Something shifted in her expression. “What kind of stories do you like? Books, maybe?”
“I love Jane Austen. And I’ve read some books by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.”
“Romance and strong female characters,” she mused. “I think I know exactly what we should watch.”
By six o’clock, the apartment smelled incredible. Rich, complex aromas filled the air as Marley transferred the beef to what she called a heavy Dutch oven, adding vegetables and the reduced marinade. She moved around the kitchen fluidly, tasting, adjusting seasonings, and explaining each step.
“Now we wait,” she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “An hour should do it.”
We moved to the couch while the food cooked.
“I picked something I think you’ll like,” she said, settling beside me with the remote.
The opening credits began, but I found myself watching Marley instead of the screen. How she tucked one leg underneath her as she got comfortable. The unconscious way she played with the hem of her shirt when she was relaxed.
As the movie progressed, we gradually moved closer. First, she stretched her arm along the back of the couch. Then I found myself leaning into her warmth. By the time the main characters had their first almost-kiss, I was tucked against her side, her fingers absently stroking my shoulder.
But I wasn’t watching the screen anymore. I was remembering the weight of her hands on my face. The taste of her lips. The way my entire body had responded to her touch with an intensity that still scared me.
“You’re not watching,” she observed quietly, her hand stilling on my shoulder.
I looked up to find her studying my face with that same focused attention she’d given the marinade earlier. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
The honest answer stuck in my throat. Instead, I felt heat flood my cheeks as I looked away.
“Hey.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “Look at me.”
I forced myself to meet her gaze.
“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”
The endearment sent warmth spiralling through my chest. “I was thinking about earlier.”
“What about it?”
My throat went dry. “Earlier, on the patio.”
Her hand went still. “And?”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I whispered. “About how it felt… about how you felt.”
She reached up to cup my cheek, her thumb tracing the same path it had earlier. “How did I feel?”
“Perfect,” I breathed. “It felt… You felt perfect.”
“Kelechi.”
“Yes?”
“I want to kiss you again.” Her voice was direct, unashamed. “I want to do more than kiss you, but I need you to tell me what you want.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. No one had ever asked me what I wanted before. The question felt revolutionary.
“I want...” My throat tightened. “I want you to show me.”
Her thumb brushed my bottom lip, and I shivered.
