That’s the thing I can hide from others but not from myself. That’s my shameful secret.
The rule follower, the peacemaker of the Nelson clan, delights in hedonistic chaos.
And if I allow him, Cyrus could leave me in a wrung-out, carnal wreck without even touching me.
The phone vibrates in my hand, and for a second, I consider not reading the message. Just skipping the text, deleting the entire thread, and then blocking him. That would eliminate temptation. That would place him beyond my wayward fingers if not thoughts ...
I read the message.
Unknown: Then meet me.
Me: If I won’t call you, why would I meet you?
Unknown: I don’t know. Why won’t you?
I’m not answering that. Not in this lifetime, and that’s how long he’ll have to wait for my reply. Maybe he senses my spirit of stubbornness, because the bubbles reappear.
Unknown: I’m at Tattered Cover Bookstore on Colfax & will be here until 8.
Tattered Cover Bookstore? What is he doing there? Does he go there often? Why?
Oh for fuck’s sake, I don’t care.You don’t care,I scold my unruly mind.
No more bubbles pop up, but I don’t need another text to add the “I’ll wait for you until then.” It’s implied. And if I don’t show up? Will he assume I’m not interested in ... whatever this is and stop contacting me? Will he go away?
Do you want him to go away?
Oh, shut up, and get some business.
That moment when you’re snapping on your own self and realize you may have crossed the city limits of Crazytown. I’m there.
I toss the phone to the bed and stare at the Thomas Kinkade painting on the far wall. I bet in that world with stone bridges and skaters skimming over ice-covered ponds and a quaint village in the background that people meet at church socials and after a few low-angst dates of picnics and Sunday dinners with the families, they marry and live happily ever after.
Those women never have to agonize over what lines, what boundaries they’re willing to cross just to ...
Hell, I don’t even want to touch on where that “to” leads. One, because I don’t know, and two, because I fear where it goes. How far it goes.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not leaving this house. I have work to do. New clients’ forms to go over. Ad to review. A couple of90 Day Fiancéepisodes to catch up on. My ass is staying right here.”
That’s right. And saying it aloud, hearing it, renews my resolve. Reminds me of my priorities ...
“Shit.”
I wheel around, snatch up the cell, and march from my bedroom and house. But not before I pause and changeUnknowntoMNBM.
My Next Big Mistake.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CYRUS
The door to the entrance opens for what seems to be the twentieth time since I hit send on that text to Zora inviting her to meet me here at Tattered Cover Bookstore. And for what seems like the twentieth time, it’s not her entering the building. My vantage point on the second level grants me a perfect view, and though I’m feeling a bit of an ass for scoping out the bookstore’s customers like a creeper, I don’t move.
Not until eight o’clock.
At 8:01 I’ll leave and bask in all my what-the-fuck-am-I-thinking.
Flipping through my recent purchase, Harlan Coben’s latest, I try to ignore the steadily twisting and tightening screw in my gut. The one that if I were dealing with opposing council, I would excuse myself and go figure out what I’d missed. It’s not an itch as much as a warning that I’m about to fuck up.
