Page 55 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
“Forgiven,” I whisper.
For another long tension-filled moment, he doesn’t move; then he stands, leans over me, grabs my plate, and hands it to me. Musclememory has me reaching for it, and the delicious aroma compels me to eat the first bite. When my dish is clean, he’s there to remove it from me and replace it with my entrée. We eat in companionable silence, one of my favorite Sherlock-influenced series on the television. The food is perfect, the show, though I’ve seen it several times, engrossing. And yet I can’t help but peek at the man sitting next to me.
His very aura is a distraction. Power and animal magnetism emanate from him like a force, and it brushes against my face, the skin exposed by my shirt, the soles of my bare feet. I once thought of how all that intensity that seemed to hum below his skin must be an aphrodisiac. To have all of it focused on a woman must be almost overwhelming. And I was correct. Though his gaze is centered on the TV, any time the food on my plate runs low or my wineglass needs refilling, he’s right there without missing a beat, fulfilling my need before I recognize it. It’s ... arousing. It’s comforting. It’s exactly what I described to him at lunch.
“You must be a serious Sherlock Holmes fan,” he says, taking my empty plate and switching it out for a smaller one with a slice of chocolate cake on it.
Damn. It’s enough to make me consider forgiving Miriam for selling me out for Lizzo. A moan works its way up my throat, but remembering Cyrus’s reaction last time, I lock it down. Although an imp I didn’t know existed inside me tries to cajole me into loosing it. I’m tempted, if only to see that hot flash in his eyes again ...
Giving my head a mental shake, I fork another piece into my mouth. That’s not me. I don’t think ...
“I am,” I say, waving my fork toward the television. “What’s not to love? A brilliant detective who solves crimes Scotland Yard can’t by deducing the details that most of us miss along with his faithful partner, Dr.Watson? I know some people aren’t fans of the recent versions and retellings of Sherlock, but I appreciate almost all of them. They reveal faceted personalities of the flawed man, just as we’re all flawed. And you have to imagine that a man who is so brilliant would have demons.There would be a price to pay for a mind that bright. So I love them all. Benedict Cumberbatch. Jonny Lee Miller. Robert Downey Jr.”
He shakes his head, reclaiming his seat on the couch. “My father was a Sherlock purist. It was Basil Rathbone or no one. He’d watch all his old movies over and over, and I never could understand why. I mean, after the first time, the mystery was no longer a mystery. But he’d laugh and tell me one day I’d understand.”
I smile at him. “And do you?”
His mouth curls at the corner. “Yeah, I do.”
“I got my love of Sherlock from my brother. I think Levi felt an affinity toward him. Logic. Deduction. Dependence on science and reason, not people.” I softly laugh, but it rubs my throat like old carpet. Scratchy, thin. “My father couldn’t stand the movies. Well, actually, he couldn’t pretty much stand anything Levi did. They were—are—like oil and water with a blowtorch set to it.”
“Maybe your parents thought he was too young for the subject matter?”
I jerk my attention back to him, not realizing until that moment that I’d been blindly staring over his shoulder, my mind in the distant past. My laugh this time grates my throat, leaving abrasions.
“Oh no. My mother might not have been overly fond of Sherlock, but she wouldn’t have agreed with my father. She purchased Levi every Sherlock movie and TV series DVD she could get her hands on. She even bought one of those deerstalker hats online just to irritate my dad. It was no longer about my brother but how they could use him to get back at each other. So then Levi and I pretended not to care about Sherlock. And we learned that whenever we had an interest in something to keep it from them, or it became fodder in their personal war.”
Whoa.
Whoa.
Chocolate cake curdles in my stomach, and the thought of another bite is enough to send bile racing for my throat. Gingerly, I lean downand set the plate on the floor. Here is where I need to segue into something, anything, lighter. Distract him from the big toxic heap of truth I just dumped on him. Where did that come from? All he did was ask me about Sherlock Holmes, and like a door on creaking, broken hinges, it swung wide open, and I allowed all of that ...shitto spill out.
Say something, dammit.
The weather.
The cake. Talk about the fucking cake.
But my tongue, suddenly made of the heaviest concrete, sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Makes sense now,” he murmurs.
What does?burns in my mind, but again, I can’t voice it. And what’s more? I’m afraid to hear his answer. Yet I sit there. I don’t get up and leave to the kitchen, the stairs, or even the damn front door. Because more than my need to escape is my desire to beseen.
“Why you left your parents’ home the other night,” he continues, as if I did pose the question. “But more importantly, why you volunteered to break up with me on Val’s behalf.”
Oh God.
“Cyrus, I—”
He narrows his eyes, and my voice fades away. “I respect your no-personal-questions stipulation, and I won’t pry any further into what you’ve just admitted. That’s safe with me. But I’m not going to ignore it either.” He shifts closer on the couch until my knee nudges his muscled thigh, and his cedar-and-leather scent reaches out and wraps around me in an ephemeral embrace. “All this time I couldn’t understand why such a strong-willed, sharp woman would allow herself to be used by Val. But it wasn’t that at all, was it?”
His gaze roams my face, and I curl my fingers into the cushion next to my thigh to keep from stroking my fingertips over all the places it lands on. My forehead. My nose. My mouth.
“It’s because of them, your parents. You did it because you can’t stand to see anyone end up like your parents. I bet you were the peacemaker in your house. And now you’re doing the same for your so-called friends. Am I right, Zora?”
I’m speechless.
