Driving Heat by Zuri Day Page A

While Dad was deployed, she had to hold down the fort with six rowdy kids. Books, videos, games, TV . . . not the stuff kids want to watch, but the PBS, History, or Biography channels, documentaries . . . that was our entertainment. She’d quiz us, too, to make sure we watched. We had a white Volvo station wagon and on the weekends, we’d pile in and head off to places unknown. The beach, museums, different parts of LA . . . it was always an adventure. I didn’t like it then, wanted to run the streets with my friends. But those trips are what made me curious, and well-rounded. So I appreciate it now.”
    “Hmm. That reminds me of the family trips we used to take, my brother and I, and our parents. Every summer we took a road trip to a different place. We’d laugh, play CDs and car games. Good times for sure.”
    “How old is your brother?”
    “Twenty-six.”
    “Four years younger than me. How old are you?”
    “How old do you think?”
    “Here we go, a woman who doesn’t want to tell her age. Well, are you older or younger than your brother?”
    “All of these appetizers sound delicious. What do you recommend?”
    “See, that’s what I was thinking about earlier and you just did it again. When I tell you something that’s accurate, you say I’m being presumptive. But when I ask a question, you don’t always answer.”
    “Which I admit is a perfectly legitimate, if somewhat annoying choice.” Once again, she perused the menu. “Anything in particular you’d suggest?”
    Byron picked up his menu. “Everything I’ve eaten has been good, but they’re known for their pasta. If you like veal, that dish is an excellent choice.”
    “I don’t recall ever eating veal.”
    “Then try it. Let go of that rigid, controlled persona you hold on to and live life on the edge.”
    “I. Am not. Rigid.” Of course, when she said this her back was as stiff as a board.
    “No?” He chuckled, that low, slow sound that started deep in his chest before rolling up and out into the atmosphere.
    Cynthia refused to acknowledge its effect. “No,” she dared say again, thankful for the loose-fitting top she wore that hid her pebbling nipples.
    His eyes swept over that very area, almost as if he not only knew what he was doing, but knew he’d succeeded. His words further unnerved her. “I guess we’ll see.”
    They placed their appetizer and entrée orders. As the food arrived, the conversation moved to the safe zone that Cynthia wanted. They talked, laughed, and learned more generalities about each other’s lives. But something was different. Both of them felt it. Neither brought it up. Attraction. Desire. Hot. Pulsating. Weaving itself around them, and not letting go.
    The waiter came for their entrée dishes and suggested dessert.
    Byron deferred to Cynthia, who reached for her purse even as she was speaking. “I have absolutely no room left. But everything was delicious. Thank you.”
    “Why are you reaching for your wallet?”
    “Why not? You treated me to coffee yesterday.”
    “Yeah, and that buck fifty almost broke me.”
    Put that way, Cynthia’s statement sounded stupid to her own ears.
    “This isn’t a date, I get it. We’re just eating. But I’m paying for it. If it means that much, you can pick it up next time.”
    Cynthia wasn’t touching that one. “It’s not nice to eat and run, but I have a few things to do before work tomorrow.”
    “No worries. Give me a minute. I’ll walk you out.”
    She waited, but barely. Byron caught up with her as she walked out the door. “Where are you parked?”
    “Around the corner.”
    “Okay.”
    They reached her car. She turned to him. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner, Byron, and introducing me to this place. I’ll definitely come back here.” She held out her hand. “And thanks again for the crystal glasses.”
    Byron ignored her outstretched hand. Closing the distance between them, he wordlessly pulled her to his chest and wrapped his arms around