Page 39 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
I never did change how I listed Cyrus in my phone. Why should I? It’s still true.
Shock still wavers through me that he messaged me. It’s been five days since that night at the bookstore. Since he wielded his attorney-like magic like Thor’s hammer and beat me down with my own guilt untilI yielded into being his fake girlfriend. God, even thinking those words sounds ludicrous. Five days later, and he hasn’t been in contact to enlighten me on what this assignment entails. Just complete radio silence. I’d begun to believe he’d changed his mind. And I refuse to admit to, much less dwell on, the disappointment that slides through me. Relief. Relief has been my companion for the last few days.
Until now.
MNBM: First fake relationship duties. At 8.
I stare at the screen, blinking. Not believing what I’m seeing. But no, the message remains the same. And the pulse slamming against the base of my throat and hammering in my head like a mallet against iron assures me it’s not changing.
Me: It’s Sunday.
MNBM: That’s usually what they call the day after Saturday and before Monday.
Smart-ass. Right. Best not to think about his ass right now.
Me: It’s a rest day. Time to spend with family.
MNBM: Are you with yours?
Me: Yes.
Dots appear, then vanish. Appear, then vanish. Then ...
MNBM: Are you using one of your free passes?
Dammit. I lift my head and stare at the front door. Seeing the dysfunctional family beyond. Weariness presses down on my shoulders at what awaits me when I return to that table. Thirty years with my parents. Thirty. They might let the topic of BURNED go, but there will be another one for them to snap at each other over. To argue and throw verbal punches over.
I rub the spot over my eye where the faint thrumming steadily increases. By the time I leave here in another hour or so, that drumming will evolve into a full-blown migraine.
Am I willing to use a free pass to stay here and suffer this broken merry-go-round?
Me: No. Where am I going?
MNBM: My house. I believe you know the address.
Blowing out a breath, I tuck the phone back in my pocket, noting the time. 6:38. Enough time to return inside, give my excuses, go home, and change and head over to my new fake boyfriend’s house.
Pushing off the railing, I brace myself for the explosion of questions and attitude about to come my way. But strangely, it’s not anxiety that bubbles inside me.
Anticipation carries me back into my parents’ home and down the hall.
And maybe a little bit of excitement.
But damn if I admit to that.
This time when I knock on Cyrus’s front door, nerves jangle just under my skin, and sweat dots my palms, but for a different reason. Because I’m here not to break up Cyrus’s relationship but to learn more abouthim in order to make our charade more believable in front of his colleagues. I shake my head, crossing my sweater-covered arms over my chest. This is the kind of stuff that happens in cutesy rom-coms ... or with stalkers.
Sighing, I study the gorgeous home sitting on the corner lot. When I initially drove up to the address Val gave me, surprise winged through me as I pulled up to the house. From Cyrus’s picture and the little bit of information Val had provided about him, I’d assumed he’d live in a luxurious condominium or townhome. Definitely not this beautiful single-family home in an immaculate residential neighborhood that screamed carpools, PTA, and door-to-door trick-or-treating. Okay, so carpools in Lexuses and PTA meetings at exclusive private schools with tuition more expensive than some colleges, but hey, still family oriented.
Like I did weeks ago, I can’t help but admire the white limestone exterior made up of slopes, angles, and arches. To the right, glass nearly encompasses an entire wall, providing a glimpse of a gorgeous winding staircase. A private walled space curves around one side of the house, and a garage occupies the other. So much house for one man. But maybe he bought it soon after meeting Val, planning on filling it with a family ...
No, that doesn’t sit right. I’ve known Cyrus for only a very short amount of time, but he doesn’t really come across as the Taj Mahal type. Prenup, yes. And Val ... well, while this house is stunning, I can’t see it being quite palatial enough.
While I’m still scrutinizing the home and motives of the owner, the front door swings open, and said owner stands in the opening.
It’s just not fair, dammit. He’s as beautiful in his don’t-look-directly-at-the-sun-or-risk-your-vision way as he’s ever been. Possibly even more so in a thin but obviously expensive gray sweater, a white T-shirt, and faded blue jeans with frayed hems.
I swear there’s going to come a day when my belly doesn’t make a fast break for my feet when I catch sight of him. Or my heart doesn’tthrow itself against my sternum like a groupie at a rock concert with just a glimpse of that wicked, lush mouth and its slightly cruel edge. Or my sex won’t quiver like a virgin with the vapors at the glimpse of her first bare male chest.
