“Lies you tell,” she muttered.
I laughed. We rode the rest of the way in silence. She let me into her house quietly. Immediately, I noticed that being back in that house without a crowd of Christophers or a nine-year-old between us felt… different. It was quiet. The rich people kind of quiet. Also, the “we about to do something we not supposed to” kind of quiet. I felt it, my dick felt it, and from the way she was acting all nervous, she felt it, too.
She dropped her bag on the entry table and toed off her boots, leaving them neatly by the wall. Max trotted up, sniffed me, and decided I was cool again.
“He is such a traitor,” she mumbled.
“Why? We not enemies, Grinch-ley.” As soon as I said it, something else dawned on me. “Damn, Ky. You even got a dog named Max. That shit crazy!”
Her only response was to turn up her cute little nose. “I’m going to make cocoa,” she announced. “Realcocoa. Not that powdered mess you tried to hand me at the Village.”
“Don’t disrespect packet cocoa,” I said. “The less fortunate of us lived off that in winter. Ain’t nothing like them rehydrated marshmallows.”
She gave me a look. “You want some or not?”
“I want whatever you making,” I said.
She blinked at the way that came out. I did too. I followed her to the kitchen, hands in my pockets, trying to act like my dick wasn’t swelling just from watching her move around her own space. And fuck, she smelled so good. Like something warm and sweet that I wanted to wrap up in. Kinda the way I felt about her thighs.
I watched what she pulled down. Dutch-processed cocoa, heavy cream, real vanilla. Of course. Rich ass.
“Since when you a chef?” I leaned against the counter.
“Since I decided I like my hot chocolate to taste like chocolate and not brown water,” she popped. “Stir that.”
She slid the pot toward me. I took the whisk, stirring while she measured sugar and milk. It felt domestic in a way that messed with my head. My hand in her pot. Her hips near my elbow. Her humming under her breath.
“You used to burn everything. You remember that chicken?”
Her face twisted. “Jabali, please. That chicken was a hate crime. Mrs. Amanda banned me from the stove for a month.”
“She wasn’t wrong. I ate it, though.”
“You did,” she said, quiet now. “You always ate my experiments. Even when they were terrible.”
She glanced up. Our eyes met. Something buzzed between us.
“Cocoa’s done,” she said quickly.
We poured it into big mugs. She sprinkled cinnamon on top like she was trying out for a barista spot.
“You act like this is a coffee shop. You gon’ write my name on it?” I teased.
“I’d spell it wrong on purpose,” she said.
We carried the mugs into the sitting room. The big empty corner by the stairs had a bare tree in a stand now, waiting. In here, though, it was just low lamps, a gas fireplace flickering, and that big gray couch that looked dangerous to sit on with her.
Of course, she sat on it. I took the other end, giving her plenty of space. For now. She tucked one leg under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, mug cradled against her chest. She looked soft. Like she’d finally put her armor down for a minute.
“This is weird,” she said after a sip.
“What is?” I asked.
“Just… this.” She waved a hand between us. “You in my house. Me not being actively angry. Drinking cocoa in front of a tree I let my…ourchild pick. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“This is progress. You saying ‘our’ is progress. Keep this Kyleigh; I like her.”
“She talks too much,” she said.
