I leaned my head back as we made it to the car. He was going to be livid.
I’d changed into my silk pajama set the second I got home, tied my hair up, and told myself I was fine. I was fine. I’d handled it. I’d said exactly what needed to be said and walked out of there with my heels on and my head straight.
“Is it the way that I walk? Is it the way that I talk?”
I was on my second layer, fruit down, buttercream next, rapping along to Saweetie without a care in the world when his hands landed on my waist, and I screamed. The offset spatula hit the counter, and buttercream went with it.
“Lesley.” I pressed my hand to my chest, heart slamming. “Don't do that.”
“My house.” He pressed his lips to the side of my neck, unbothered. Then he pulled back and looked at the counter. Two cake layers, the fruit, the buttercream bowl, flour still on the edge of my sleeve. “Coco.”
“I was stress baking.”
“I can see that.” He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, reading me the way he always did when he wasdeciding whether to push or wait. He waited. “You not gon tell me what has you stressed, Co?”
“Don’t blow up.”
“Co, Malice already told me something happened at your meeting. Talk to me.”
I set the spatula down and turned to face him. I told him about the Aldridge. The fake couple, the timing, Kim and Iesha leaving. He listened without interrupting, which was its own kind of intensity.
“They asked specifically about the basement,” I said. “By name. Cyrus.”
That name started everything. And somewhere between the lilies and the gun range and him canceling his whole day just to drive me around, I'd let myself believe we were past the hard part.
He went still.
“I shut it down and told them that we are successful business owners.” I held his eyes. “The timing was too clean, though. They knew exactly when I'd be alone in there.”
He crossed the kitchen, took my face in both hands, and looked at me for a long moment. His thumbs moved across my cheekbones slow and steady.
“You did everything right,” he said. “I'm sorry they got that close to you.”
That last part was the one that got me.
“Finish your cake,” he said softly. He kissed my forehead and stepped out of the kitchen. That went a lot better than I thought it would.
I picked the spatula back up and pressed play on my playlist. If Grim said he would handle it, I would let him.
About twenty minutes later, his voice carried from down the hall, absolutely lethal.
“Nah, fuck that. They want to play games with my wife, we can play. Set that bitch on fire,” he ordered before coming back to me on the couch. He was showered and smelling like Shea butter.
“You straight?”
“Yeah, my cake turned out good, want some?” I offered my fork and watched him wrap his lips around it slowly, eyes on me the whole time. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“That’s good,” he said, handing the fork back.
“Mm.” I took it and looked back at the TV like I hadn't just forgotten how to breathe. Like my whole nervous system hadn't just rearranged itself over a man eating cake off a fork in his living room.
I told myself I could do this without feeling it. Keep it clean, keep it practical, be smart about the whole thing. Lesley Grimson was supposed to be a situation I managed, not a man I was catching feelings for in my silk pajamas over a layered cake at midnight. But here I was, watching his mouth and forgetting how to breathe, and the scary part was, I didn't even want to look away.
He laughed low, just once, like he could hear every thought in my head.
“Stop,” I said.
“I ain't said nothing, or did anything.”
