I pulled up to the back entrance of the diner and killed the engine.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything today. For Yusef. For this.”
“Stop thanking me.”
“I can’t help it.”
I turned to face her, reaching out to tuck a loose curl of hair behind her ear. I loved that she rocked her natural hair. I heard her exhale on contact.
“Are you coming in?” she asked.
“Yeah, I wanna see your process,” I said as I parked.
26
ZAHARA
I should’ve known better than to let Prime come inside.
Should’ve known that being alone with him, late at night, in the warm intimacy of a kitchen where I felt most myself, was playing with fire.
But I’d stopped pretending I didn’t want to get burned.
He followed me through the back entrance of Grits, his presence filling the space in a way that made the industrial kitchen feel smaller. More intimate. I flicked on the lights, the fluorescent bulbs humming to life.
“You need help with anything?” he asked, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me move around the space.
“You offering to be my sous chef?” I pulled out the ingredients I’d stashed in the walk-in. Flour, sugar, butter, cinnamon.
“I’m offering to watch you work.” He moved closer. “See what you do when you’re in your element.”
I glanced at him. Most men didn’t care about the details. Didn’t want to know the work that went into creating something.
But Prime was watching me like every movement mattered. Like I mattered.
“Okay.” I added butter to the mixer, my voice falling into that rhythm I got when I was teaching. “The secret is in the dough. Most people rush it. Don’t let it rest long enough. But if you treat it with patience, if you give it time…” I added the yeast mixture. “It becomes something perfect.”
“That a metaphor?” His voice was low, rough. Closer than he’d been a second ago.
“Maybe.” I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “Or maybe I just really love making cinnamon rolls.”
He moved behind me, not touching but close enough that I could feel his body heat. Close enough that when I breathed, I inhaled his scent. Clean soap and something darker. Something that made my pussy clench.
“Keep going,” he murmured against my ear.
I tried to focus. Added cinnamon to a bowl with brown sugar. But my hands were shaking. My nipples hardening. Wetness pooling between my thighs.
“You mix the cinnamon and sugar together,” I managed to say. “Get the ratio right.”
The mixer stopped. The dough was ready.
“You make everything look sexual,” he said, his voice rough.
“What?”
“The way you’re working that dough. The way your hips move.” He stepped right up behind me, his hard body pressed against my back. His erection thick and insistent against my ass. “You’re turning me on and you’re just making fucking cinnamon rolls.”
My breath caught. “Prime?—”
