Page 12 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
One that has nothing to do with conflict and panic and everything to do with the intensity of those flame-blue eyes, that rudely carnal mouth, the power of his six-foot-plus frame ... and the oily guilt swirling inside me like week-old brown liquor.
If I possessed any doubts before now that he recognized me as the woman who delivered that Dear John letter on behalf of his girlfriend, then his question has torpedoed them. But nothing in his eyes or his voice betrays how he feels about my actions—about me.
And doesn’t that just have the tension drawing tighter?
If I didn’t already know he was an attorney, his ability to have me fighting not to fidget in the face of his inscrutability would be a flashing neon clue.
“Is what a habit for me?” I pick up my wineglass, buying time to ... to ... hell, I don’t know. Prevaricate? Apologize? Thank him?D, all of the above? “Disastrous dinners or getting told off by men over excellent steaks? The latter, no, not a habit of mine. The former? Well, that unfortunately happens more than I’d care to admit.”
“I think we both know that’s not what I’m referring to.” He cocks his head. “But now I’m all kinds of intrigued by the former. We can discuss that first, if you’d prefer.”
If I prefer? Uh, yes, let’s talk about Craig, my very first breakup over dinner, who wouldn’t stop weeping into his glazed salmon. I ended up having to go into his phone and call his mom to come pick him up. Explaining who I was had been fun. Or we could discuss the time Miriam crashed a local matchmaking event at a sushi bar to hand out our cards along with the dragon rolls. Rushing down there to talk the organizers out of having my sister arrested was a blast.
A pity I can’t disclose any of those occasions without betraying our clients’ confidentiality.
Yep. A real pity.
“No, I’m good.” Smiling, I pick up my wineglass again and down another gulp. His dark eyebrow arches, and the question in it is fair.I, too, am wondering if I’m about to become an alcoholic. At least for tonight. Sighing, I set the glass back down next to my plate with my half-eaten entrée. “Just so you know, I intend to pay for tonight’s dinner, so his whole outrage over you covering the check was fake.”
“I would ask what kind of fuckers you’ve been dating, but he wasn’t your date.” Any trace of amusement evaporates from his demeanor, and though his expression never changes, there is a palpable shift in him. In the atmosphere over our table. As if he’s capable of charging the particles in the air with just the force of his personality, his presence. “Which leads me to ask the same question he posed. Is this fun for you? Do you get a thrill out of delivering painful news just to get off on people’s reactions? Or are you the doormat friend who can’t say no, so friends use you to do their dirty work?”
“Neither,” I breathe.
Pain flares inside me, a flash fire that sears my chest. I don’t know why I’m surprised—or hurt—that he assumes the worst of me. He’s not the first—damn sure won’t be the last. And his opinion of me, of my company, shouldn’t matter—he doesn’t know me. Doesn’t understand why I do what I do. Hasn’t lived my life or traversed the loud, embattled footsteps of my childhood that have brought me here. So I don’t give a fuck if he judges me.
Only I do.
The soreness directly under my rib cage that I’m fighting not to rub my fist against declares I do.
I part my lips to give him my pat answer; he can either accept the company line or, frankly, suck it.
But then his words strike me.
“Or are you the doormat friend who can’t say no, so friends use you to do their dirty work?”
Wait. He doesn’t ... I replay the words again. Oh shit, hedoes.
He believes I’m a friend his ex asked to do her “dirty work” of breaking up with him. Cyrus has no idea that I break up with people for a living.
Here’s where I tell him the truth, that “No, no, you have it all wrong. I don’t personally know Valerie Summers or the guy you just ran out of the restaurant. This is my job. What I do for a living.”
Only ... the words remain stuck somewhere between my brain and mouth.
Because past experience has taught me what I will see in his gaze, his face. The sky in those eyes will become overcast with storm clouds, dark with disdain. The chiseled bones will sharpen, appear even more stark under the disapproval that tautens his golden skin. That beautiful, sinful mouth with a capacity for cruelty will curl into a sneer that I somehow know will follow me out of this restaurant. Follow me into my dreams.
Is it horrible of me that I don’t want to see that familiar esteem-stripping tableau play out in front of me? That just for tonight, maybe I’d rather be that friend? Rather be anyone but Zora Nelson, owner of BURNED Inc., who has to defend her choices? Maybe I just want to be simply Zora, a woman sitting across from a criminally beautiful man for a few short hours before returning home and forgetting he ever exists for me.
It’s not just selfish; it’s a lie. By my silence, yes. But a lie just the same.
And yet my silence isn’t golden. It’s damning.
“Neither?” A faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Then please explain to me how Val got you to show up at my house and end a relationship that, as far as I’m aware of, you weren’t involved in. Same with this one here.” He dips his chin toward the table. “Because you claim not to get a kick out of this kind of thing, but here we are.”
Shit. I’m walking a very thin line here. My own desire aside, Valerie Summers is still my client, even though the job is done. And I have a personal conviction and a contract that demands my circumspection and discretion.
“She asked me,” I say, and even that’s edging so close to the line that an uncomfortable sensation skitters across the nape of my neck. “And sometimes it’s ... kinder to hear it from someone who isn’t as close, as emotionally involved. Chances are they will be gentler, more careful with your feelings.”
“Even while they’re reading a letter intended to rip your heart from your chest?”
