Page 6 of Heated
This is business. And I have a job to get done. Valerie Summers came to BURNED—to me—for help in ending one phase of her life so she could start another, and that should be my only focus. Not the inner workings of her relationship and definitely not the man in it.
I resist the urge to give my head a good, hard, wake-the-fuck-up-buttercup shake. If anyone knows the pitfalls of becoming besotted by attractive packaging.
“Thank you.” I lean back in my chair, away from the phone. Away from that image. “If you’ll include the picture with your letter, that would be perfect. We’ll confirm the date and time with you first before we proceed. This is to just make sure you haven’t decided to go in a different direction or changed your mind about ending the relationship altogether.”
“I won’t,” Valerie says, a vein of steel running through her tone and reflecting in her eyes as she sinks back in her chair.
I nod, but it’s happened.
And this is with a couple so beautiful they look as if they fit more perfectly than puzzle pieces.
So no, wouldn’t be surprised.
But again, judgment-free zone. And this is business.
Tugging my keyboard toward me, I smile.
“Let’s get you broken up, then.”
CHAPTER TWO
CYRUS
I’m not a superstitious man.
When I was a kid, if I walked under a ladder, my mom would yell at me using all three of my names—that’s when you knew she wasn’t playing—and order me to cross in front. As if that somehow canceled out the bad luck. Still, even with an eye roll, I obeyed.
Despite my mother’s attempts at indoctrination, though, I’ve never given in to those old wives’ tales. There’s no such thing as luck—good or bad. Life is a fuck. And it’s your choice whether you lie down and take it up the ass or take control and make it the best goddamn screw possible.
And since my parents’ deaths and a transient, hellish childhood, I’ve become a master fucker.
So no, not a superstitious man.
Yet as I step out of my black Audi A6 into the two-car garage of my Washington Park home, an irritating and persistent itch prickles the back of my neck. Persistent because it’s been pestering me all day. Like an omen. If I believed in that.
Still, feeling like an ass, I glance over my shoulder and immediately reach back in, press the garage remote control button on my visor, and watch the door lower.
“Damn. What’re you waiting on? Black cats to slide underneath? Mirrors to break?” I growl, opening the back door with a harder-than-necessary yank and removing my briefcase.
Yes, I’m giving myself shit, but hell, I deserve it.
Shaking my head, I enter the house, going through the utility room and into the spacious, open kitchen. I exhale a deep, cleansing breath as I lay my briefcase on the wide island, my shoulders already relaxing, my muscles loosening. As usual, just the sight of the state-of-the-art gas range stove and double oven, custom-made steel hood, glass-front Sub-Zero refrigerator, and beautiful marble countertops and island sends a soothing calm flowing through me like the iced tea my mom used to brew and sweeten every summer. It’s not because I can cook—because God knows I can’t. Bake, yes. Cook, no.
It’s the sense of walking into something that’s mine. No, that’s not correct. Something that’sours. Mine, my mother’s, my father’s. Even though they’re gone—been gone for twenty-one years now—this kitchen with its huge picture windows and view into the corner lot, where she would’ve planted a gorgeous garden full of flowers and vegetables, would’ve been her dream. And the glass-encased wine closet connecting the living room and the kitchen would’ve had my wine-collecting father damn near weeping in joy.
The rest of the house—the five bedrooms and baths, floating staircase, fireplaces, home office, game room, and gym—is all the epitome of luxury and comfort, but it’s those two features that sold me on the house. Those two features are like tiny greetings from wherever they are—heaven, beyond the veil, “out there”—welcoming me home. Making this place home.
Yeah, I know how it sounds.
Crazy as fuck.
But it’s my crazy, and damn if anyone deserves an explanation. Even Val when she asked why I, a thirty-three-year-old successful attorney with one of the most prestigious law firms in Denver, choose to live ina single-family home rather than a high-rise Riverfront Park condominium with all the amenities.
We’ve been dating for six months, and if my plans continue on their present trajectory, I’ll propose in another six. Still, I can’t confide the truth to her. Being a cherished and spoiled daughter from one of Denver’s wealthiest and most-connected families, having every need and want supplied, and never going one day wondering if the place she’d woken up that morning would be the same place she’d fall asleep means Val has led a charmed life. No, she couldn’t possibly understand my particular brand of neurosis.
Not that it matters since I’m not dating or one day proposing to her for her capacity to empathize. Just the opposite. I originally pursued her because she’s the antithesis of who I was and the mirror reflection of who I’ve scrapped, hustled, and, yeah, even lied to be.
She’s my reward.
