Page 52 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
Miriam snorts. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps you get through these next few months.” She peers at me, and it’s unnervingly ... kind. “Zora, this isn’t going to end well. Regardless of how much you protest, you’re more invested in Cyrus Hart than you want to admit. Somewhere along the line he became more than a client’s ex and a pseudo boyfriend. And when the shit hits the fan—because, babe, it has no choice but to hit the fan—you’re going to end up hurt. And I hate that for you.”
My chest tightens with each foreboding word that falls from her lips. Dread twists inside me, and I briefly close my eyes. She isn’t saying anything that hasn’t whispered through my head in the deepest, darkest part of night when work, clients, or people aren’t there to distract me from my thoughts.
During those hours, when I close my eyes, I can’t help but see Cyrus’s face when he discovers the truth. And it’s cold. So cold with anger, with ... hatred.
No lies, Zora. Don’t lie to me.
And that’s what I fear as much as the threat to BURNED, to Miriam’s and Levi’s investments and livelihoods. I’m terrified of seeing that loathing in his eyes. Terrified of knowing that he despises me.
I can justify my reasons for not telling Cyrus the truth, but it doesn’t change that I’m lying to him. And he’ll never forgive me for it.
I’m a coward when it comes to him.
“You think that’s why you dumped your shit on him at lunch about his people not possibly believing he could want you?” she softly asks. “Because you do know that going off on him was about you, not him, right?”
“I didn’t go off on him.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Just ’cause it was nice nasty doesn’t make it any less of a read, ma’am.”
Guilt buzzes in my belly like a swarm of angry bees. “Doesn’t make it any less true, though. We don’t make sense together. I know it. He knows it. His colleagues will know it. The more I think about it, this thing is ridiculous.”
“You’re projecting. And like I said, that’s your shit, not his.”
“Miriam, he couldn’t even answer about being with a woman like me before. Why? Because he never has. So it beingmyshit doesn’t negate the fact that I’m right.”
“And what exactly do you mean by ‘a woman like me’? Black? Thick? Natural hair?Buffyfan?” She shrugs. “So what if he hasn’t? I’ve never dated a half-human, half-Atlantean with a predilection for beer and a chip on his shoulder, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give him a try. Now, I’m not saying you don’t love yourself or aren’t proud of who you are, because I know you better than that. But Iamsaying there’s something in here”—she twirls her fingers in a tight circle over my heart—“you need to clean up if you believe that man couldn’t possibly be attracted to you because what? He’s too pretty? Too rich? Too successful? Too ... white? I gotta say, Zora. That day in the parking lot, from the way he couldn’t take his eyes off your ass, it didn’t seem likehe gave a fuck about your tax bracket. So maybe, just maybe, it could be he doesn’t have the issue, butyoudo.”
I stare at her, that tightness in my chest slowly squeezing and squeezing until my ribs creak in protest.
She reaches over and clasps my fingers. “It’s just ... you’ve been through hell with a couple of the douches you’ve been with, and no one could’ve come out of that unscathed, unchanged. It could be not just Cyrus but any man who would come under suspicion—no matter if he was wealthy, poor, Black, white, gorgeous, facially challenged ...”
A snicker slips free of me, and Miriam grins.
“You’ll think on what I said?”
“Yes.” How will I be able to think about anything else? “Thanks, Miriam.”
“No problem.” She squeezes my fingers, then stands. “You’re still a Liar McLiarson, though. And you’re making me one too. Because I have to keep the truth about our company from Jordan. And though I’m a fabulous liar—we’re talking superspy level, here—it doesn’t mean I want to do it in this case. You shouldn’t start any relationship on lies.” She claps me on the shoulder. “No worries, though. I’ll be here with strawberry-cheesecake ice cream, bags of sour-cream-and-onion chips, and a Netflix binge ready to go when this blows to hell. ’Cause that’s the kind of loving sister I am.”
“’Preciate it, Miriam.”
“You got it.”
She strides across the office and out the door, leaving me alone with my murky thoughts and her crystal-clear words swirling in my head.
Damn.
I hate when my sister makes sense.
After Miriam left my office, the afternoon flew by in a blur of meetings, interviews, and invoices. By the time I park in the two-car garage of my Park Hill bungalow, I’m more than ready to shower, order dinner, park it in front of my television, and not move until it’s time for me to go to bed. It’s been aday.
I exit the garage and round the walkway that borders my private gardens and tiered deck. Pride beats within me as it always does every time I arrive home. Maybe it’s utterly shallow, but I bought this house with money I’d started saving before I’d left my parents’ home for college. I knew even then I wouldn’t be returning there. But it’s more than pride. There’s a warm peace that settles in my bones. A sense of safety. Beyond those brick walls, there’s no arguing, shouting, or threats. There’s no walking on eggshells or waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. This picturesque Craftsman bungalow with its swing on the front porch is my haven.
So focused on getting inside my haven and anticipating the hot drum of water on my tired muscles, I don’t notice the man on my flower-upholstered swing until he rises.
I jerk to a stop, my heart lodging in my throat.
Holyshit.
