Page 37 of Heated
My heartbeat stutters, slows, and then kicks into hyperdrive. The raucous pounding drowns out whatever else my father says as I shove back my chair and stand. Pasting a smile on my face, I swallow past the sudden thickness of my tongue and grasp for normal. As Miriam squints up at me, I’m going to take a wild guess that I’m failing.
“I need to take this. I’ll be right back.”
Before Dad can say anything else, I stride from the dining room and pivot sharply in the opposite direction toward the front of the house. I don’t stop at the foyer, though. I open the front door and walk out onto the porch. Facing the cooler September air in a sleeveless romper is better than having one of my nosy family members sneaking in on me. Because no, they’re not above it.
I move to the porch railing and lean my back against it, facing the front door. Only then do I open the text.
MNBM.
My Next Big Mistake.
I never did change how I listed Cyrus in my phone. Why should I? It’s still true.
Shock still wavers through me that he messaged me. It’s been five days since that night at the bookstore. Since he wielded his attorney-like magic like Thor’s hammer and beat me down with my own guilt untilI yielded into being his fake girlfriend. God, even thinking those words sounds ludicrous. Five days later, and he hasn’t been in contact to enlighten me on what this assignment entails. Just complete radio silence. I’d begun to believe he’d changed his mind. And I refuse to admit to, much less dwell on, the disappointment that slides through me. Relief. Relief has been my companion for the last few days.
Until now.
MNBM: First fake relationship duties. At 8.
I stare at the screen, blinking. Not believing what I’m seeing. But no, the message remains the same. And the pulse slamming against the base of my throat and hammering in my head like a mallet against iron assures me it’s not changing.
Me: It’s Sunday.
MNBM: That’s usually what they call the day after Saturday and before Monday.
Smart-ass. Right. Best not to think about his ass right now.
Me: It’s a rest day. Time to spend with family.
MNBM: Are you with yours?
Me: Yes.
Dots appear, then vanish. Appear, then vanish. Then ...
MNBM: Are you using one of your free passes?
Dammit. I lift my head and stare at the front door. Seeing the dysfunctional family beyond. Weariness presses down on my shoulders at what awaits me when I return to that table. Thirty years with my parents. Thirty. They might let the topic of BURNED go, but there will be another one for them to snap at each other over. To argue and throw verbal punches over.
I rub the spot over my eye where the faint thrumming steadily increases. By the time I leave here in another hour or so, that drumming will evolve into a full-blown migraine.
Am I willing to use a free pass to stay here and suffer this broken merry-go-round?
Me: No. Where am I going?
MNBM: My house. I believe you know the address.
Blowing out a breath, I tuck the phone back in my pocket, noting the time. 6:38. Enough time to return inside, give my excuses, go home, and change and head over to my new fake boyfriend’s house.
Pushing off the railing, I brace myself for the explosion of questions and attitude about to come my way. But strangely, it’s not anxiety that bubbles inside me.
Anticipation carries me back into my parents’ home and down the hall.
And maybe a little bit of excitement.
But damn if I admit to that.
This time when I knock on Cyrus’s front door, nerves jangle just under my skin, and sweat dots my palms, but for a different reason. Because I’m here not to break up Cyrus’s relationship but to learn more abouthim in order to make our charade more believable in front of his colleagues. I shake my head, crossing my sweater-covered arms over my chest. This is the kind of stuff that happens in cutesy rom-coms ... or with stalkers.
