On the way back home
I stopped at a shop for one single rose, long-stemmed, wrapped in brown paper. She'd complain about it. But she'd put it in water before she finished her sentence.
When I walked into the bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, her hair a wild mess, her eyes still heavy with sleep. And suspicious.
"Where were you? Leaving me in your house all alone?" she grumbled, pulling the covers up to her chin.
I tossed the rose onto the bed beside her. Watched her try not to smile at it.
"Just getting' some air," I said.
She picked up the rose, turning it between her fingers. "In your good Prada sweater you got some air?"
I nodded. "Yep." I turned on my heel. “I’m going to fix breakfast. You shower.”
Thirty minutes later, the shower cut off and she padded into the kitchen. She wasn't wearing any of the clothes I’d brought over for her. Instead, she was swimming in a pair of my boxers and one of my oversized graphic tees, looking better in my gear than I ever did.
She looked around, the rose still in her hand. "You got a vase for this?"
I didn't even look up from the stove. I just jerked my chin toward the counter where I’d already pulled one down.
"What are you even cooking?" she asked, leaning against the marble countertop.
"Omelet with and spinach, feta, sun-dried tomatoes. Side of thick-cut bacon and some sourdough I toasted in the pan," I told her.
I took my time with the plating. I hated just throwing food on a dish. I wiped the edge of the plate before I set it down in front of her.
"What do you want to drink?" I asked, walking over to the fridge.
"Orange juice. Pulp," she said, already reaching for her fork.
I pulled my phone from my pocket instead. I typed out a quick message and hit send.
A second later, her phone chimed on the counter. She frowned, picked it up, and read the screen.
Will you be my Valentine?
I turned around, leaning my back against the fridge, watching her. She looked at the phone, then looked at me, and gave me a long-ass, dramatic roll of her eyes.
"Whatever," she mumbled, shoving a piece of bacon into her mouth.
But I saw it. The way she bit her lip to hide the smile that was threatening to break through.
Chapter fourteen
Later that night on the thirteenth.
Zio
When Brent showed up with our friend Felicia, I knew he was using me as an excuse to spend time with her. I had to have my boys back. I introduced her to Sky and let them in. I wish I wouldn’t have now…
“It’s a yearly simulation,” Brent said, pacing the length of my rug like he was delivering closing arguments to a jury. “Niggas in relationships all of a sudden become Shakespeare and Santa Claus, handing out gifts and acting brand new just because the calendar says so.”
Felicia didn't even look up from her phone, though the corner of her mouth quirked. “You literally bought me a gift, Brent. Calm down.”
Sky, who had been leaning against the kitchen island with her arms folded over my oversized graphic tee, turned her full attention to them. “Oh, he bought you a gift?”
Brent didn’t miss a beat. He shook his head, waving a hand. “That don’t count. I bought a gift for Zio too. I’m rich. I buy things.”
