She smiled at his joke and recalled the many times at the Bailey house when he’d tell tall tales and make everyone laugh with his lovely sense of humor.
She squeezed water from a handful of her bobbed hair. “You didn’t answer me before—what is it with you and Dewey?”
“He tried to get Jeremiah involved in his fucking bootleg business.”
“Last time I saw Jeremiah he was almost as tall as you.”
“I know he can take care of himself. But Dewey is bad for business. He makes stupid mistakes neither my brother nor I can afford.”
“Oh, so Archie asked you to keep an eye on him?”
He laughed. “Yes. You know the Brothers Grimm well.”
She cocked her head. “Grimm. Their surname is Graves, though grim works better.”
“Let me get you some of Marcus’s things.” He walked into the room with two beds, went to a dresser, and opened a drawer. “Here you go.”
He excused himself, leaving her alone to change out of her wet clothes. She heard him in another part of the store, making noise with pots and pans, hoping that meant he was making coffee. The bumps rising on her skin were the size of blueberries. She slipped on the shirt and pulled on a pair of overalls. The clothes were miles of fabric too large, but they were dry, and in a few minutes, she started to feel less frozen.
Ezekiel returned, wearing dry clothes and holding two cups of steaming java. He passed her both cups. “Hold these, please.” He pulled a folding table from a corner along with two chairs and set them up quickly before inviting her to have a seat. “Not quite the Ritz but not bad, don’t you think?”
She sat and sipped the hot brew, sighing with delight as the warmth coated her lungs. “Maxwell House?”
“Nothing but the best for my guest.”
He was charming—the real McCoy when behaved.
“Why’d you leave town?”
His gaze did not waver when he replied. “I left because of my father. That night three years ago, after being with you, I learned he’d been involved in an insurance scam and hurt a lot of people. Black people. He also angered some dangerous men. White men. After his scam fell apart, he lost their investment, their money. He tried to fix things, but he failed, and we had to leave town.”
Ezekiel took a sip of his coffee and wiped his mouth. “I had to protect my brothers and my mother. So we closed the house and vanished,” he said, as if reading from a book.
It unnerved Honoree. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me this that first night.”
“I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me. You were never one to hide your feelings, and if you pitied me—” He reached for her then, but she leaned away from his touch.
“I should go.” She stood. “Where did you put my clothes?”
“It hasn’t stopped raining.”
“I’ll catch a cab.”
He stood, too. “You’ve been asking me to tell you why I left since we saw each other at Miss Hattie’s.” He circled the table. “What more do you want me to say?”
There was gravel in his voice and pain. Still, she longed for him to admit how much he had hated leaving her behind, how he knew she’d be upset, how his feelings for her hadn’t changed. But he didn’t have anything more to say. He stared straight ahead, mouth shut.
Thunder boomed. She jumped, and he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to him; a hand lifted her chin, forcing her to consider his eyes. But all she saw was his mouth descending upon her.
Lips touched, and her emotions tightened in her chest, as her fingertips pulled at his shirt.
The kiss was not the sweet childish thing they’d shared three years ago. Now his mouth was rough, and she kissed him back, matching his desire with an open mouth.
She hugged him around the waist and held him as fiercely as he held her. It was as if she had fallen into a bottomless well, drowning in his fire, and his fury, and his passion.
Then, suddenly, the kiss ended—but Ezekiel’s mouth lingered over hers, his hard breaths a desperate contrast to her soft sighs. He held her shoulders and brushed his lips against her cheek. “I want you to stay and be with me.”
There were so many things Honoree desired from her life, but three years ago, desire had only one name—Ezekiel.
