I open my eyes and thrust my chin out as if to say “hello” but he doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he cocks his head to the side with that same even expression and blinks at me while I try not to fall victim to his russet-colored eyes.
“You’re scared of… me?”
He nods.
“Be for real.” I roll my eyes. “You know what? This is silly. Let me put this cake somewhere so I can go.”
I teeter around in my heels until his voice stops me.
“You know, it’s always you lil’ bitty ones with the most heart.”
I turn back around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I told you, you were tough,” he mutters, looking away.
Rich Lovelace is scared of me?
It’s an off-color thing for a guy like him to admit, but then again he’s just flirting with me like he always is.
“So you must be scared of Rasheeda too then, huh?” I ask. “She’s not much bigger than me at all. I mean besides the hips and massive ass… but whatever.”
He snorts out a chuckle that makes me chuckle, and they easily blend together like they did when we laughed outside of Lucky’s.
“Nah. I ain’t scared of Rasheeda.”
“Oh.” I jerk my head back. “Why not?”
“Put that down, and I might tell you.” He nods toward his cake.
I look down at the sweaty box I keep forgetting about.
When I look back up, he’s smirking and I want to get closer to him so he can answer my question, but I know better. I need to find that plot I lost after we found each other in his kitchen.
I twirl around, scouring the gym for a safe space to sit the cake. I find a perfect empty square right next to his gym bag on the bench because God is obviously testing me.
I slide the box into the space and as soon as I turn around to tell him I’m leaving, I almost stumble because he’s sitting up with his muscular, veiny arm out, holding the ring’s ropes open.
Oh, Jesus.
Why is he getting closer?
And why does it feel like my feet are moving when I wasjuststanding still?
“C’mon…come talk to me and show me how you walk in your fancy boots,” he murmurs.
“They’re… they’re Maison Margielas, Rich,” I stammer out in a daze.
“Shit, learn me somethin then.” He lifts one side of his mouth, muttering, “Maison Margiela.”
His deep drawl swallows “Maison Margiela” and drapes it with more swag than it probably deserves, and I think my knees are trying to buckle, but I’m too stuck on stupid to look down at them.
He crooks his finger at me like he always does. “C’mon, come let me see you up close in your outfit. I like it. You lookrealpretty, mama—too pretty to be way over there.”
That’s it.
That’s the catalyst.
That’s the moment my insides explode and remind me of how Rich’s deep voice feels like a warm, cozy blanket swaddling me.
