Page 26 of Heated
I literally gasp. Aside from the road map of tattoos, that naughty grin, and the bad-boy reputation, he seems like a nice guy. I can’t do that to him!
Oh, right. I also can’t just hand out my little sister’s number to random professional basketball players. That too.
Me: I’ll need to check with her to see if it’s okay.
The reply pops up mere seconds later.
Unknown: That’s fine.
Unknown: Should I be worried about my friend?
Me: Very.
I grin down at the phone.
Oh fuck.I’m grinning.
My stomach sinks toward my feet as they carry me the several steps backward to the bed. What the hell am I doing? I sit, barely feeling my ass hit the mattress. Not a minute ago I repeated why I had to keep my distance from Cyrus Hart—physical, mental, and I’m sure that includes digital. So why am I smiling down at my phone screen, staring at those little bubbles like they’re a BOGO 80 percent off sale at Claire’s?
Why does it feel like champagne bubbles are fizzing through my veins? Why am I giddy when the only thing to pass my lips today has been coffee and water?
Oh God. This is bad. Very bad.
Unknown: He also asked more questions about you & how we met.
Me: What did you tell him?
Unknown: Through work.
So we’re both lying.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes. Those bubbles transform to leaden balls and plummet to the bottom of my belly and settle there.
I’m already his dirty little secret, and all we’ve done is bump into each other a couple of times.
And him? Well, he’s my secret, my fantasy, my downfall all wrapped in one beautiful package.
In some twisted way, I guess that makes us perfect for each other in a destined-to-end-in-scorched-earth-failure sort of way.
Unknown: Can I call you?
I blink. Slowly. But no, I didn’t misread the message. Terror spikes sharp and hard, and my fingers fly across my screen.
Me: No.
Bubbles.
Unknown: Then call me.
A chuckle with a slightly hysterical edge escapes me, and I clap a hand over my mouth although I’m alone in my house.
Me: No.
What game is he playing? Irritation stirs in my chest, low in my belly, heating those leaden weights there until they glow. At this point, what do we have to say to each other? An image of his dramatic, hero-in-a-Netflix-historical-period-series face flickers before my mind’s eye. What could he possibly want with me?
That annoyance sparks, as if dry kindling was tossed on its low burning embers, and it flares brighter, hotter. But even then, a tiny hateful voice whispers it’s not him I’m angry with but myself. I’m angry for wanting to say yes. For hungering to hear that midnight-and-fevered-dreams voice in my ear and know it’s all for me. I’m angry and hating myself for imagining what that voice will utter to me. What I so desperately desire it to utter ...
I loose a long shuddering breath.
