I’d just started sketching the framework for a deeper probe—dig sites, interviews, cross-checks—when her voice cut through the murmur of office noise.
“Afternoon, Maliah. Is Tariq in?”
“Ms. Ellison.” Maliah’s voice was colder than usual.
“I have something for him.”
I stood, rounding the corner of my desk just as she stepped into view—and damnshe did have something for me.
Black leather jacket that wouldn’t protect her from the cold at all. Short leather skirt that knew how to cling to those fantastic hips and ass.
A silk crop top skimming just beneath her ribs, framing that toned, art-sculpted waist.
Red lips. Smoky eyes. And thigh-high spiked boots that dared gravity—she might’ve only stood five-one, but she moved like a woman who towered over the room.
She turned toward me, and I met her halfway, one hand brushing her hip as my lips skimmed the curve of her cheek, then hovered near her ear.
“You’re gonna ruin me showing up like that.”
“I thought about you all morning,” she murmured, fingers toying with the edge of my lapel as I pulled her in closer. “Decided I didn’t want to wait.”
My dark navy tactical jacket hung open over my badge and form-fitting navy tee. Slacks, utility belt, steel-toe boots. Regulation-ready. But under the weight of her stare, I felt half-dressed.
Behind her, Maliah’s face twisted like she’d just tasted something bitter. Good. She’d need to digest the truth eventually.
“Long lunch?” Sanaa asked with a smile that didn’t even try to be innocent.
I snatched my keys off the hook. Didn’t even glance back.
“Yeah,” I said, low and sure. “Long.”
We didn’t talk much on the drive. We didn’t need to.
Every stoplight turned into a glance. Every glance held too long. The air inside the truck felt thicker than it should’ve, like something was already happening between us and we hadn’t even touched.
Instead of heading downtown, I swung east and pulled up to a narrow storefront squeezed between a barbershop and a lottery spot. No valet. No white tablecloths. Just a hand-painted sign, bass-heavy reggae leaking through the door, and the unmistakable smell of charred spice and slow-braised meat hitting you before you even stepped inside.
Sanaa looked over at me. “You brought me here?”
“You hungry or you judging?”
A slow smile spread across her mouth. “Both.”
Inside, it was warm, loud, alive. Steel drums layered over dancehall. Conversations rolling in patois and Pittsburgh slang. A woman behind the counter called everybody “baby” whether she knew them or not.
We ordered like we meant it.
Oxtail. Rice and peas. Jerk chicken. Plantains. No drinks but sorrel and water because I was still technically on duty and she knew better than to tempt that line.
We took a small table by the window. No privacy. No dim lighting. Just daylight and the kind of place where nobody cared who you were as long as you respected the food.
Sanaa slid out of her jacket and folded it beside her.
That silk top caught the light. Her shoulders bare. Collarbone sharp enough to follow with your mouth if you weren’t careful.
I wasn’t careful.
“You keep staring at me like that,” she said, not looking up from unwrapping her fork, “you’re gonna make this awkward.”
