Part of me wants to make an excuse, any excuse, to run at the mention of the wordliar. It’s like a scarletLon my chest. But the other half ... that half keeps me glued to the spot, determined to listen, to pay silent penance for a sin he has no idea I’m committing just to be close to him one more day, one more hour, under the guise of this “relationship.”
Because somewhere along the line, this arrangement became an excuse. For both of us.
But what do we have? I don’t know if I can categorize it under something as convoluted as a fake relationship or as simple and uncomplicated as friendship. My friends don’t set off undercurrents of desire so hot, so needy, that it’s an alive, breathing thing that consumes. I don’t go to sleep at night, arms and body empty of my friend but mind full of him, only to wake up in the morning the same way.
My friends don’t inspire me to wish for foolish things.
And foolish is allowing myself to fall for a man I’m lying to and have been from the day we met.
“I’m sorry, Cyrus.”
He glances down at me. “Are you now apologizing for Derrick, Zora?” he teases, leaning down and brushing a kiss across my forehead.
Closing my eyes, I savor the softness of the caress.For show. For his colleagues,I remind myself. Even though I don’t think any of them are paying attention to us. Still, I need that reminder. It keeps me from going down that rabbit hole of ... hope.
“I’d never do something as silly as apologize for him. Especially since he wouldn’t—and most likely still doesn’t—see anything wrong with what he did. I’m sorry you were harmed by his actions.”
He shakes his head, sighing. “People like him, they rarely see how their behavior affects other people. They don’t see lies as harmful because they don’t leave bruises or cuts. But the damage is worse because they’re longer lasting. I think about my aunts who lied to the social workers about providing a safe, secure home for me just to get a check. Or my cousins who lied to my aunts about me stealing from them so I could be punished. Or my parents who lied to me when they promised they’d never leave me.”
His voice trails off, and he shifts his gaze back to the shadowed red rock plateau. A muscle tics along his clenched jaw, and I sense he didn’t mean to let that last sentence slip.
“They don’t see lies as harmful because they don’t leave bruises or cuts. But the damage is worse because they’re longer lasting.”
Hot, acidic guilt and shame eat away at me.
He’s right.
No wrong can be justified away. And I’m wronging him by keeping the truth away from him. He deserves better than that.
He deserves better than that fromme.
Heart pounding against my rib cage like a hammer against an anvil, I turn to him.
“Cyrus—”
“Excuse me. Cyrus.”
I jerk around, and Cyrus pivots, pushing away from the balcony to face Jill, who stands just inside the entrance to the dining room. No longer effervescent and smiling, she’s pale, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Somber. That’s the word that pops into my head.
Dread curdles like sour milk in my belly, and instinctively I seek Cyrus’s hand.
“What’s wrong, Jill?” he asks, enclosing my fingers in his and moving toward her.
“I—” She shakes her head, crimson suffusing her face. “This is not—I’m so sorry,” she finally whispers, obviously flustered.
Confused, I move forward, her obvious distress upsetting me.
Then I draw up short, as if a wall of ice has sprung up before me. And that cold seeps through me, freezing my breath, the blood in my veins.
Valerie Summers.
Valerie Summers stands behind Jill.
“The fuck?” Cyrus growls.
“Cyrus.” Val steps forward, stunning in a blue wrap dress that clings to her beautiful figure. “You are a very difficult man to get in touch with. Luckily, Derrick informed me about the retreat, and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity for us to talk.”
“You? You’re responsible for this?”
