Page 8 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
I frown, and a curl of disquiet unfurls inside my chest. Yeah, not superstitious, I remind myself. Even as I rub the heel of my hand to the middle of my sternum, directly over that quietly expanding sense of foreboding that has stalked me all day.
“Bullshit,” I mutter, shaking my head and deliberately dropping my hand to the marble island.
Everything is fine. So what if she hasn’t called? This is Val. She probably got caught up in one of her charity foundation meetings or lunch with her mother or shopping. Because damn, does the woman love to shop. It’s not like our relationship is one where we live in each other’s back pockets and keep each other abreast of the other’s every move or itinerary.
So why the fuck am I still staring at this phone like I can Houdini her number to flash across the screen?
It’s official. I need a drink.
I cross to the refrigerator, jerk open the right-side door, and pull out a beer. Another thing Val sneers at—my plebeian choice in alcohol. As hot of a fuck as she finds me and as acceptable as my career and spendable my money are, I’m still a fixer-upper for her. Doesn’t bother me. That’s part of the reason I chose her. But no way in hell am I giving up my IPAs.
Just as I twist the cap off, the peal of the doorbell echoes through the house. I pause, narrowing my eyes on the kitchen entrance, that unease ballooning in my chest, clawing up my throat until it coats my tongue like an acrid, thick grime. For a moment, my feet remain glued to the floor, as if they sprouted roots and plowed deep into the hardwood.
My mind drawls that I’m being a damn idiot, to go answer the door. But every primal, self-protective instinct that shielded and warned me when I was a kid roars that I avoid that door at all costs.
But I’m no longer that small, vulnerable, twelve-year-old boy dependent on his instincts and desperation to read the mood of the room to determine whether he would eat that night or if he would need to dodge a smack.
I’m a grown man who relies only on himself—and has for longer than he should’ve. A man who owns this fucking house and doesn’t need to be afraid of anyone or anything in it. Or on the other side of it.
After setting the beer bottle on the island with a sharp rap, I stalk out of the kitchen, down the short hallway that flows into an open, airy expanse of breakfast nook, living room, and dining room. At this moment, the oatmeal, slate grays, forest greens, and wood accents fail to exert their usual soothing effect. Not when every bit of my focus is centered on the front door.
Because a sliver of me still cringes at the thought of approaching the entrance, of my fingers curling around that knob, I charge forward the last few feet like I’m headed to battle instead of just crossing my foyer.
Not bothering to check the small video camera mounted on the wall to my right, I twist the lock and yank the door open.
And stare down at a young Black woman I’ve never seen before.
I blink, my grip on the door and the doorframe still tight enough to have wood biting into my fingers. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I have aNO SOLICITORSsign—I don’t, but now I plan on buying one first thing tomorrow—but the relief pouring through me is so damn thick, so powerful, my throat temporarily closes around the words.
“Mr.Hart?” she asks, and her voice is all wrong.
Even before entering the law field, I was a master at reading people. I had to be in order to navigate my childhood. Discerning moods and personalities determined the difference between remaining in a house a few weeks longer or being shipped off to another aunt. The difference between new school clothes or borrowing your older cousin’s shirt and hoping he only busted your lip when he found out instead of delivering a beatdown that made you “think twice about touching his shit.”
So yeah, I’m good at reading people. And looking at this woman in her perfectly tailored but conservative blue-and-gray pinstripe pantsuit with matching light-gray stilettoes, I find the smoky contralto, reminiscent of long-ago speakeasies with crooning blues singers, liberally flowing alcohol, and zero inhibitions, doesn’t fit.
My gaze drifts upward, scans over thick dark hair with its mass of tight curls that billow around her face and shoulders. It’s not unruly or untamed. It’s ... free. Fuck, that hair.
I swallow.
Yeah, her voice matches that hair.
As do her earrings.
I cock my head to the side, studying the incongruity of those large swinging silver-and-red chandelier earrings with the reserve of her clothes.
“Mr.Hart?” she says again, and I jerk my attention from her earrings to meet the dark brown of her eyes.
“Yes.”
Wait. The hell? I shake my head. How does she know my name? And what is she doing on my doorstep after six in the evening? Isn’t that too late to be out selling magazine subscriptions, vacuums, or whatever the hell people go door to door peddling these days?
Lowering my arms, I shift forward, sliding my hands into my suit pockets, the relief that had streamed through me shutting down, as if someone reached inside me and twisted it off.
“What can I do for you?”
I don’t ask her name or ask her to come inside. Something ... ominous knocks inside my chest that warns me against doing either. That I don’t want any part of either. And as she reaches into a dark-red satchel slung over her shoulder, pulls out a sheet of paper, and begins reading, that knocking grows louder.
“Dear Cyrus, for six months you have meant the world to me. When we first met, I believed you were the man I hoped to marry oneday. Handsome, smart, ambitious, driven, a fantastic lover. You’re everything I wanted in a man. But now things have changed.”
