Page 10 of Heated (Burned, Inc.)
CHAPTER THREE
ZORA
Oh, this is not going well.
That way-too-familiar churning cranks up in my stomach, but I force my soft, sympathetic smile to remain in place. Even though the sauvignon blanc I paired with my grilled scallops and mushroom risotto is in imminent danger of making an encore performance. Even though a dark-red stain continues to mottle the face of the gym-rat large man seated across the dinner table from me.
This is the third time in the last week that I’ve had to step in and cover a contract. A perfect storm of a stomach bug, a honeymoon, and a family emergency has left us shorthanded, and both Miriam and I have had to pinch-hit during an inordinately busy last few days. Not that I’m complaining about the amount of business. Not at all.
But I haven’t had to take part in this side of it in the last two years. I hate confrontation. And understanding this, Miriam and Levi have done everything they can to shield me from it. Which always paints my belly in a slick coat of shame. I detest being weak. Being seen as weak. Still, this is our company, and I can’t hide in my office while Miriam carries the load. Because she would. Besides being a little on the “eccentric”side, my sister is surprisingly good at breaking up with people. And she enjoys it. Which is either a good thing ... or a very scary thing.
I choose not to overanalyze it.
Either way, pride won’t allow me to be a coward.
Which leads me to my current predicament.
One Richard Henley and a dinner for two at one of the best steakhouses in Denver since a nice medium-rare rib eye is his favorite meal. That’s one of the pluses of ending a relationship at a restaurant. Ply the person with great food they love and just the right amount of alcohol to mellow them but not have them belligerent.
Apparently, I’m out of practice. Because even with only one glass of cabernet, Richard is definitelybelligerent.
“So let me get this straight. Not only did Sheila lure me here under false pretenses of meeting a ‘friend’”—Richard lifts his hands in air quotes, a sneer riding his mouth—“but she isn’t even showing up? She doesn’t even have the balls to break up with me face to face but has to send her ‘friend’”—more finger air quotes—“to do it? Is that what you’re really telling me right now?”
Technically, she doesn’t have balls at all, but it doesn’t seem prudent to point that out to him when a vein is starting to pound along his temple.
“Richard, I understand you’re upset at the moment. I do,” I calmly say, hoping my low even tone will influence his. Hoping. But again. That vein. “And Sheila truly cares about your feelings, which is why she asked me to speak with you—because this is so difficult for her. And for you as well, obviously.”
“I don’t mean to be rude ...”
Which means you’re about to be rude as hell, but go ahead, sir.
“But I don’t know you, and you’re not in our relationship. I refuse to believe she would send a ... a proxy to break us up ... for what? Some bullshit reason like she’s a different woman from the one I started dating? Hell, it’s only been four months!”
He has a point. The excuse is weak. But “You’re a controlling, belittling, loudmouth bully whom she’s smart enough to get away from now before she does something damaging like marrying your abusive ass” seems like a nonstarter. So I went with “different woman.”
Smile. Keep smiling.
I’ve practiced this in the mirror, so I know it appears halfway between “I sympathize with you” and “I have a Taser in my purse and am not afraid to use it. Don’t let the knockoff Manolo Blahniks fool you.” It’s a careful but effective balance.
Still keeping my smile fixed and my voice low and calm, I lean forward. “She regrets if you believe she wasted your time and wants you to know that she values the months you two spent together.” Mainly because next time my client becomes involved with another person, she will recognize the signs of an asshole earlier and not remain in an abusive relationship a moment longer than the first veiled insult or ridiculous demand. Lesson learned. “Sheila wishes you well and wants nothing but the best for you.”
“I’m not listening to any more of this bullshit,” he growls, digging in his suit jacket for his cell phone. After tapping the screen, he holds the phone up to his ear. “Yeah, Sheila, what is go—” His head jerks back, and he holds the phone away from him, gaping as if it hissed and spit at him before swinging a venomous glare my way. “She’s blocked me. She’s actuallyblockedme!”
Alarm shoots out jagged spikes, embedding them in my belly, my chest.
Of course, this is one of the hazards of the job—potentially facing irate exes. Which is why, though we seek to protect the other person’s dignity and pride, we always arrange the meets in public places ... or at homes, but we never enter them. And we employ a one-person security detail as added protection. But as I slide a glance over my shoulder toward the bar, where Doug, my backup for the evening, is supposed to be sitting and keeping watch, a tight coil tautens, then unfurls insideme, spilling a slick, oily dread through me. Because unlike when he accompanied me to Cyrus Hart’s house, he’s not maintaining a careful eye on me. Instead, Doug’s careful eye is focused on the cleavage of the redhead he’s chatting up at the bar.
Dammit.
My heart slams against my rib cage, a sledgehammer wielded by panic. I stare at the narrowing of his eyes, the blotching of his pale skin, and the curling of his mouth, and sweat prickles on my skin; a white noise crackles in my ears.
Deliberately, I draw in a deep heavy breath and imagine circulating it around my lungs, then push it out my nose. In my head, I carefully and quickly erect a white padded wall around the razor-sharp, jagged edges of the anxiety threatening to jerk me out of this chair and have me racing for the restaurant door.
I won’t give in to it. I refuse to surrender to it.
“Like I said, Sheila thought a clean break would be best for both of you. Make it easier for you to move forward. If you have a message you’d like me to—”
“Is this fun for you?” He slams his cell on the table, leaning forward and jabbing a finger toward my face. “Do you get a little sick thrill out of sticking your nose where it doesn’t—”
