zuri
. . .
Ibacked through the swinging kitchen door into the Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maisondining area, a Creole hotspot on Royal Street. Sunlight poured through tall arched windows, hitting emerald banquette booths and velvet chairs around dark wooden tables. A classy setup that whisperedBlack, bad, bougie… and prepared to ruin your diet on sight. Creole spices twirled in the air. Honestly? Stretchy pants should’ve been the uniform because these slacks would hold on by grace if I sampled the menu.
Balancing two peach cobblers, I scanned the restaurant, studying patrons’ faces before settling on Darius, who sat coloring dinosaurs.Safe … ish.
These days, I had a PhD in reading faces. One wrong look, and I snatched my four-year-old and ran. Momma Bear: Witness Protection Edition.
It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I was Dr. Zuri Caldwell, ER trauma specialist. Steady hands and cool nerves during a Code Blue. Now, I tried to remember what it felt like to save lives instead of just surviving mine.
The French doors of the entrance swung open, carrying in jazzoff the Quarter andtrouble. I halted mid-step. A white T-shirt hugged a massive chest and broad shoulders like it had a crush. The man’s smile promised danger. I swear my survival instincts threw in the towel as my gaze took a joyride over smooth pecan skin, smoother than all these velvet seats.
“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 microbraids 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 made a dramatic mic drop onto dark herringbone wood with 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 my son and me 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 her purse’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 allcalm and sculpted, watching me lose my last ounce of normal. I returned to our conversation. “The HC&PP Maison—Maisonstands forhouse, 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.
Hyper-focusing in the ER helped me triage unconscious patients without knowledge of their medical history—deadly allergies and such. Now, I couldn’t stop myself. I yanked his shirt upward.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? Not that it mattered. I’d hung up my flirting license almost five years ago and burned up the renewal notice. Besides, I was surprised Ms. Birkin didn’t collapse into his chest like“This witch destroyed my bag. Hold me.”Instead, her glare hit the side of my neck.
After squeaking another apology, even including Ms. Birkin,whose mouth sat in a snarl, I turned, scrubbing a hand through voluminous tresses.Zuri, damn. Stop before your wig flops off.
My bosses—two sisters, Peaches, and Virginia—appeared at the kitchen doorway, grinning like cats before a bowl of fresh cream. While twins in the face, one-half of the fifty-something women was snatched—from her baby edges to her waist-long, lustrous hair. The other, Virginia, kept her hair short and had curves from loving and raising healthy men.
