Page 26 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
ZORA
Unknown: I received the NDA. Thank you.
Unknown. I don’t need a name at the top of the screen to identify the messenger.
I stare at my phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard to reply. Or not to reply. My goal in signing and returning the damn thing was eliminating further contact. And now he’s reaching out.
Why?
Cyrus Hart doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who does anything without a purpose.
My pulse pounds at my throat, my wrists. The throb of it reverberates in my head. Part of me is yelling, demanding I don’t answer the text. But the other half ...
That half has already wrenched control, and my thumbs are flying across the keyboard.
Me: You’re welcome.
That’s it. Nothing else is warranted. After closing out of the app, I go to toss the phone on my bedside table when ...
Unknown: Do you need a signed copy? I can email it or have the document couriered.
Have it couriered? As in give him my address?
Uh, no.
Well, damn. He already has my address from the NDA, doesn’t he?
Doesn’t matter. Still no.
Me: Email is fine, thank you.
Nowthatshould be the end of this. Miriam’s cautionary words echo in my head. But she just reiterated what I already knew. Maintaining any contact with Cyrus would be detrimental to BURNED if anyone, mainly Valerie Summers, found out.
It’d also be harmful to me.
After my last relationship fell apart, I promised I’d never set myself up for failure again. Never inflict that kind of pain, the kind of damage that falling in love, that being rejected and abandoned can bring. And Cyrus—with his brilliant eyes, fallen angel’s face, and Greek-god body—and the memory of that quiet devastation on his face as I read that Dear John letter has my rejection and pain scrawled all over him in permanent marker.
Unknown: Jordan asked me if I could get Miriam’s number for him.
I literally gasp. Aside from the road map of tattoos, that naughty grin, and the bad-boy reputation, he seems like a nice guy. I can’t do that to him!
Oh, right. I also can’t just hand out my little sister’s number to random professional basketball players. That too.
Me: I’ll need to check with her to see if it’s okay.
The reply pops up mere seconds later.
Unknown: That’s fine.
Unknown: Should I be worried about my friend?
Me: Very.
I grin down at the phone.
Oh fuck.I’m grinning.
My stomach sinks toward my feet as they carry me the several steps backward to the bed. What the hell am I doing? I sit, barely feeling my ass hit the mattress. Not a minute ago I repeated why I had to keep my distance from Cyrus Hart—physical, mental, and I’m sure that includes digital. So why am I smiling down at my phone screen, staring at those little bubbles like they’re a BOGO 80 percent off sale at Claire’s?
