“Hey, ma’am, is that our Peach Cobbler á la Soul?” someone called.
“With a couple of scoops ofBless Your Heart.” I recited the ridiculously long name for the ice cream paired with every dessert. I took one step. My toe caught on the handle of a Birkin bag—theBirkin I’d asked Miss Bougie with the micro-braids to move.
A gasp shot out of me—cartoon chaos, zero cuteness. Plates tilted in slow-motion doom. The first plate smashed onto the diva’s bag. Midway through an internal victory fist-pump, plate two foundhischest. That fortress of muscle? Breached. Peach cobbler filling now streaked his white shirt.
I froze while the empty plate did a dramatic mic drop onto dark herringbone wood like it had a vendetta against my dignity.
A hush fell over the HC&PP Maison. Then laughter rippled.Welcome to my oddball life.
Heat roared up my cheeks. All eyes on me. Oh, God. My cover. My job. Everything.
“I-I’m so sorry!” I snatched napkins from my apron, dropped even more, and scrubbed his chest like I was erasing every sin that forced me and my son to live in secret.
“You know what, sir? I’ll wash your shirt. We have a washer-dryer combo. Sleek. Stackable. Have you ever seen a stackable?”
The flatlining of my dignity and Ms. Berkin’s sharp tongue drowned out his reply. But was I listening to her gripe about herpurse’s price tag?Nope. My focus? Glued. To. His. Chest. The shirt fit him so deliciously.
The look the man gave Ms. Berkin must’ve untightened those microbraids because she clamped her lips. Okay, so he was my hero now. I pushed through.
Knuckles tightened, I scrubbed. And, hell, he stood there all calm and sculpted, watching me lose my last ounce of normal. I returned to our conversation. “The HC&PPMaison—Maisonstands for house, by the way—will get your shirt cleaner than clean. Whiter than white.” Wipe. Promise.Smear. Promise. On repeat. “While you wait, pick something off the menu. My treat.”Ugh, Zuri, you can’t even afford to buy him the cheapest appetizer.
“It’s fine,bébé.” His voice was an entire situation—deep and low, temptation. That Creole lilt made my thighs want to sign a nondisclosure agreement.No you didn’t, Zuri! Men are off the menu. Forever.
But eye-level with his chest, I saw muscles for days and a … peachy-orange blur. “Oh. It’s not coming … out. I’ll buy you another shirt. A whole pack.” Of course, I gripped the hem of his shirt. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I told myself to promise Ms. Berkin I’d scrub her purse next.
Out of habit formed from hours in the ER, hyper-focusing helped me triage unconscious patients without knowledge of their medical history—deathly allergies and such. Now, I Couldn’t stop myself. I yanked his shirt upwards.Why, Zuri?
The man laughed—a low rumble that curled around me. His hands claimed mine, stopping the madness. My wide eyes met his.
His gaze remained easy. “Pardon me, bébé.”
I muttered another apology.
“You got me covered in your peaches.” White teeth flashed against his thick lips as he peeled gooey fruit from the sleeve of his shirt with two fingers.
Again I apologized, this one included a wince.
He popped the peach into his mouth. “Not bad.”
Lawd, his voice sounded like sin and sweet tea.Hold up. Was he … flirting?
