Page 13 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
“Did it?”
I don’t know where that question came from. Don’t know where the nerve to ask it originated. One, his feelings—or lack of them—aren’t my business.
Two, not my business.
But I don’t rescind my question. And I can’t deny that the air in my lungs stalls; hell, every necessary function in my body seems to halt in anticipation of his answer.
“No.”
The breath expels from my chest in a deep, hopefully silentwhoosh. Disbelief pours through me. Not because I think he’s lying and trying to save face. No, the exact opposite. It’s because I believe him.
But that doesn’t make sense. I remember the bleak devastation on his face while I read that letter from Valerie before he concealed the stark emotion behind a stone-cold mask. That couldn’t be faked.
This man. He’s a labyrinth of contradictions. And I want to navigate every meandering, twisty path to figure him out.
A movement behind Cyrus catches my attention. Doug heads in the direction of the bathroom, and the redhead is nowhere in sight.
Oh, you’re so fucking fired, Doug.
Giving him a tiny shake of my head, which I hope he reads as “Your services are no longer needed,” I return my attention to Cyrus. As if it’s a choice. His presencedemandsmy full focus as his due. And I willingly surrender it.
Before I can unwisely but irresistibly dive into that enigmatic and blunt “No,” Cyrus—thankfully—interrupts me.
“How did you meet Val?”
I’m not in a law-office conference room or a courtroom, but that fact doesn’t stop me from feeling like I’m being interrogated. Doesn’t prevent sweat from popping under my arms or along my palms.
Don’t even think about picking up that wineglass,my subconscious hisses.
“Through a mutual friend.” Friend. Client. I’m kind of horrified with myself at how easily that white lie slides off my tongue.
Once more his dark eyebrow wings high, and a reclusive mole could spot his skepticism.
“Excuse me, sir, ma’am. Is there anything else I can get you? Dessert? Another glass of wine?” The waiter appears at the side of the table and doesn’t even bat an eye at the exchange of my dinner partners. Talk about professionalism.
“The check, please,” Cyrus says, reaching into his suit jacket, withdrawing a thin black leather wallet, and removing a credit card. It, too, is black. “And a double Glenlivet neat.” That knowing gaze alights on my nearly empty drink. “And another glass of whatever she’s having.”
“Very good.” With a nod, the waiter discreetly accepts the credit card and disappears.
She.He calls meshe. Probably because he doesn’t know my name—kind of difficult to introduce yourself when you’re narrating a Dear John letter—and he hasn’t asked me for it since he sat down. And I don’t offer it. Maybe it’s wishful or even desperate thinking, but the omission of my name keeps this from becoming too personal. Too ... intimate.
Like I said, wishfulanddesperate.
“Do you feel like you’re going to need whiskey for this conversation?” I ask, only half teasing.
“If I needed it, I wouldn’t have ordered it,” he replies, and God, isn’t he the king of enigmatic answers tonight? I wish it didn’t make himeven more fascinating. Or impossible to glance away from. “You and Val don’t seem to be the type of women who have anything in common.”
My chin jerks toward my chest, as if his words delivered a verbal blow.Thatcomment succeeds in making him a little less fascinating.
“Why? Because she’s a white woman from Cherry Hills who can trace her family tree back to the original settlers and I’m ... not?”
“Do you mean because you’re a Black woman not from Cherry Hills whose ancestors probably have more to do with actually building this country than hers? No, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m not going to lie and claim Val is color blind, but your race wouldn’t be as much of a factor as your social connections, financial portfolio, and career growth. I’m proof of that.”
As I’m digesting that bit of information—not about Valerie but the taunting and tantalizingI’m proof of that—our server appears again with the check folder as well as a tray bearing our drinks. He sets the dark-red billfold in front of Cyrus, then carefully delivers our drinks.
Once Cyrus signs the bill and hands it back to the waiter, he picks up his whiskey and sips it. To avoid staring at those beautiful lips wrapping around the edge of his glass, I echo his movements and gratefully sip my sauvignon blanc.
Let it go.I should let it go.Don’t ask.Dammit, I shouldn’t ask.Don’t you ask ...
