Page 51 of Heated
He nodded. “With anatomically impossible threats to my balls, but yes.” Holding up the bag, he tilts his head. “Show me to your kitchen? By the time you shower and change, the food will be ready.”
He would undress me, not because I can’t do it for myself but simply because he believes I deserve to be pampered like a queen.
Are my words tripping through his head like they are through mine? Because they’re taunting me, and I can’t unhear them.
I lift my head, meet his blue gaze and the flash of fire in them.
Yes. I’m going with yes, he’s recalling the same thing I am.
Clearing my throat, I thread my fingers through my hair. And when Cyrus’s scrutiny drops to my curls and that fire leaps higher, an unrecognizable part of me whispers that I should walk over to him, ask him if he’d like to touch my hair. Burrow his big hands with his long elegant fingers in the strands, fist them ...
I want it.
Sighing, I point toward the doorway to the right. “Kitchen’s through there. I’ll be back in twenty.”
I don’t run out of the room—but my pace could be described as a good power walk. Dammit, the man is lethal. Questions bombard me as I dash—no, briskly march—up the stairs, past my home office, and to the first master bedroom and en suite bathroom.
Why is he here? How long was he waiting on my porch? What does he want? Which isn’t to be confused with “Why is he here?” because there are subtle differences. How much of my romantic-date scenario does he plan to reenact? Will or won’t we watch movies? Will he ... no, not going there! We’re just friends. And not even that. We’re fake friends with blackmail elements. Apparently, it’s a thing.
By the time I’m showered, dressed in black lounge pants and a slouchy gray off-the-shoulder shirt with a bra—because seriously, that perky braless shit with women my size happens only in movies—none of those questions have been answered, and I’m just as much of a nervous wreck descending the stairs as I was climbing them half an hour earlier.
“Sorry,” I call out, hitting the hardwood floor, hating the breathless quality to my voice. “That took longer than ... I ... intended ...” My eyes widen. “What’s all this?”
He’s moved aside the centerpiece on my coffee table and laid out several plates filled with all of my favorite foods from Jax. Fried calamari, lobster rolls, shishito-dusted scallops, summer squash, and a slice of flourless chocolate cake. It’s a feast, and my stomach chooses that moment to rumble, adding its vote.
“Sit.” He enters the living room from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two of my fluted glasses. As if his voice flips an instinctual switch in my body, I obey and shift to the couch. After lowering to a corner, I tuck my legs up under me and silently watch as he pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me. “This is the same sauvignon blanc you were drinking at the restaurant the second time we met. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with it.”
I sip, and its fruity flavor slides over my tongue. Closing my eyes, I hum my appreciation. “No, this is perfect. Thank you.”
A moment later, I lift my lashes, and his sky-blue gaze traps mine.
“If I didn’t know better—if I didn’t feel like I knewyoubetter—I’d think you did that on purpose.”
“Did what?” I whisper.
“Tease.”
I frown. “I’m not—”
“Yeah, I know.” His tone is a blade, razor sharp, and as he pivots back to the table, it leaves me sliced wide open. “Here.” He returns to me seconds later with a small dish piled with perfectly fried calamari in one hand and the remote to my TV in the other. “I was afraid to ask Miriam about your favorite shows on Netflix just in case she demanded a kidney, so you pick. I don’t watch that much television, so I’m open to pretty much anything.”
I woodenly take the remote and plate and set them both on the end table.
“Thank you, but we need to talk first.”
To his credit, he doesn’t wince or flinch at the announcement, but a shuttered mask slips over his face as he sinks to the middle of the couch, allowing distance between us.
“Cyrus, I need to apologize for earlier at lunch. My reaction was disproportionate to you asking me to accompany you on the retreat. As it was pointed out to me later, that had more to do with me than you, but I took it out on you, and I’m sorry for that.”
Surprise flashes in his eyes like lightning across a summer sky, though his expression remains aloof.
“Want to share any more details about why that has more to do with you?” he calmly asks.
“No.” I really, really don’t.
He nods. “Fair enough. It’s my turn to apologize, then. Given my profession, this might sound contradictory, but outside of the courtroom or mediation, I’m not great with words. It’s why I prefer contracts. Everything is written down, clear, concise, in black and white, with no room for misunderstanding.” He pauses, and his jaw clenches, flexes. As if he’s fighting the next words, battling to keep them in. “The past has taught me words can be twisted and turned against me, and silence is not only golden, but it can’t be misquoted. But today, I realized it can be misinterpreted. And harmful. So I’m sorry that I hurt you, Zora.”
No personal questions. No personal questions. I’m not curious in the least.
