I pushed the pillow away, rolled again, tossing back thecovers and pulling myself out of bed.
I wandered to my bathroom, flipped on the light, and went tothe mirror.
I looked into it.
Well, at least that was good.
As any good Southern woman should, I had a big head of hair.And like every girl who knew good hair knew, you didn’t wash it every day andwith every day you didn’t wash it, the natural product God gave you made itlook better and better.
I was on day three.My hair looked full, the curls I’d setin it with my hot rollers were still bouncy but now a bit flippy, and it wascute.Not to mention, one of the only good things my momma gave me, radiantskin, looked just that (even if I had a nuance of dark circles under my eyes).
I opened a drawer and grabbed some hair ties.Using them, Itamed my curls into pigtails.Then I went about my routine: brush teeth, floss,cleanser with exfoliation, brush out of lashes, and smoothing of brows.
And even though I only had on a pair of silk pajamas (shortswith a deep,deepedge of hollow-out lace and a camisole of the samebut a shorter edge of lace at the top and cute little cream bows at each hip,the rest of it all in the shade of pistachio), I walked out of my bathroom andright to my kitchen.
Marcus was at my stove.He was wearing another V-neckedsweater, this one light blue, and another pair of jeans that weren’t dark-washbut they weren’t faded either.
His feet were bare.His hair was slightly tousled.And Iwanted to say after the mortification of my drama last night that the sight ofhim at a skillet in my kitchen looking like that I didn’t feel in mycoochie.
But that was a lie.
I totally felt the sight of him looking like that in mykitchen in mycoochie.
His eyes came to me.
Oh yeah.
Right in thecoochie.
I’d opened my mouth to say something, but at the look on hisface, any words got trapped in my throat and I quit breathing entirely.
“Come here,” he ordered gently.
My feet took me right there.
Still with a fork in his hand, his other arm wrapped aroundme and he pulled me close so my front was pressed to his side, his chin dippinginto his neck to keep his gaze on me.
“Okay?”he whispered.
I nodded.
“Hungry?”he asked.
I nodded again.
“Good,” he murmured, giving me a squeeze and turning hisattention to the bacon.
He was shifting it around in the skillet and I was watchinghim do this in a weird haze.
But the haze, as hazes are wont to do, even ones you hadstanding in your kitchen pressed close to a hot guy, cleared.
I tipped my head back and started, “Marcus—”
The instant his name passed my lips, he again dipped hischin into his neck and I clamped my mouth shut at the new look in his eyes.
“I have a man looking for him.I’ve hired a privateinvestigator to look for him.And two of my colleagues are looking for him.When one of them finds him, they will not take him to the police.They’ll bringhim to me.And I’ll be dealing with him personally.”
Oh.
