Page 50 of Heated
I stare at her, that tightness in my chest slowly squeezing and squeezing until my ribs creak in protest.
She reaches over and clasps my fingers. “It’s just ... you’ve been through hell with a couple of the douches you’ve been with, and no one could’ve come out of that unscathed, unchanged. It could be not just Cyrus but any man who would come under suspicion—no matter if he was wealthy, poor, Black, white, gorgeous, facially challenged ...”
A snicker slips free of me, and Miriam grins.
“You’ll think on what I said?”
“Yes.” How will I be able to think about anything else? “Thanks, Miriam.”
“No problem.” She squeezes my fingers, then stands. “You’re still a Liar McLiarson, though. And you’re making me one too. Because I have to keep the truth about our company from Jordan. And though I’m a fabulous liar—we’re talking superspy level, here—it doesn’t mean I want to do it in this case. You shouldn’t start any relationship on lies.” She claps me on the shoulder. “No worries, though. I’ll be here with strawberry-cheesecake ice cream, bags of sour-cream-and-onion chips, and a Netflix binge ready to go when this blows to hell. ’Cause that’s the kind of loving sister I am.”
“’Preciate it, Miriam.”
“You got it.”
She strides across the office and out the door, leaving me alone with my murky thoughts and her crystal-clear words swirling in my head.
Damn.
I hate when my sister makes sense.
After Miriam left my office, the afternoon flew by in a blur of meetings, interviews, and invoices. By the time I park in the two-car garage of my Park Hill bungalow, I’m more than ready to shower, order dinner, park it in front of my television, and not move until it’s time for me to go to bed. It’s been aday.
I exit the garage and round the walkway that borders my private gardens and tiered deck. Pride beats within me as it always does every time I arrive home. Maybe it’s utterly shallow, but I bought this house with money I’d started saving before I’d left my parents’ home for college. I knew even then I wouldn’t be returning there. But it’s more than pride. There’s a warm peace that settles in my bones. A sense of safety. Beyond those brick walls, there’s no arguing, shouting, or threats. There’s no walking on eggshells or waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. This picturesque Craftsman bungalow with its swing on the front porch is my haven.
So focused on getting inside my haven and anticipating the hot drum of water on my tired muscles, I don’t notice the man on my flower-upholstered swing until he rises.
I jerk to a stop, my heart lodging in my throat.
Holyshit.
“What the he—” Then it fully registers who is standing mere feet away from me. And my heart takes on a different rhythm. No less fast, no less heavy, but ... different. “Cyrus. What’re you doing here?”
Instead of answering, he holds up a large brown paper bag by the handles. The logo from one of my favorite restaurants is printed across the front of it.
I stare at it, swallowing hard. My explanation of a romantic date plays back in my head. He’d listened. But why wouldn’t he have? He would’ve either been taking notes to woo Val’s replacement or to make sure our charade at the weekend retreat was believable.
Yet even as the cynical questions roll through my mind, a need burrows so deep inside me I can’t tell where it begins or ends. It’s justthere. And a seed of fear takes root that I won’t be able to evict it. That one glance at this man, and it will always be there, a part of me like my arm or leg. Even if amputated, their phantom presence will continue to be felt.
I drag my gaze up from the paper bag to meet his eyes again.
“Come on in, then.”
After turning to my front door, I open it and step inside my home. And battle the urge not to peek over my shoulder and glimpse how he’s taking in my sanctuary. Why I care how he views my home, I choose not to dwell on because that’d probably require another conversation with Miriam that I’m not ready for, so I unload my purse, laptop bag, and keys on the dark walnut end table next to my couch.
Still, I scan my home, attempting to observe it through his eyes. Wondering if he’ll see the coziness in the beamed ceilings, period fixtures, brick fireplace, gleaming hardwood floors, and huge picture windows. Unlike his home, mine doesn’t have an open floor plan, but he can still glimpse the wide arches that lead to a dining room and large kitchen. And the sturdy carpeted staircase that leads up to the second level and master suites and bedrooms. When I bought this home, I wanted a safe space for not only myself but Levi and Miriam too.
“This is a great place, Zora.”
“Thanks.” I cross my arms and nod toward the bag. “Do I want to guess how you know Jax Fish House and Oyster Bar is my favorite restaurant?”
“I might’ve asked Jordan to do some research for me.”
“Miriam.”
“Miriam.” A smile flickers across his mouth, there and gone in the next instant. “I might also owe her tickets to the next Lizzo concert.”
That little ...“That heffa sold me out for Lizzo?”
