“I’m writing a modern-day retelling of African gods. In the myth, Shango is thunder and fire; Oshun is the river that keeps him from burning the world down. In my version,” she said, her voice low and textured, “Shango is a man with too much power and a temper that’s cost him everything he ever loved—his family, everything. He’s a kingpin, a fixer. And Oshun… she’s the woman who sees the cracks. She’s the only one who knows that his fire is just a mask for the fact that he’s freezing to death inside.”
She shifted in my lap and continued. She was warm.
“It’s dark,” she said, looking out at the black horizon. “Because their love isn’t a fairy tale. It’s an obsession. He’d rather destroy her than lose her, and she’d rather drown him than let anyone else have him. It’s beautiful—their angst and pining—and danger. They have a misunderstanding, and the story becomes the two of them figuring out how to ruin the other. An enemies-to-lovers. I’ve got the first two chapters up on my Patreon, and my subscribers are loving it already.”
Brent was actually silent for once, leaning back with a look of genuinely listening. Sky had a way of making the air feel heavy when she talked about what she wrote. Eventually, the noise from the house faded. Xavier and Ivy headed in, and Brent disappeared, leaving us alone with the sound of the tide.
“I’m jealous,” I muttered.
“Of what?” she asked. “You the one with bitches on bitches,” she joked, sounding drowsy.
I pulled her closer. The wind was picking up, turning the Atlantic into a wall of white noise. I tilted my head down, my mouth near her hair. “You got so many words for them fake men in your head.” I paused, feeling the truth of it sit heavy in my chest. “But when I said I loved you, all I got was ‘thank you.’”
Sky shifted in my lap, her head tilting back to look at me. Her eyes were heavy with the wine, but a smile was on her face.
“Zio,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “Thank you means more than you think it does. Especially from me. Words come easy to me—I can spin a lie or a fantasy ten different ways. I could have given you a monologue. I could have written you a poem.”
She stopped, her thumb resting on my bottom lip. “But you had me at a loss for words. That never happens,” she continued. “That ‘thank you’ was me actually being thankful that you loved me when I hadn’t given you many reasons to.”
“Why not just say it back?”
“Because it’s cliché. My romance story wasn’t going to be cliché.”
“But—” I started to ask her what was wrong with normal love.
“I’m tired, Z,” she mumbled, her forehead dropping onto my shoulder, cutting me off.
I let the conversation go. “Let’s go home,” I said, lifting her up with me as I stood.
She clung to me, her breath warm against my neck. “Is Brent always like that? He acts slow,” she asked sleepily as we headed toward the house.
“Every single day,” I laughed. “But don’t worry. I think you’re the only person I know who can shut him up .”
Chapter Eight
Day six
Zio
Rolling my neck on my shoulders, I breathed in the smell of roasted garlic and lemon zest in the air as I went over the inventory sheets with the restaurant manager. My head was still a little foggy from sleeping most of the day away. After the party, Sky needed the rest, and I just wanted to lay up under her—but I could feel the adrenaline of the dinner rush starting to creep in.
I loved this shit. White jacket clean. Apron tied tight.
The controlled chaos. The way a kitchen only worked if everybody knew exactly who they were and what they were responsible for. The smell of fire. The sound of pans sizzling.
This was where I made sense. If Sky was my first passion, this was my second.
“Zio, you’ve been ignoring me again. I called you to my office an hour ago,” a voice purred from behind me.
Annoyance tightened my neck.
I looked over my shoulder—and it was Camille, the owner. She was leaning over the counter. She was a heavy-set woman who looked like that one famous lady who married an old billionaire. Her perfume competed with the kitchen smells. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t my type. Too old for me and way too comfortablegiving pussy to whoever. Her husband didn’t seem to care what she did, though—he had to know she was messing with a few of the busboys.
She’d been flirting since the day I signed my contract. Dealing with owners like her was one of the biggest reasons I wanted my own shit.
“I’m working, Camille,” I said, eyes still on the clipboard. I tried to keep the attitude out of my voice.
She batted her long eyelashes up at me—guess it was supposed to be enticing. “You’re always working. You need to get out. My cousin is having a gallery opening tonight—come with me.”
