Page 76 of Heated
I swallow a sigh. We’ve known each other only a handful of weeks. How does he know me better than people I’ve known for thirty years?
“Zora?” He pinches my chin, tilting my head up.
“There’s nothing wrong with this world. The private jet. This place. People waiting on you hand and foot. It’s the mindset that can come along with it. The one that convinces you the world revolves around you and your needs and others are only here to serve those needs. That you are entitled to this. I’m afraid that if your plan includes pursuing only this”—I wave a hand, encompassing the gorgeous room—“then you’ll lose who you are. Who your parents meant for you to be.”
Tension invades his body, but he doesn’t release my chin. Which is good, considering I knew even as I spoke the words that I might betreading too far. He’d shared some of his past with me, but it could be a little presumptuous of me to assume I’d know what his parents would want for him. But because I know him and I’ve heard the love with which he speaks about them and the life he’s built for them, I can say it.
“What do you think you know about who my parents meant for me to be?”
The words are harsher than his tone, and I focus on that.
“I know they wanted you to be who they were. Your parents were your example of how you should walk in this world. The values and memories they instilled in you? That speaks volumes about the boy they were raising and the kind of man they wanted him to grow up to be. Kind. Generous. Empathetic. Hardworking yet fun loving. Protective of those who are weaker. Loyal. Good. Lover of Chicago, baked goods, and great wine.”
The corners of his mouth quirk. “Two out of those last three aren’t bad. But Dad appreciated a good beer, too, so I think he’d forgive me.”
I smile and brush the back of my fingers down his cheek. “You’reallof those things. And I just don’t want you to lose them. Lose you.”
He threads his fingers through my hair, drawing my head back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he had some kind of obsession with it. Images of what he did with the curls just last night flash through my mind. Heat rushes up my chest and pours into my face. If not an obsession, maybe a fetish.
“What are you thinking about?” A smirk rides his mouth, and he raises an eyebrow. “Care to share with the class?”
“This isn’t show-and-tell, so the class can mind their business,” I mutter.
He chuckles, and the low sound strokes over my skin underneath my jacket.
Tipping my head back even farther, he presses a soft peck to my cheek. “So you think I’m kind.” Kiss to the other cheek. “Generous.” Kiss to my nose. “Empathetic.” Chin. “Hardworking and fun loving.”Forehead. “Protective of the weak.” Temple. “Loyal and good.” Back to my mouth. “Sounds like you like me, Zora Nelson.”
“Who knew you had an eidetic memory?” I grumble. “And you aight.”
I bring my hands up between us and lightly push him away, needing space that isn’t filled with his cedar-and-leather scent. Needing space that isn’t filled withhim. His body, his power, his intensity ... he can be overwhelming. Especially when my defenses are particularly dented, pockmarked, and weakened.
Another one of those delectable, wicked laughs caresses my ears and other senses, and I’m seconds away from clapping a hand over his mouth and issuing a restraining order on that sound. It’s dangerous to my nipples, vagina, and ... well, it’s dangerous.
“So what’s on the agenda?” I move to the refrigerator and pull it open. Wow. So many options. Wine. Beer. Juice. Even homemade smoothie in a pitcher. Shaking my head, I grab a bottle of water. “Do the partners have certain team-building activities planned?”
He snorts, following me to the kitchen area and leaning on the breakfast bar. “It’s not that kind of retreat. It’s more of a ‘We brought you here to judge you and see how you negotiate in the shark-infested waters of your direct competition’ getaway.”
“Ohh. Fun,” I drawl.
“In the meantime ...” He rounds the breakfast bar, approaches me, and backs me against the counter. After pushing aside the coffee maker, he hoists me up. “She did say we should relax after traveling.”
“Actually, she saidfreshen up.”
He shrugs, slipping his hands under the shoulders of my jacket and sliding it off. Dragging his lips up my neck and over my jaw, he whispers in my ear, “I could’ve sworn I heard another f-word.”
I throw my head back, laughing, but that soon turns into a lot of groaning as he shows me exactly which f-word.
“You must be Zora.”
I turn around from the exquisite view of the unspoiled natural beauty of the western Colorado plateau, glass of Moscato in hand. Irritation dances within my chest, and I try to cover it with my customary polite smile. Still, I escaped to the shadow-draped stone balcony after dinner for a little privacy. I’m used to working with all manner of people and being “on,” but it can be exhausting. And I’ve spent all day and evening engaged in small talk and smiling. I’m just ... tired.
Yet I’m here for Cyrus. And as I turn around and greet the gorgeous redhead who, if I recall correctly, is married to a handsome, gregarious, and complete douche of a guy named Derrick, I keep Cyrus uppermost in mind. It wouldn’t do to offend any of his coworkers or their wives.
“Guilty.”
“I know you’ve probably had a ton of names thrown at you today. I’m Jill. My husband’s Derrick.” Jill smiles, and the warmth in it reaches her hazel eyes.
She extends her hand, and I shake it.
