Page 59 of Heated
She ... scares me.
No, no. That’s not fair because it places the blame for my fear on her.
My lack of control around her—the fact that I don’t care and find reasons to justify not caring—terrifies me.
“Cyrus.” A small hand settles on mine, but it might as well weigh a hundred pounds. It grounds me back in the present. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up a sensitive subject.”
“Stop apologizing.” I temper my sharp tone with a gentle squeeze before shifting her hand off my leg. Right now, when I’m on the edge, tense with a revelation that isn’t exactly pleasant, I can’t bear her touch. I barely tolerate my own skin. “You never have to apologize for being honest with me.”
I feel her eyes on me even though mine are focused on the stage.
“Okay,” she murmurs.
At that moment, the lights flicker on the stage, and the audience cheers and yells in anticipation of Chicago finally appearing.
Zora leans over and whispers in my ear, “Just in case I forget to tell you later, I had a really good time tonight.”
I tip my chin down, humor bursting inside me. “Did you just quotePretty Womanto me?”
“Did you just admit to knowing I quotedPretty Womanto you?”
“Zora, I’m sitting at a Chicago concert. I have zero problems admitting I can quotePretty Womanbackward and forward.”
She throws her head back, laughing. “You win.”
Seeing her laugh like that, and knowing I’m the cause of it?
Yeah, damn right, I win.
“Oh my God, I had the best time!” Zora claps, practically bouncing in her seat. “That concert was amazing.If you see me walking by ...”
“Yeah, no.”
She glares at me, then starts laughing, her head falling back against the headrest.
“Fine, whatever. I know singing isn’t my gifting. Still, you shouldn’t judge.”
I glance at her. “I’m not judging. Just stating facts. You sound like a dying cat staring down the barrel of his ninth life.”
“Wow. That’s hurtful.” She snickers. “Seriously, though, I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. When you drop me off, would you mind waiting while I do something?”
“It’s not serenade me, right?”
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
She sighs. “No, no serenading.” Pause. “Jerk,” she mutters.
I smother a chuckle.
Thirty minutes later, I pull up to the curb outside her house. She reaches for the door handle, but when I growl a “Don’t,” she sighs and waits for me to exit the vehicle and come around to her side and open her door.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, sliding her hand in mine and allowing me to help her out of the car.
As soon as she steps free, she turns back, pulls open the rear door, and removes her camera case. With the same quick, efficient skill she employed at the concert venue, she gathers her equipment, fixing the lens and flash. In moments, she sets the camera on the hood of my Audi and turns to me. Her small white teeth sink into her full bottom lip, and she raises her hand to her forehead, but before her fingers make contact, she drops her arm back to her side.
“I could see back at the amphitheater that you weren’t entirely comfortable with having your picture taken, but if you don’t mind, would you take one more with me? I’d like to have a picture as a souvenir of this night.”
