Page 44 of Heated
Again, those brows slam down to meet, and she glances away from me, her slender, ringless fingers toying with her paper napkin.
“Zora.”
An almost strangled sound rumbles in her throat, but she turns her head toward me, and I embrace the lick of ire in those eyes. And hate the wisps of panic.
“I feel ... almost powerless in this. And I don’t like it.”
Her words pummel me like tiny fists. But the blows drive the breath from my body. Bile burns the lining of my gut, and for a moment, I fear I’m going to be sick right here in the middle of the restaurant.
With a trembling hand, I pick up my glass of water and slowly sip, hoping to push down the acid and disgust.
“Cyrus?”
That frown still creases her forehead, but concern tinges it. Concern for me, and isn’t that laughable?
“What do you need from me?” I ask, and there’s shit I can do about the slight rasp in my voice.
She shakes her head, waving a hand. “What just happened?”
“What do you need from me?” I ask again. “To give you back your power. I don’t ever want you to feel that way. It wasn’t my intent, though I can see how it happened. What do you need from me?” I repeat.
And if there’s a note of desperation in the question, I can’t hide it. Can’t take it back. Because that’s what I am in this moment. A desperate kid who’s been stripped of his own voice, his own strength and control. The thought of inflicting that on anyone else ... it sickens me.
“Cyrus.” She reaches across the table and covers the hand I hadn’t even realized I’d fisted around my napkin. “Tell me. And don’t lie,” she softly says, handing my own words back to me.
But I can’t.
The story of baking with my mother—that I can share with her. But this? I can’t.
“What do you need from me, Zora?”
She stares at me, and tension beats like a heavy heartbeat in the silence between us.
“Boundaries,” she finally says. “You believe I owe you because I stole your voice in the breakup with Val. And I understand that. But your price shouldn’t be robbing me of mine. This arrangement needs defined boundaries. What do you expect from me and when? If it intrudes on my life, do I get to tell you that—and you trust that I’m not just trying to get out of our deal or using a pass? There needs to be some element of trust here because I can’t be at your beck and call. I’m not that woman.”
Our food arrives, and though it smells delicious and looks even better, neither of us touches it. All of our attention is focused on each other.
“Okay.”
She blinks. Frowns.
“Okay?”
“Yes.” I nod. “With my work schedule, I can’t give you a firmwhen. But if I call and you tell me you’re unable to make it, I can give you my trust. No more passes. Just trust.”
Her lashes lower, hiding from me. I clench my jaw, trapping the demand to lift them so I can look into her eyes, read the beautiful, addictive truth there.
“I accept that,” she murmurs, returning her gaze to me.
The power of the relief that pours through me leaves me shaken, unnerved. Deciding not to dwell on the why of that, I turn my attention to the food in front of me. We eat in silence for the next twenty minutes, until she sets her fork aside and, after pushing her plate forward, folds her arms on the tabletop.
“So ... you said something important had come up. You said you needed me.”
Yes, I’d said that when I’d called her. And hearing the words aloud in her voice ... well, it’s an erotic kind of torture I’ve brought on myself. I know how I meant it, but my body is throwing in its own two cents and interpretation.
“Yes.” I set my fork down next to my plate, mimicking her and giving a small wince. “They moved the date of the retreat up. It’s now in two weeks.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, then tilts her head, her tight curls brushing her shoulder. “Two weeks? We have fourteen days to get to know each other to the point that we’re able to convince people you’ve known for years that we’re in love?”
