture I passed on the way here. Her normally expressive eyes are shuttered, and even the polite smile has disappeared.
“You need me to tell you what a woman wants,” she says slowly. Flatly. And rife with disbelief.
I give an abrupt jerk of my head. “I know how to fuck a woman, Zora. But Val was my first attempt at a long-term relationship. And apparently, I’m not that good at it. So yes, I do need you to show me what a woman needs.”
She glances away from me, her curls a barrier between me and even a glimpse of her profile. And like in the bookstore, I fight the urge to fist those dense strands and pull them up and away so I can read what she’s trying to conceal from me. Because that’s what she’s doing. Hiding. A silent but visceral growl rumbles inside me, and only years of control lock it down.Look at me,it howls.Don’t hide from me. Give me every thought,it demands. As if I have the right to those. None of it makes sense. But I want it. I want to strip her mind as bare as her body.
I want her totally naked before me.
Just her, me, and that addictive honesty.
“Just so I’m completely clear. Our arrangement is not just about making you look like a committed family man to the law firm partners but to prepare you for the next Val,” she says, finally turning back to me, and the satisfaction is tempered by frustration. Nothing. That same closed-off expression offers me nothing.
“Yes.”
Why lie? I demanded truth, and she deserves it as well. So why do I suddenly feel like I disappointed her?
I mentally shake off that burden. Ridiculous.
“Good to know.” She dips her chin. “As far as my idea of a romantic date,” she says in a clipped, no-nonsense voice that scrapes over my skin, “I’m like any other woman. Dinner, wine, movie. Nothing special. I’mafraid if you were expecting something earth shattering from me, you bet on the wrong horse.”
“Liar,” I whisper.
Her breath catches, the sound soft, low, but I hear it, and for an insane moment, I consider stretching my arm across this table, curling my fingers in the front of her dress, and drawing her forward so I can taste that vulnerable puff of breath on my lips.
I ball my fingers around my fork instead.
