“I’m not jealous,” she shot back as she slid into his Escalade, voice tight. “I think she should’ve kept it professional.”
He closed her door and took his time coming around. Through the glass, he caught the way her fingers tapped against her thigh like she was telling on herself. Jealousy sat on her pretty face, and he couldn’t look away.
“What?” she asked, watching him stare at her.
Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine. “You the only one I’m worried about, Ken. You know that.”
Her eyes stayed glued to the window. “Do I?”
His grin curled as he pulled out the lot. “You do. You eat breakfast?”
“Yeah, I had granola and yogurt. I’m taking it slow.”
He gave her a look and turned into Bojangles without asking. “So you had a snack.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t exactly have time for a full breakfast. So, I’ll have some of whatever you’re getting.”
“There you go with that wishy washy shit,” he said, smirking. “One minute you don’t fuck with me, the next you sharing food like we married.”
He ordered his usual, Cajun Filet Biscuit, strawberry jelly, and Bo rounds. He paid and handed her the bag. She dug straight for a Bo’Round, hit it with ketchup, and moaned softly when she bit in—eyes closing, head leaning back against the seat like she forgot where she was. His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles flexing.
She opened her eyes and caught him watching. Instead of being embarrassed, she licked the grease off her fingers one by one, slow and deliberate. He exhaled through his nose.
“Here,” she said innocently, holding out the last piece to him. When her fingers brushed his lips, he caught her thumb between his teeth and sucked. She froze.
“Stop playing with me and eat your breakfast,” he said, voice low. “Unless you want me to pull this truck over.”
A horn honked behind them, snapping the moment. He pulled forward, jaw set, music low, but his pulse was loud in his ears.
The rest of the drive, she tried to act like she was focused on her emails, but he felt her sneaking glances at his tattoos, the veins in his hands on the wheel, the chain against his chest. He didn’t mind it.
When they pulled up to the station, she flipped the switch back to business—hair smoothed, lipstick checked, every detail in place. Professional Kennedi was back.
“You look nervous,” she said, studying him.
“But do I look good?” His grin was sharp.
She rolled her eyes. “You know you do. Now come on.”
He followed her inside, walking close, close enough that people would assume they came together, but letting her keep that professional inch of space she thought she needed.
“You’ve done this before,” she observed, watching how comfortable he was with the receptionist, the way he navigated the hallways.
“A few times. Community stuff.” He held the door to the studio open for her. “I got this, baby.”
“Professional,” she reminded him under her breath.
“My bad. I got this, Ms. Walters.”
She shot him a look, but before she could say anything, he leaned down quickly and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her purse shot up between them like a shield.
“Rolani!” she hissed, but her lips betrayed her as she fought a smile.
“What?” He spread his hands, feigning innocence. “I’m greeting my colleague. Very professional.”
“You’re always playing,” she muttered. “Watch me cut you off.”
He leaned close, holding the door wider for her. “And watch me bring this shit to your front door,” he whispered. She walked past him with her head held high, but he caught the small bite of her lip, the tell she didn’t know he’d memorized.
