Page 27 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Why does it feel like champagne bubbles are fizzing through my veins? Why am I giddy when the only thing to pass my lips today has been coffee and water?
Oh God. This is bad. Very bad.
Unknown: He also asked more questions about you & how we met.
Me: What did you tell him?
Unknown: Through work.
So we’re both lying.
Tipping my head back, I close my eyes. Those bubbles transform to leaden balls and plummet to the bottom of my belly and settle there.
I’m already his dirty little secret, and all we’ve done is bump into each other a couple of times.
And him? Well, he’s my secret, my fantasy, my downfall all wrapped in one beautiful package.
In some twisted way, I guess that makes us perfect for each other in a destined-to-end-in-scorched-earth-failure sort of way.
Unknown: Can I call you?
I blink. Slowly. But no, I didn’t misread the message. Terror spikes sharp and hard, and my fingers fly across my screen.
Me: No.
Bubbles.
Unknown: Then call me.
A chuckle with a slightly hysterical edge escapes me, and I clap a hand over my mouth although I’m alone in my house.
Me: No.
What game is he playing? Irritation stirs in my chest, low in my belly, heating those leaden weights there until they glow. At this point, what do we have to say to each other? An image of his dramatic, hero-in-a-Netflix-historical-period-series face flickers before my mind’s eye. What could he possibly want with me?
That annoyance sparks, as if dry kindling was tossed on its low burning embers, and it flares brighter, hotter. But even then, a tiny hateful voice whispers it’s not him I’m angry with but myself. I’m angry for wanting to say yes. For hungering to hear that midnight-and-fevered-dreams voice in my ear and know it’s all for me. I’m angry and hating myself for imagining what that voice will utter to me. What I so desperately desire it to utter ...
I loose a long shuddering breath.
That’s the thing I can hide from others but not from myself. That’s my shameful secret.
The rule follower, the peacemaker of the Nelson clan, delights in hedonistic chaos.
And if I allow him, Cyrus could leave me in a wrung-out, carnal wreck without even touching me.
The phone vibrates in my hand, and for a second, I consider not reading the message. Just skipping the text, deleting the entire thread, and then blocking him. That would eliminate temptation. That would place him beyond my wayward fingers if not thoughts ...
I read the message.
Unknown: Then meet me.
Me: If I won’t call you, why would I meet you?
Unknown: I don’t know. Why won’t you?
I’m not answering that. Not in this lifetime, and that’s how long he’ll have to wait for my reply. Maybe he senses my spirit of stubbornness, because the bubbles reappear.
Unknown: I’m at Tattered Cover Bookstore on Colfax & will be here until 8.
