Page 43 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
“You’re not hungry?”
“What?” I rasp. Giving my head a small shake, I cut off a piece. “No, this is great. Thank you.” I slide a forkful of the dessert into my mouth, andholy shit. Did my eyes roll to the back of my head? Did I moan aloud? I think I did, and I’m not even sorry. “Oh my God. This is sex illegal. Where did you buy this, and can I purchase it in bulk?”
I open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed and once more meet pure heat. The pie melts on my tongue, and unbidden, I slick the tip of my tongue over my lower lip. I tell myself it’s to catch any wayward crumbs, but deep in that place where it’s safe to be honest with just myself, I admit it’s to see those flames jump in his eyes again. That can get addictive.
Iwantto become addictive, even though I know it’s about as good for me as crack.
“I baked it.”
My head jerks back, the fork nearly tumbling from my fingers. “Say what now?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I baked it.”
“As in you made it? From scratch? With your own hands?”
“Sometimes I think we speak different languages. We’ll need to work on our communication, as I understand it’s one of the foundation stones of a good relationship,” he drawls. “Yes, from scratch, with my own two hands.” He holds them up, palms out, for emphasis. “It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Wow,” I whisper. “Plot twist. Didn’t see that coming.” Then I pause. This was my stipulation, after all. But it can’t go unsaid. “I’m sorry about your mother. From what you’ve said, I’m assuming she’s gone. And I’m truly sorry for that.”
“My mother and father. And thank you. It’s been a long time, though.”
“That doesn’t matter. I can’t imagine it mattering.”
As dysfunctional as my parents are, if I’d lost one of them, much less both, I don’t know how I would’ve managed. Who I would be today. How I would’ve recovered. Cyrus suffered the hell of losing his father and mother and still stands here today. The strength of that ... the pain of that ...
“At least I have this part of her.” He tapped the edge of his dish with his fork.More than that. She lives on inside you.But I lock those words down. That’s not us. “I’m glad you like it. Gives me brownie points toward making up for interrupting your family dinner. Speaking of family, your sister texted Jordan. He’s utterly fascinated with her, by the way. Especially since she refuses to have anything to do with his community peen. Her words, not mine.”
I snort, slapping a hand over my mouth to trap my loud bark of laughter.
Cyrus waves a hand. “No, go ahead and laugh. I did. Hard. Your sister is hilarious. Is it just you and her?”
“No, I have an older brother by two minutes.”
“Two minutes? Twins?”
I nod. “Yes. His name is Levi.”
“Levi.” He frowns. “I assumed you were named after Zora Neale Hurston. Was he named after Primo Levi?”
I shake my head. “You’re right about Zora Neale Hurston, but no. Since we were twins, my mother named me, and my father chose Levi’s. It’s short for Leviticus, the third book in the Bible.”
“Got you.” He forks up another piece of pie. “That explains Miriam, then.”
I laugh, and it abrades my throat. Hearing it, Cyrus lowers his fork, his gaze watchful, careful. And I want to duck it, avoid it. But it’s as if a switch flipped on my mouth, and it won’t stop running.
“You’d think, but no. When my sister came along, my parents couldn’t agree on who would name her. It was easy with me and my brother; they had a kid apiece. But this time they only had one, and they fought over who had the right to choose the entire pregnancy. I was only three or four, but I remember the loud arguments, the yelling. From what I understand, after my mom had my sister, she waited until Dad left the hospital room and filled out the birth certificate without his knowledge. She named my sister after Miriam Makeba, the South African singer and activist. My father has never forgiven her for that.” That and a long list of other things. “When asked, he tells people my sister’s named after Miriam, Moses’s sister. But that’s just to save face.”
My words echo in the silent kitchen. Heat streams up my neck and pours into my cheeks, and I’m pretty sure I’m debunking the Black-people-don’t-blush myth. Dammit. I hadn’t meant to say all that. What happened to nothing personal?
“What’s in this pie?” I huff out a soft, trembling laugh. “Truth serum? Because I honestly meant to wait until our second hangout to spill the sad story about my family’s pettiness. Now you probably won’t invite me over for pie anymore.”
My joke falls flat. Mainly because even I can hear the strain and embarrassment in my voice, and he doesn’t look the least bit amused.If anything, the tight fold of his lips, the flex of a muscle along his jaw, and the frigid ice in his eyes scream anger. But at what? At ... whom?
“Cyrus?”
“I’m suddenly not sorry for interrupting your dinner.”
“Um ...” Okay. “Why not?”
