Page 9 of Heated
I briefly close my eyes, and my fingers curl around the letter, crushing it. The crinkle of the paper is the only sound in the early-evening silence.
And this is why you don’t trust people. Don’t depend on them, and God forbid, don’t let them close.
They’ll abandon you every. Single. Time.
Me. Myself. And I.
That’s the only holy trinity I believe in.
“Mr.Hart?”
Why is she still standing here? Hell, why amI?
I’ve given her enough of my dignity for consumption today.
Opening my eyes, I step back until I’m on the other side of the doorframe and somehow blindly locate the knob and curl my fingers around it.
“Thank you.”
I’m certain the appropriate reaction in this bizarre situation should be anger or, at the very least, frustration. I mean, this is the kind of shit that happens in quirky rom-coms featuring the latest fresh-faced, girl-next-door star, not in real life.
But I’m not angry. I’m not frustrated.
No, as I deliberately close the door and stare at it, only one emotion creeps through me.
Fear.
For the first time since reaching fifteen and six feet and becoming too tall and big to be “handled,” I’m scared as hell.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
CHAPTER THREE
ZORA
Oh, this is not going well.
That way-too-familiar churning cranks up in my stomach, but I force my soft, sympathetic smile to remain in place. Even though the sauvignon blanc I paired with my grilled scallops and mushroom risotto is in imminent danger of making an encore performance. Even though a dark-red stain continues to mottle the face of the gym-rat large man seated across the dinner table from me.
This is the third time in the last week that I’ve had to step in and cover a contract. A perfect storm of a stomach bug, a honeymoon, and a family emergency has left us shorthanded, and both Miriam and I have had to pinch-hit during an inordinately busy last few days. Not that I’m complaining about the amount of business. Not at all.
But I haven’t had to take part in this side of it in the last two years. I hate confrontation. And understanding this, Miriam and Levi have done everything they can to shield me from it. Which always paints my belly in a slick coat of shame. I detest being weak. Being seen as weak. Still, this is our company, and I can’t hide in my office while Miriam carries the load. Because she would. Besides being a little on the “eccentric”side, my sister is surprisingly good at breaking up with people. And she enjoys it. Which is either a good thing ... or a very scary thing.
I choose not to overanalyze it.
Either way, pride won’t allow me to be a coward.
Which leads me to my current predicament.
One Richard Henley and a dinner for two at one of the best steakhouses in Denver since a nice medium-rare rib eye is his favorite meal. That’s one of the pluses of ending a relationship at a restaurant. Ply the person with great food they love and just the right amount of alcohol to mellow them but not have them belligerent.
Apparently, I’m out of practice. Because even with only one glass of cabernet, Richard is definitelybelligerent.
“So let me get this straight. Not only did Sheila lure me here under false pretenses of meeting a ‘friend’”—Richard lifts his hands in air quotes, a sneer riding his mouth—“but she isn’t even showing up? She doesn’t even have the balls to break up with me face to face but has to send her ‘friend’”—more finger air quotes—“to do it? Is that what you’re really telling me right now?”
Technically, she doesn’t have balls at all, but it doesn’t seem prudent to point that out to him when a vein is starting to pound along his temple.
“Richard, I understand you’re upset at the moment. I do,” I calmly say, hoping my low even tone will influence his. Hoping. But again. That vein. “And Sheila truly cares about your feelings, which is why she asked me to speak with you—because this is so difficult for her. And for you as well, obviously.”
