Then it hits me.
“She would’ve adored your earrings.”
Wouldhave. Notwould.
Pain, hot and blindingly bright, flares inside me, and I slip my hands to my lap so he can’t witness me curling my fingers into my palm. The bite of nails into skin grounds me, warns me to keep my sympathy to myself, to not stretch an arm across the table and cover the hand gripping the glass of whiskey.
Again, I don’t know him well—as inat all—but I sense offering any condolences to Cyrus would be akin to sticking my steak-wrapped hand into a starving lion’s cage.
Stupid as fuck and begging to come back in pieces.
“Your mother had excellent taste,” I say, uncurling my fingers to casually grab my wine for a sip. His gaze swings back to me, and the urge to fidget is so powerful I deliberately stiffen my muscles. But I meet those too-shrewd eyes and refuse to look away. “And I can’t speakfor Val, but we do have an acquaintance in common, and that’s how we met.”
“And her ‘acquaintance’?” he presses. “She use you to dump the dick?”
Snorting, I shake my head. “That wasn’t a favor. That was a mercy killing. And one I was glad to do.”
Truth. No matter how much conflict has me yearning for a dark room and a darker corner, I wanted to take this job and end Sheila’s relationship. She deserves a fresh start away from that controlling dick.
His lips curve into an almost smile, humor flickering in his eyes. And it’s that flash of amusement that sends guilt careening through me. Even though, logically, I recognize it’s misplaced—this is my business, the company I’m very proud of and have worked hard for these last few years. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Yet ... that knowledge doesn’t stop the guilt.
Here I am joking about breaking up, and he’s just suffered one ... at my hands.
It’s insensitive. And made worse by my deception.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About the end of your relationship.”
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze roaming over my face. And though it’s evening and we’re indoors with muted lighting, every feature—my forehead, cheeks, nose, mouth—feels touched,burnedby the blue flames of his eyes.
Liquid heat pumps through me, lighting my veins up as if fluorescent gas is flowing along their thin pathways. It requires every bit of restraint I possess—and some I had no idea I did—not to lift my hand to each detail of my face and trace it. Try to brand his visual touch into the pads of my fingers until it’s like a second set of prints.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “Me too.”
Beestings of ... of ... dammit, no. I refuse to label the prickles of heat in my chest. But whatever they are, they’re inappropriate. Have no business there. But as sore as my sternum is, I’m thankful forthe unidentified hurt. Those pinpricks are just the reminders I need. Reminders that the only connection he and I share is Valerie Summers, his ex. The same ex who hired me to break up with him.
This dinner ... it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have allowed him to sit down. Shouldn’t have indulged in a conversation with him. Shouldn’t have been selfish and stolen his time from him for my own personal gain. My desires.
Mouth dry, I reach for my glass and take one last sip of wine. But the fruity flavor can’t drown out the grimy grit of shame. Or wash down the lump of guilt.
Cyrus Hart is a client’s ex.
And though I didn’t have a hand in the downward spiral of their relationship—lack of communication, inattention, and cheating contributed to that—I did aid in the actual dissolution of it. Was paid to end them as a couple.
Being here with him is a conflict of interest and a violation of Val’s trust.
Cyrus’s too.
I need to end this. Now.
“Well, thank you for paying for a dinner that you didn’t even get to enjoy.” I summon up a smile and, after picking up my clutch from next to my hip, rise to my feet. “It was nice officially meeting you. Have a good evening, Cyrus. And I wish you all the best.”
Not risking the chance of saying anything more or giving him the opportunity to—because part of me isn’t 100 percent certain I won’t sit my ass right back down regardless of my resolve—I walk from the restaurant without a backward glance.
Not that I need one.
Cyrus Hart is not a man you forget.
Ever.
