Page 14 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
“So why am I not the type of woman who Val would be friends with?”
I stifle a groan. And then another one when he swipes the pad of his thumb over his full bottom lip. I’ve already crossed the line of professionalism, so why shouldn’t I wonder if the flavor of his skin adds a complementary or sharp contrast to the smoothness of the Glenlivet? Why can’t I admit that my stomach twists in hunger pangs to find out for myself? It’s not like I’ll ever see this man again after tonight.
Well, if one doesn’t count dreams.
I don’t.
“Your dress tonight and the pantsuit from the other evening. A little boring, still fine. But they’re off the rack and not designs offered by stylists or the designers themselves. Same with your shoes.” He dips his chin toward the table, as if he can see my gray stilettoes with the asymmetric branch of crystals across the front underneath. “Knockoff Manolo Blahniks. Beautiful. But still knockoffs. Your earrings are obviously real, but they’re too flashy, too loud. Not understated or considered ‘elegant’ enough. Everything I’ve mentioned is fine for most people. But most people aren’t Valerie Summers.”
My breath shimmers in my throat, and it’s rimmed in shards of glass. Humiliation razes a path through me. Not just because everything he’s listed is true. It’s the matter-of-fact tone. The cold measurement of his gaze. Screw giving him my name. He didn’t need it to make this personal. I’ve been stripped, picked over, and catalogued and categorized underlacking.
Fuck him.
“Now who’s getting off on being an asshole?” I allow the corner of my mouth to kick up in a small smirk when, really, I want to tell him where he can shove that tumbler of whiskey and how hard.
“You’re offended,” he states without the tiniest inflection of apology in his voice. Something tells me this man doesn’t even understand the concept. He raises his glass for another sip, his gaze narrowed on me over the rim. But then he sets the drink down hard enough for the crack of glass meeting wood to echo between us. “I’m not an asshole; I’m stating facts. Facts that don’t reflect negatively on you. If anything, they speak more about Val and her values.”
“And yours,” I point out, not willing to let him off the hook. He, after all, spent months in a relationship with the woman. Might still be in one if she hadn’t ended it.
“And mine,” he easily agrees.
Surprise bolts through me, and I blink.
“I notice things like brands and originals versus a reproduction because of my clientele. Also, as an entertainment attorney, I can’t walk in with a knockoff Brooks Brothers suit because they will spot it right away, as will my colleagues. On the other hand, I grew up with a mother who didn’t give a fuck about labels. Why spend her hard-earned money on something as foolish as a name when she could buy a similar piece of clothing for less and put the rest toward far more important things like bills, her family, or even something simple like a damn ice cream cone that would put a smile on her son’s face?” His sky-blue gaze flicks over my chandelier gold-filigree-and-ruby earrings. “And she would’ve adored your earrings.”
His lips flatten into a firm line, and for the first time since sitting down at the table, he glances away from me, a tiny muscle flexing along his hard jaw. As if regretting his admission to me. But that doesn’t really make sense to me. Because, like apologies, regret doesn’t seem like a thing Cyrus Hart indulges in either.
Then it hits me.
“She would’ve adored your earrings.”
Wouldhave. Notwould.
Pain, hot and blindingly bright, flares inside me, and I slip my hands to my lap so he can’t witness me curling my fingers into my palm. The bite of nails into skin grounds me, warns me to keep my sympathy to myself, to not stretch an arm across the table and cover the hand gripping the glass of whiskey.
Again, I don’t know him well—as inat all—but I sense offering any condolences to Cyrus would be akin to sticking my steak-wrapped hand into a starving lion’s cage.
Stupid as fuck and begging to come back in pieces.
“Your mother had excellent taste,” I say, uncurling my fingers to casually grab my wine for a sip. His gaze swings back to me, and the urge to fidget is so powerful I deliberately stiffen my muscles. But I meet those too-shrewd eyes and refuse to look away. “And I can’t speakfor Val, but we do have an acquaintance in common, and that’s how we met.”
“And her ‘acquaintance’?” he presses. “She use you to dump the dick?”
Snorting, I shake my head. “That wasn’t a favor. That was a mercy killing. And one I was glad to do.”
Truth. No matter how much conflict has me yearning for a dark room and a darker corner, I wanted to take this job and end Sheila’s relationship. She deserves a fresh start away from that controlling dick.
His lips curve into an almost smile, humor flickering in his eyes. And it’s that flash of amusement that sends guilt careening through me. Even though, logically, I recognize it’s misplaced—this is my business, the company I’m very proud of and have worked hard for these last few years. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Yet ... that knowledge doesn’t stop the guilt.
Here I am joking about breaking up, and he’s just suffered one ... at my hands.
It’s insensitive. And made worse by my deception.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About the end of your relationship.”
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze roaming over my face. And though it’s evening and we’re indoors with muted lighting, every feature—my forehead, cheeks, nose, mouth—feels touched,burnedby the blue flames of his eyes.
Liquid heat pumps through me, lighting my veins up as if fluorescent gas is flowing along their thin pathways. It requires every bit of restraint I possess—and some I had no idea I did—not to lift my hand to each detail of my face and trace it. Try to brand his visual touch into the pads of my fingers until it’s like a second set of prints.
