“Aight. Fair enough.”
They fell quiet again, both watching the sky lighten by the second.
Zaire leaned on his club.
Meadow held hers close.
Their shoulders weren’t touching, but the pull between them felt loud.
Zaire cleared his throat. “You competitive as hell.”
Meadow kept her eyes forward. “You bring it out of me.”
Zaire looked at her for a long beat.
No smile…no jokes…just the truth sitting in his eyes like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“You bring shit outta me too,” he murmured.
Her breath stalled.
He didn’t expand and she didn’t press, too afraid of what might come out of his mouth.
Meadow gripped her club tighter. “You want another round?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, grin returning. “But this time…loser gotta make breakfast.”
Meadow turned her head, brows lifting. “Loser?”
“I didn’t stutter, cuh.”
She pointed the club at him like it was a finger. “First of all, I don’t lose.”
Zaire chuckled. “We gon’ see.”
“And second…” Meadow stepped into her stance again, but her voice softened into something warm. “I cook because I feel like it, not because I lose.”
Zaire grinned, her witty words hitting him dead center in the chest. “Oh,” he nodded, dragging his eyes down her body and back up. “So you one of them women who throw down without bein’ told?”
Meadow shrugged, cheeks warming in spite of herself. “Something like that.”
He stared at her longer than he should’ve. “That’s sexy.”
She choked on air and swung too fast, the ball slicing left. “Can you not?—”
He laughed, the sound bouncing across the grass. “Got you flustered now.”
“No, you don’t,” she lied. Her pussy was purring and her heart skipping beats.
“You doin’ a lot of talkin’ for somebody who just sent that ball to the neighbor’s house.”
Meadow stuck her tongue in her cheek and stepped back, refusing to let him see her smile. “Shut up and swing, Crescent Park.”
Zaire lifted his club and moved past her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Yes ma’am.”
Her stomach flipped again.
He lined up the shot. She watched him.
