Page 12 of Heated
The soreness directly under my rib cage that I’m fighting not to rub my fist against declares I do.
I part my lips to give him my pat answer; he can either accept the company line or, frankly, suck it.
But then his words strike me.
“Or are you the doormat friend who can’t say no, so friends use you to do their dirty work?”
Wait. He doesn’t ... I replay the words again. Oh shit, hedoes.
He believes I’m a friend his ex asked to do her “dirty work” of breaking up with him. Cyrus has no idea that I break up with people for a living.
Here’s where I tell him the truth, that “No, no, you have it all wrong. I don’t personally know Valerie Summers or the guy you just ran out of the restaurant. This is my job. What I do for a living.”
Only ... the words remain stuck somewhere between my brain and mouth.
Because past experience has taught me what I will see in his gaze, his face. The sky in those eyes will become overcast with storm clouds, dark with disdain. The chiseled bones will sharpen, appear even more stark under the disapproval that tautens his golden skin. That beautiful, sinful mouth with a capacity for cruelty will curl into a sneer that I somehow know will follow me out of this restaurant. Follow me into my dreams.
Is it horrible of me that I don’t want to see that familiar esteem-stripping tableau play out in front of me? That just for tonight, maybe I’d rather be that friend? Rather be anyone but Zora Nelson, owner of BURNED Inc., who has to defend her choices? Maybe I just want to be simply Zora, a woman sitting across from a criminally beautiful man for a few short hours before returning home and forgetting he ever exists for me.
It’s not just selfish; it’s a lie. By my silence, yes. But a lie just the same.
And yet my silence isn’t golden. It’s damning.
“Neither?” A faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Then please explain to me how Val got you to show up at my house and end a relationship that, as far as I’m aware of, you weren’t involved in. Same with this one here.” He dips his chin toward the table. “Because you claim not to get a kick out of this kind of thing, but here we are.”
Shit. I’m walking a very thin line here. My own desire aside, Valerie Summers is still my client, even though the job is done. And I have a personal conviction and a contract that demands my circumspection and discretion.
“She asked me,” I say, and even that’s edging so close to the line that an uncomfortable sensation skitters across the nape of my neck. “And sometimes it’s ... kinder to hear it from someone who isn’t as close, as emotionally involved. Chances are they will be gentler, more careful with your feelings.”
“Even while they’re reading a letter intended to rip your heart from your chest?”
“Did it?”
I don’t know where that question came from. Don’t know where the nerve to ask it originated. One, his feelings—or lack of them—aren’t my business.
Two, not my business.
But I don’t rescind my question. And I can’t deny that the air in my lungs stalls; hell, every necessary function in my body seems to halt in anticipation of his answer.
“No.”
The breath expels from my chest in a deep, hopefully silentwhoosh. Disbelief pours through me. Not because I think he’s lying and trying to save face. No, the exact opposite. It’s because I believe him.
But that doesn’t make sense. I remember the bleak devastation on his face while I read that letter from Valerie before he concealed the stark emotion behind a stone-cold mask. That couldn’t be faked.
This man. He’s a labyrinth of contradictions. And I want to navigate every meandering, twisty path to figure him out.
A movement behind Cyrus catches my attention. Doug heads in the direction of the bathroom, and the redhead is nowhere in sight.
Oh, you’re so fucking fired, Doug.
Giving him a tiny shake of my head, which I hope he reads as “Your services are no longer needed,” I return my attention to Cyrus. As if it’s a choice. His presencedemandsmy full focus as his due. And I willingly surrender it.
Before I can unwisely but irresistibly dive into that enigmatic and blunt “No,” Cyrus—thankfully—interrupts me.
“How did you meet Val?”
I’m not in a law-office conference room or a courtroom, but that fact doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m being interrogated. Doesn’t prevent sweat from popping under my arms or along my palms.
