I pinch my eyes shut, shaking my head. “Sorry, but that man called me a thief, and I amnota thief.”
His quiet chuckle kisses my ears. “Well, that’s what happens when you go digging in folks’ stuff without their permission.”
“I told you I was looking for?—”
“A cup. Yeah, I know,” he murmurs.
“I…I really was.”
“Mhmm. You better be glad I ain’t tell him about that fork situation. You getting a reputation down here.”
My mouth tingles.
“Open your eyes,” he says.
I can’t.
“What I tell you about closing your eyes like that?”
I pinch them tighter until his rough finger brushes my eyelid and swipes across my brow. I’ve been waiting for this touch, but it’s not even enough. It’s just a little tease that makes me take a step forward and close some of the distance I put between us. A blend of weed, gasoline, paint thinner, and oakmoss trickles up my nose. Somehow the combination of scents smells more expensive than Baccarat Rouge and all the other bullshit cologne AJ wore.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, dropping his hand. “You ain’t supposed to be over here. You know better.”
I did.
Just like I knew how much that hardness in his voice made me plunge my fingers deep inside myself while I chased him from my lonely bed on three different nights last week because we aren’t strangers anymore. Iknowhim.
I peel my eyes open and scour his torso. “I won’t tell anybody what I saw last weekend at Beatrice’s. You know that, right?”
He snorts, swiping at his nose. “How you get over here? Another Uber?”
“And Wendell hit you first. I saw him do i?—”
“Stop.” He shakes his head. “You gon’ go get in my truck and I’m gonna take you back home.”
But nobody at home holds me like he does. Nobody there sees me like he does.
“But I don’t want to go back?—”
“Nuh-uh. You got me with that shit last time. C’mon. Come get out this rain while I get my keys.”
A hard ball crawls up my throat. “But wait…”
He sighs. “What is it, Lovie?”
It’s raining and I’m chasing all those things I never knew I wanted—rough hands, veiny forearms, and a man who could give a shit about Paris Fashion Week, Chanel and French 75s.
Fuck.
I just want him to hold me like I’m a baby again and agree with me when I tell him how fucked up it is that Uncle Kenny still talks about AJ like he’s his long-lost son. I want him to dance with that hot neediness between my legs and tame it so I won’t dare do another crazy thing like this. I want to see that cut on his stomach, and I want him to tell me how it got there.
“My uncle wants to wash his hands of you,” I blurt instead.
“Okay?”
“Okay?” I repeat. “He thinks you don’t want a boxing career.”
“Because I don’t. Now you know your uncle doesn’t like me and you should understand why he wouldn’t want you down here. Listen to him.”
