Page 47 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Yes, I’d said that when I’d called her. And hearing the words aloud in her voice ... well, it’s an erotic kind of torture I’ve brought on myself. I know how I meant it, but my body is throwing in its own two cents and interpretation.
“Yes.” I set my fork down next to my plate, mimicking her and giving a small wince. “They moved the date of the retreat up. It’s now in two weeks.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, then tilts her head, her tight curls brushing her shoulder. “Two weeks? We have fourteen days to get to know each other to the point that we’re able to convince people you’ve known for years that we’re in love?”
“Worked with them for years, yes. But known them—I can’t say that’s true. They’re my colleagues, not friends. So they won’t be that hard to convince.”
Admitting that, hearing the words out there, sitting on the table between us right next to the salt and pepper shakers, carries a certain ... shame. I’m embarrassed by them. As if there’s a deficit in me because after four years of working with people, I can’t call them friends. What I know about them, other than caseloads and clients, wouldn’t be enough to fill the plates in front of us. What does that say about me?
What is she seeing at this moment when she looks at me?
I’m afraid to consider it.
“Can I ask you a question?” she quietly asks in the silence that has fallen between us.
Risking a glance in her direction, I push my advantage and lob a question at her. “Can I ask you a question in return? Quid pro quo.”
She inhales a breath, and I hold mine. Damn. When did it become so important to me to unearth layers of Zora, as if she’s my personal archeological dig?
“Comparable to the one I’m posing to you, yes.”
Satisfaction slides through me in a warm, golden glide.
“What’s your question?”
“Despite us being in a serious relationship”—her lips curl in a sardonic twist—“we really don’t know each other that well. Still, you strike me as smart, tenacious, and strong willed. And at times, you can even be a little ... nice.”
“Did that hurt? It looked like it hurt.”
“It did.” She fiddled with the edge of her napkin before shifting her hands to her lap, out of my sight. “Anyway, out of all the fields of law you could go into, why entertainment? No shade, I promise. But why not family or criminal? Where you can help people in need?”
Does she expect me to take offense? It’ll take more than that to offend me.
I shrug. “Money. With the right clients, entertainment law is very lucrative.” I catch the wince that flashes across her face and give her a half smile. “Did you grow up poor?”
“We weren’t poor, but we weren’t rich, either, by any means.”
“But you’ve never known what it is to wonder whether or not your guardian will remember to feed you that night. Or if they will buy you new shoes since yours has a hole in the bottom or if they will spend that government-issued check on a pair for themselves since they’re going to the club that weekend. You’ve never known what it is to have to hide what few clothes you have or risk having others steal them while yousleep or go to school. If you experienced any of this, then you wouldn’t disparage pursuing a career because of the earning potential.”
“There’s more to life than money, Cyrus.”
I arch an eyebrow, trapping a scoff. “Like what? Integrity? Respect? Love?” I can’t help but sneer at the last one. “You’re being naive if you believe money doesn’t influence and, in some cases, buy those.”
“That’s so cynical,” she murmurs, her gaze dark with ... I don’t want to know. Because if it’s pity, I won’t be able to handle that. “And you’re right. I haven’t experienced that kind of need or lack. And I’m sorry you have.”
“I don’t want or need your pity,” I say bluntly. Brutally.
“You don’t have it,” she replies, voice softer but just as brusque as mine. “You’re a successful, wealthy, beautiful white man. You had a rough start, and I sympathize with it, but this system was created for you to win. The fact that you’re in the running for partner at a prestigious law firm at thirty-three proves that. So yeah, sorry. No tears from this Black woman for you and your privilege.”
She’s lying.
And it’s the first time since we’ve met that I know it with a certainty. Oh, the words are true—very true. But those eyes ... they say differently. She has tears for me. Not for who I am now but for the boy I described. For him, she would cry a river.
My chest swells, my ribs expanding under the pressure.
I intended to leave my answer atmoney. To let her think what she wanted about me. Truthfully, I hoped she would assume the worst. It’s easier when people do; then you don’t have far to go to live up to their expectations. You can’t disappoint them, and they damn sure won’t be able to disappoint you.
Yet I find myself seeking to mitigate her impression of me. Later, when I’m alone, I’ll analyze why.
