I opened the passenger door, and when she reached for the handle, I lightly tapped her hand away—playful, firm.
“Stop insulting me, love. I got it.”
She blushed, slid in, and surprised me by scooting over to pop my door open from the inside before I made it around.
When I climbed in, I looked at her, letting gratitude show. “Thank you. Sweet of you. I appreciate that.”
Her eyes dropped again, and she smiled.
I pulled off with the radio humming. “So, what you do for fun?” I asked. “And don’t say work, or I’m pulling over for a talk.”
She laughed. “Honestly? I don’t really have fun. I work, help Nan, tutor, read, grade, sleep, repeat. I haven’t had a boyfriend since college.”
I glanced at her. “No, you didn’t. I’m the only man you ever had, baby. That’s the story now. The rest was trials; I’m the release date.” She covered her mouth and laughed, color blooming across her freckles. “I love how your face lights up when you smile. Them freckles tell on you.”
She tucked her hair again. “You are something else.”
“What kind of books you like to read?” I asked. She sounded like an avid reader, and I was curious. I loved to read too.
Her whole face lit up. “Crime fiction, mysteries, psychological thrillers, and Black romance.” She grinned. “I’m in my Black male author bag right now. King Benjamin’sVirgin Kisses: A Hip Hop Love Storygot me in a chokehold. I love S.A. Cosby, Brandon Massey, and Lamartz Brown too, stories with real plot, good writing, all the feels, and something to think about.”
I grinned proudly. “You read Lamartz Brown and King Benjamin? Yeah, I’m gone behind you now, love. That’s my lane too. Bryce clowned me for readingBack Down Memory Lane,and I about shed a thug tear.” I laughed, thinking of his wild behind.
She gasped. “Your taste is immaculate. Have you read KOLD or Quardeay?”
“KOLD in my TBR,” I said, then let a little respectful possessiveness slip. “Quardeay? I don’t know how I feel about you reading him. I like you sweet, . . . and I want you to bemygood girl, not his. You feel me?”
I licked my bottom lip, teasing her. Her whole face went hot.
“Stop.” She laughed into her hands. “This is so exciting. We gotta hit the bookstore, baby.” The word slipped out and hung between us. Her eyes went wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“Nah,” I cut in at the red light, turning to her. “Say it again.”
“I can’t believe I called you that,” she said softer. “It just . . . felt natural.”
“That’s because I’m yours, and you mine,” I said. “Stop fighting it. The stars already wrote it on your face.”
She bit her lip, looking out the window. “Light’s green, Ro.”
“Nah.” I smirked. “I’m baby. The hell? Don’t play.”
She giggled, shaking her head, and I eased back into traffic.
We made it to the mall, and it was busy, but manageable. I stayed close, hand at the small of her back when the crowd thickened, guiding her like a promise:I’m here. You safe.We talked about everything—her students, my swimmers, what we wanted, and what we wouldn’t tolerate.
Every answer she gave clicked into place like it was already mine. She wanted consistency, honesty, and somebody who protected her peace instead of pulling it apart. I wanted a woman soft-hearted but sharp-minded, giving, not naïve, loving, but never playing about herself.
She was it. Every sentence confirmed it.
We ducked into a boutique with good lighting and decent quality on the racks. She browsed with that focused eye teachers had, checking tags, feeling fabric, and thinking ahead.
“What’s your favorite color?” she asked.
“Red, same as one of yours. On everything.”
After that, everything she grabbed was red until she foundthedress: a deep-red, satin halter with an open back and side cutouts.
“I don’t know. Is this too much?” she murmured, holding it up.
