“That we seem to be bumping into each other every time you turn around. I’m a reminder of the loss of your relationship, and the last thing you want or need is for me to constantly be in your face. I must be like salt in a wound. So I’m sorry.”
Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault that fate seems damned determined to keep us bumping into one another.
The words sit heavy on my tongue, but I don’t say them. Even though that’s exactly what she should be—salt in an open wound.
So why isn’t she?
Except for that initial meeting, I haven’t experienced pain around her. Curiosity, amusement, bemusement, resentment ... lust. Those I’ve known in her presence.
Pain would be so much easier, simpler.
“Zora. So that’s your name.” I taste it, savor it. The name fits her. Unique. Strong. Beautiful. Powerful.Her.
One, I don’t believe in fate, karma, or any of that other bullshit that people use as excuses to alleviate themselves of ownership of their own choices and accountability. Two, part of me wants to blame her. That part wants to unjustly assign fault for my pulse jumping at my throat, my dick jerking in my pants at the sight of her, at the anticipation of hearing that throaty voice.
I’ve turned intothatguy—the one who blames a woman for his uncontrollable reaction—and it sickens me. Even as I want her to do something about it. To make it stop.
I take another step back and futilely hope she doesn’t notice.
But, of course, she does. The slight tightening of her wide mouth and the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes telegraph that she misses nothing.
“Yes. I guess you wouldn’t have had time to catch it. Or even care to know it.”
That’s where she’s wrong. I want to forget she existed, want to put her in my rearview mirror, but apparently, I’d like to know her name too.
“Look, Cyrus, I’m not going to hold you up. I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll make this quick. It occurred to me that considering who you hang around”—she hikes her chin in the direction of Jordan—“and your reaction to protecting your privacy, maybe you might feel morecomfortable if I sign an NDA about my part in your breakup with Val. If it’s reasonable, I have no problem signing it.”
“Fine.”
My reply is automatic; I’m an entertainment lawyer. NDAs are as normal and necessary to me as breathing. So that flash of ... something in her eyes before her lashes lower, hiding that ... something from me shouldn’t have my fingers itching to grasp her chin. Tingling to tilt her head back while I wait until she looks at me so I can decipher what she’s hiding in the depths of those dark-chocolate eyes.
She has secrets. And I want to unearth them.
No, that’s not exactly right.
I want her to tell me.
Shit.
Stop this.
Remember the plan. Focus on the plan. Val already altered it, and I’m scrambling to adjust, to get it back on the correct track. I can’t afford to deviate from it any further. More importantly, I have no desire to.
This woman—with her fantasy-inspiring explosion of curls, wet dream of a mouth, and eighth wonder of the world of a body—is a deviation.
“Great.” She nods, and her thick dark strands graze her shoulders. After reaching into the purse at her wrist, she pulls free her cell phone, taps on the screen, and then passes it to me. “If you’ll enter your phone number, I’ll text you my email address.”
I accept her phone and do as she requests. And moments after she takes it back, my cell vibrates against my chest.
“There.” She tucks the phone back in her purse, and a small tight smile stretches her mouth. “I hope that helps you feel more comfortable or at least secure. If I talk, you can sue me for everything I own.”
I still, studying her. And she rolls her lips in, attempting to flatten them. I want to advise her on the futility of that impossible feat but doubt it will go over well.
“You’re offended that I agreed to the NDA.” She is. I don’t know how I do, but that testy note in her voice, the flexing of her jaw, and the shift of her eyes away from mine ... “You offered it,” I remind her. “Did you expect me not to accept?”
“No.” She returns her gaze to me, and this time a more natural smile graces her mouth. It’s warmer, more real and inviting. It’s also utter bullshit. “You have to protect yourself, which is why I suggested it. I’ll keep an eye out for the document.” Giving me another flash of that too-polite smile, she steps forward and around me. “It was nice seeing you again. I hope for your well-being it’s the last time.”
She strides across the parking lot, back toward her sister and Jordan.
