Page 53 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
“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?”
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.
