Page 68 of Heated
I don’t stop until I reach the table with a last few baseball caps, shirts, and socks on it. Zora doesn’t take her gaze from me, and I briefly remove mine from her to take in the older woman next to her. Tall, with natural curls like Zora, although with gray sprinkled throughout,identical-color eyes, and the same full mouth. Even the curvaceous figure reminds me of Zora. It clicks that this woman must be her mother or at the very least an aunt.
Jordan’s presence draws the attention of the people lingering around the table, and in seconds a small crowd forms around him. Never more thankful than I am now for my friend’s fame, I skirt around them and approach Zora.
“Cyrus.” She greets me first, her gaze shifting to the woman next to her before returning to me. If I’m not mistaken, an edginess threads through her voice, and her normally elegant, graceful frame is rigid, tense. “What a surprise seeing you here.”
“Zora.” I nod. “It is. A good one, though.” Turning to the older woman, I extend my hand. “I’m sorry, it’s not my intention to be rude. Cyrus Hart. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Monica Nelson. Social studies teacher here and mom to this one.” She takes my hand and shakes it, giving me a curious once-over. “Likewise. I gather you and my daughter know one another.”
“Yes.”
I cast a glance at Zora, who’s remained silent. Uncertainty crawls up my spine. I’m in a position that’s unusual and uncomfortable for me. I’m not sure what or how much to say. And I sense ... I sense Zora is afraid of what I’ll say. I’m treading on dangerous ground here, and Zora will be the casualty.
When she sees I’m leaving my answer at yes, her mother grimaces, tossing an eye roll at Zora. “Just for future reference, I’m your mother. Which means I have a God-given right to be nosy.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works, Mom,” Zora drawls. “And Cyrus and I are friends. We’ve only known each other a few weeks, so sorry. No plans to elope. No secret babies on the way. Sad to disappoint.”
Her mother’s mouth twitches. “Smart-ass. You totally get that from me,” she boasts, sliding an arm around Zora’s shoulders and pressing akiss to her temple. “So tell me, Cyrus Hart, since my daughter won’t. How do you know my brilliant daughter? Where did you meet?”
Until now, I haven’t had the best impression about her parents. But it’s plain to see that Monica loves her, is beaming with pride over her. It’s how I imagine my own mother would’ve been with me had she lived. Dad too. Despite the obvious dysfunction that exists in Zora’s parents’ relationship, I’m glad she has this, at least.
“We met through work,” I answer.
From one instant to another, Monica’s expression transforms from one of glowing delight to weary distaste. It’s so surprising I step back from the table, glancing between mother and daughter.
“Oh, please, God, don’t tell me you’re talking about that little business of hers.” Her mouth twists as she slides her arm from around Zora’s shoulders.
That little business of hers?
What the hell does that mean? And what exactly is the “little business”?
I flip through the mental files of all our conversations, and the only thing I know is she works somewhere within driving distance of the Five Points area. That could cover a considerable part of Denver.
Other than that? Nothing.
But that was our agreement, wasn’t it? No personal details or questions.
Yet ... she’s a businesswoman, an entrepreneur? I study her, picturing her lush curves clothed in those suits, those prim blouses and figure-hugging skirts. I’m not surprised. She’s brilliant, assertive, driven. And she wears command and authority as easily as one of her pantsuits.
“Mom, please.” Zora shifts away from her mother, that edginess that had crept into her voice invading her expression. Small lines bracket the corners of her mouth, and her silken skin pulls taut over her cheekbones.
“What?” Monica holds up her hands, palms out. “All I’m saying is I was hoping when you finally did meet someone, it didn’t have anything to do with that sor—”
“That’s enough.”
Zora doesn’t yell at her mother, but the arctic tone has my shoulders snapping back. As does the hurt glinting in her eyes. Does her mother not see it? Does she not give a fuck?
“Really, Zora—”
“I was referring to my job, actually,” I interject, careful not to look at Zora. If I do and glimpse that pain in her gaze again, I’ll lose my shit. “We met through my work. But even if we hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Your daughter is a smart, self-assured woman. And she brings those same qualities to her business. And no one should make her feel less than brilliant for that.”
Silence descends over the table, and it’s so thick, so taut with tension, that cracks would probably spiderweb through it at the slightest breath. Monica’s eyes narrow on me, and I don’t need a second career as a mentalist to interpret the message there:She’s my daughter, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Yeah, a daughter you have no problem tearing down and embarrassing in front of a person who’s a stranger to you.
She’s a puzzle. That pride had been authentic. But so had her disdain.
I don’t know what Zora’s business is—and I would be lying if I claimed curiosity didn’t beat at me—but derision? What could Zora, one of the most sensitive, most honest people I know, do that could possibly merit that?
