by Kira Graham
What I’ve learned over the past week has been eye-opening in the extreme. Paris Hart is not the man that I once took for granted, and while he’s still the light-hearted guy that I once knew, always ready to crack a joke, pull a prank, and laugh his ass off when someone does something amusing, he’s also this super serious, hardworking guy who doesn’t seem to ever run out of steam.
It was a shock, and a good one—but also bad, because it occurred to me that I don’t really know Paris at all, and that is bad. We were friends for months, and in all the time that we were hanging out, albeit reluctantly on my part, all he showed me was the easygoing guy that other people know. I now realize that I don’t know the real him, and that means that whatever pictures I had in my head, and whatever wacky and funny and crazy plans I may have made, are all moot.
Maybe I should just move on and be with someone else. Heath is a great guy, and he’s handsome and smart and dangerous. That’s like the trifecta of hot qualities.
“I was lying, Sin—telling you everything that your sick little brain needed to hear in order to get you to go along with what I intended to do, which was get you to move the fuck on. All this moping around isn’t healthy, not even by Rosetta’s standards, and you know it. I think that you should let go of all the crap that you’ve been obsessing about, and just go with the flow. I think that your injuries and the other stuff that you’ve been dealing with have been so much for you that you’re clinging to the one good thing that you had in your life at both times, and now you’re convinced that that’s all you need to make you happy. But Paris Hart is not going to miraculously cure your heartache, and it’s time that you finally accepted that and got on with your life,” she says seriously, her expression filled with that determined look that she always gets when she’s trying to be good.
“Wait—I thought that you said that I should go for Paris,” I mumble, rubbing at my cheek where her handprint is undoubtedly flaring to life.
“That was before we spotted those five bozos at the gym, and I caught Paris checking out some anorexic whore with fake tits the size of watermelons. That’s when I decided that he’s not worth all this effort—or your pride. Face it, Sinai, you’re caught in a rut, and your circuits just aren’t going to spark back to life unless you let it all go and start fresh. You’ve got a new job now—”
“I would hardly call taking orders from Cleo a job. She’s an awful boss. She threw a rolling pin at me this morning, and the only reason that I managed to dodge the thing is that she can’t aim for shit!” I complain, looking down at my leg.
I’m in this damn boot for another two weeks, whereupon the doctor will do another round of examinations, probably fry me under the X-ray machine again, and then say something sympathetic like, “You should be completely healed by now.” I’m not holding my breath for it, but at least I am moving forward. Cleo hired me after an extensive and brutal interview process, and I’ve started working out again. Rosetta is right—don’t tell her—I do need to work through the pain and do something about the soft gut that I’ve acquired.
Plus Uncle Jack finally relented and gave me five mill as start-up money so that I can buy another apartment and another car, and all the clothes that I sold trying to keep myself out of the dreaded bankruptcy hole. He also worked some kind of magic with the IRS, somehow convincing them that I was in fact not embezzling money from the restaurant, but actually trying to “invest.” The IRS guy now thinks that I’m less intelligent than a box of rocks, but at least I’m not in trouble anymore.
As for the rest…Tee is right. I have been focusing on Paris in an unnatural and probably unhealthy way. Dammit. I hate it when everyone but me is right.
“Dammit, you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
“Except that time you went out with Harmon Gates and sucked—”
“Eek! Shut up! That never happened,” Tee yells, gagging violently because, even six years later, that smell won’t ever be forgotten.
“Just saying. You were wrong at least that one time. That smell was his balls,” I tell her, batting my lashes innocently as she turns a little green and involuntarily shudders.
“Would you be quiet and listen to me? This is serious business. Go on this date with Heath, have a good time, and let things flow naturally. Paris is in the past, you hear me?” she insists, making me hold her gaze until I nod in agreement.
“The past,” I agree, gulping because it makes me feel shaky just saying it.
I love Paris, but Tee is right—if he’s never going to forgive me and get over my rejection, then pining for him and stalking him isn’t a good idea. Now I regret the freaking fruit basket that I ordered this afternoon, and I really regret including the naked pictures that I definitely should not have taken and snuck into the basket at the last minute. Dammit, I have really got to stop drinking wine with those pain pills.
“Good. Now, breathe and repeat after me. I will have meaningless sex with Heath if the occasion arises.”
“I will not—”
“I said, repeat after me!” she hisses, baring her teeth so savagely that I gulp and repeat her words against my will.
“Iwillhavemeaninglesssexiftheoccasionarises!”
“Awesome. I put five condoms in your purse, ’cause even if you’re all barren and dry inside, safe sex is just smart.”
Jeezus. And I thought that I had absolutely no filter.
Chapter Twelve
Sinai
I have absolutely no filter, and even I cringe when Heath blinks and then bursts out laughing.
“I shouldn’t have said that!” I yell, trying in vain to look remorseful, even though I’m not.
It’s not that I try to hurt people’s feelings by saying terrible and insulting things. I swear that I don’t plan these things. But my mind is like…alive, and the thing is directly linked to my mouth so that anything I think just blurts itself out without my say-so. That’s why I’ve cultivated a thick skin and the ability to feel no guilt. My mom says that I had to stop caring, because if I did, I would feel awful about myself and never leave the house. I hate to break it to her, but even knowing that my words are wrong, I still say them—
“Of course you should have, and I agree. This shirt is ugly as hell, but Cleo wouldn’t let me leave until I promised to wear the thing,” Heath chuckles, looking down at the purple shirt with soft pink pinstripes.
The man is as sexy as hell, but not even he can pull off purple and pink in the same shirt, and most definitely not when Cleo has decided to pair it with a tie the color of burnt oranges.
“It’s hideous,” I breathe, lifting my glass to take a sip of wine before licking my lips and forcing myself to meet Heath’s eyes.
I should totally be into this man. He’s hot and funny, and he’s sending out all the right signals. I don’t want him, though, and no matter how hard I try to convince my vagina, the stupid thing just won’t get with the program.
“You look gorgeous tonight,” he responds, his mouth twitching when I sigh and flop back with a moan.
It’s totally fake, because even after the compliment, I feel zero remorse for insulting his clothing. I should probably talk to someone about that, and now that I can afford to pay Doc Tory again, I’ll get right on that.
“You’re too nice for me.”
“Not really. I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while now; I just didn’t want to step on any toes. Trust me, though—if I’d had to, I would have,” he tells me, smiling distractedly at the waitress when she sashays over to deliver our entrees.
The fact that he doesn’t so much as move his eyes from me is a huge point for him, and so instead of freaking out, I find myself relaxing a little and trying to enjoy this date.
“I wasn’t in a good place before. I’m glad you waited,” I say honestly, even if a small part of that statement is said with more conviction than I feel.
I do want to be here. Honestly. I really do. It’s just that…I also want to be in the v
an that I hired this afternoon, sitting outside Paris’s apartment and using the camera equipment that Rosetta paid one of the maintenance guys to install inside. Is that so bad?
“And I’m glad that you said yes when I called you earlier. I thought that you’d turn me down and give me the same speech that Rosetta did about you belonging to Paris and being head over heels in love with him.”
He’s fishing for information, and I don’t blame the man. While we all usually have very set security teams and have personally gotten to know most of the guys who guard us, Heath, Grange, and Nate are more hands-on, skipping from one team to the next to make sure that we’re all as safe as we can be. That means that Heath’s probably seen, heard, and witnessed a lot of what I’ve been up to this week.
I’d cringe and be embarrassed about it, like any normal person would, but what would be the use of that? Fair’s fair, and honesty is honesty, and I honestly was stalking Paris until I got this call today.
“Firstly, gross—I do not belong to anyone,” I say, my eyes going narrow in warning until Heath smiles and holds his hands up, silently apologizing. “And secondly, I decided to quit all that stalking stuff. It’s fun in theory, but unlike Rosetta, I don’t get off on digging around in someone else’s garbage and making a shrine out of their discarded underwear. I’m just not cut out to stalk anyone, and with what’s been going on lately, I’ve decided that it’s just insensitive.”
“Liar,” Heath smirks, shaking his head when I open my mouth.
“I was outside Cleo’s place when she had that conversation with you, and you told her to ‘stop being such a dramatic baby and spilling feelings and opinions all over the place,’ and I also heard you saying that you’d picked up enough tips from the stalker that you could successfully land Paris if you wanted to.”
That’s true—or it was, a few hours ago. Now, I’m being sensitive and trying to move on.
“I’m trying to move on here, Heath, not have my date point out just what an ass I’ve been for the last little while. Tee says that I have to let go and just enjoy life, and, after everything that’s happened, I think she’s right. I lost my dream job, my apartment, and almost my life. Keeping it all locked away and bottled up, while I try to get a man who doesn’t like me to notice me, isn’t smart, so while I say the things I say, you need to know that I’m trying to do the right thing here. You should also know that I came on this date for two reasons. One, you’re sickeningly attractive, and I have the urge to lick your face like an ice cream cone, and two, you’re probably going to end up being a rebound.”
He starts laughing just as I’m digging into the breaded mushrooms I ordered, and he keeps chuckling as I moan and let the food fill my senses. As a chef, it’s not easy for me to eat out and appreciate most food. I’m either finding fault and deciding how I would have made the dish better based on what this chef did wrong, or I’m trying too hard to convince myself that the food really is good.
Tonight, though, I’m in heaven, because Heath has brought me to Papa’s, a little Italian place tucked away in the suburbs that only takes reservations and never serves the same dishes twice in the same month. I’ve eaten here only twice before, because Uncle Jack has a table booked for the next five years, but every time I do eat the food here, I know without a doubt that I couldn’t do it better. The mushrooms are crispy on the outside, perfectly seasoned, and nutty, just the way I would make them myself.
“Good?” Heath asks, tucking into his crab cakes with a bit more modesty than I’m using to attack my own food.
“Amazing. I love food, and I love knowing what goes into everything I eat, but next to Helos, this place is the best. It’s always good, no matter how limited they keep the menu, and Gio sources everything locally, which is great for the emerging small farmers around here,” I say, trying to start a conversation that isn’t centered on me.
Heath doesn’t take the bait and just settles his fork while smiling gently, a direct contrast to the looks that I’ve been getting from men lately. I had to sit through nearly two hours of dinner with Jorge while he lectured me about romance and a man’s feelings, letting me know that he’s firmly in Paris’s camp when it comes to whatever relationship Rosetta is planning for us to have.
This meal with Heath, on the other hand, is nice, and I find myself grinning back ruefully when he just picks his fork up and starts to eat again.
“You should know, before we continue on this date, that I know about what happened to you a few months ago. Or, I know where you were, not what happened after,” he says softly, sending a bolt of ice-cold shame coursing through me.
And horror, too, because while Tee knows what happened, no one else knows the rest, so Heath is probably sitting here thinking that I went through with a termination.
“I didn’t do it! I swear to God, I just…went there, but then I left.”
He smiles, and for the second time tonight, I ask myself why I can’t be smart enough to fall for a guy like this. He’s kind and caring, and he’s not judging me, something that a lot of people would have done if they’d seen me in that clinic and drawn their own conclusions.
“I never thought you did, Sin. That’s not who you are. You’re opinionated and honest to a fault, and while I agree with and support a woman’s right to choose what she does with her own body, I never saw you for that. The question is what happened after,” he says gently, pushing his now finished plate away and taking my hand over the table.
“A lot happened,” I whisper, a lump forming in my throat. “But I don’t want to talk about it on my first real date in months,” I say ruefully, shoving the emotions away and finding a smile that makes him chuckle.
“Well, when you’re ready to talk, I’m here. I’m hoping that I can be there for you even if this date turns out to be just a friendly experiment that ends with us being better friends.”
“Are you saying…?”
“That we don’t have chemistry, and that we’re more friend material than lovers?” he asks, chuckling when I find myself blushing. “Probably. You’re hot, I like your flow, and I enjoy talking to you, but whatever the hell Paris Hart has on you, honey, it’s deep-rooted, and I’m not the kinda guy to keep running after a speeding train.”
That sucks, but hell, he’s right. I’m not attracted to Heath, and as much as I wish that that weren’t true, he’s right: I’m honest to a fault. Well, unless lying gets me something, and then I’ll do it shamelessly.
“That sucks ass. I was hoping that we’d end the evening with some hot, meaningless sex that’d get me started on the road to moving on,” I tell him mockingly, giggling when he barks out a laugh and then goes still, his eyes trained over my shoulder with a frown.
My first inclination is to turn, but, as with every horror movie ever made, I get this creeped-out, foreboding feeling that makes me freeze and swallow roughly. Because I know. I can feel him.
“Do not turn around, and, whatever you do, do not react in any way except to keep a smile on your face,” Heath says softly, his own mouth curving into a wicked grin as he starts to stroke my hand that’s still in his grip, his face going from annoyed to outright mischievous.
“He just couldn’t go eat somewhere else with his floozy,” I mumble, keeping my eyes forward and trained on Heath.
This is worse than bad. Logically, I know that it isn’t great to be on a date with a guy who just acknowledged that we’re only going to be friends, while the man that I only sort of like right now is walking into the restaurant. The fact that it bugs me at all shows just how low I’ve fallen on the totem pole of self-respect. I’d guess that I’m somewhere below Mindy, and that’s just sad, because we’re talking about a woman who hasn’t ever let a man touch her vagina because she believes that she’ll go to hell for it.
“My guess is that he’s here to check out the playing field while pretending that this run-in is a happy coincidence. I wonder how he got a table,” Heath muses, smiling as he stares soulfully into my eyes and blatan
tly checks out my cleavage.
It makes me want to giggle like a schoolgirl, because I know what he’s doing, and I love him for it. No girl wants to send out signals that she’s pining and longing for a guy who sent her a bouquet of nettles while she was in the hospital, and while I found it hilariously funny at the time and laughed until the bedpan became a necessity and not just a sick visual reminder of how low I’d fallen, it also let me know that the game was back on.
Fine. You know what? I know how to play this game, and I’ve played it like a pro for years. Paris Hart wants a war? I’ll give him carnage, I think, as I lazily stroke Heath’s hand, lean over, and give him a money shot down the front of my dress. Thank you, Tee, for insisting that I not wear a bra.
“This is immature, and a better woman would realize that and act accordingly,” I whisper, tittering for effect when Heath smirks and looks down at my boobs appreciatively.
“A better man would agree, stop staring at your tits, and probably call it a night.”
“Isn’t it awesome that we’re not better people?” I ask, laughing when he throws his head back and booms out a laugh of his own.
By the time he’s done and wiping tears from his eyes, I’m smiling so widely that it feels like my cheeks are going to split open. The waitress, the same leggy blonde who tried to grab Heath’s attention before, comes back with our mains and leaves with a huff when he doesn’t even glance her way. That leaves us alone, grinning at each other and eating, while he cracks jokes about the woman that Paris has brought with him.
I haven’t looked at them once, but from Heath’s description of a skeletal crone with raggedy hair and boobs that look like basketballs, I’d garner a guess and say that she’s supermodel material at the very least. It doesn’t bug me, though—or, more accurately, I act my ass off, keep laughing at Heath’s jokes, and tell myself that it’s perfectly fine that the pig is on a date with a gorgeous prostitute. Hey, I need to hold on to my self-esteem, and this is how I’m going to do it.