Washington tilted his head. The sun caught his beard in a disrespectful way, glowing, showing off, and making his lips look too kissable for a public place. And I meant the type of kiss that pleased me the most.
Yet, my dead-serious face made those seductive lips part in a restrained sigh. He handed the vendor double the cash for his own bag of beignets. “They better be that damn good.”
Oh, they are.
We wandered through the market, weaving between tables stacked with homemade jams and jars of honey that looked sinful in the sunlight. The mounds of bright peppers made me want spice in life. Man, I loved Louisiana.
“Stop looking at me sideways, Wash,” I murmured, focused on a basket of strawberries while he stared a hole in the side of my face.
“At the rate we’re going,” he drawled, “we’ll arrive this timetomorrow.”
“Bite your beignet. It’ll make you happy.”
His long stride caught me off guard, and I had to snatch my baby beignets to the side to keep them safe. Cute frustration thickened those sexy thick brows.
“Maddy, I’m serious. This is our last stop. We’ll miss the entire wine spritzer.”
“Boy, what’s more important? Show face, then getting some later … or rubbing elbows with Gaston DuVall and Bridgetallafternoonandevening. The choice is yours. A passionate release, or dry wine and judgment.”
“We’re showing face,” Washington declared.
I lifted my bag, and he lifted his. I bounced my shoulders and sang, “We showing face.”
Washington, my six-foot-something menace, did the same jig, his paper bag in hand, and completed the song with“Hell yeah, we is!”
Partners in crime, we did our dance and our chant until a little old lady glared at him over her walker. Face serious, he cleared his throat.Dang, her little Morton’s-table-salt face just shoplifted his joy.
My mouth firmed into a line. “Okay, Paint?—”
“Madison.”
“Dry.” I patted his solid, perfect chest. My hands almost settled there. Almost slid around. Instead, I remembered how I rubbed his bald head with his favorite oil. I cleared my throat. That granite chest was mine. I’d revisit it later. “C’mon, I’m comparing paint dryingon every surface of a roomto your facade. Because in bed you are wild. Be enjoyable in the now, okay?”
His grunt came out in a mist of apology and promise.So adorbs!
“Thank you.” I reached right intohisbag, not mine, and popped a tiny beignet into my mouth.
At the Bentley, Washington went full James Bond. The Idris Elba version the worldwould’vegotten if Hollywood didn’t act like the addition of melanin was a weapons-grade liability. He opened my door with MI6 swagger, bowed to the theme music playing inmyhead, then sprinted around the hood. That action-movie slide made my ovaries do a standingovation. With the topdown, he landed in the driver’s seat without bothering to open his own door.
The engine turned on. The radio blared, but somehow it disconnected from my Apple Music.
“Ugh, not this.” I reached for the touchscreen. “You and the damn news station.”
“Oh, hush, put on your crybaby-ass R&B, Madison. Who’s the dry one now?”
He stopped mid-clowning as the newscaster cut in. “Second female body found in Tremé. Mother of five. Newlywed?—”
“What?” The bag in my hand flung itself into the universe. It flew right out and plopped onto the dirt. I opened the door, retrieved the now-open bag, put the dirty beignets inside, and laid it on the floor at my feet to throw away later.
“Madison, damn.” Washington threw the car into reverse and sped off. “You get two of mine. Just two. No negotiations.”
“Okay, I get it.” I cranked the news.
The report continued to play, and all at once the sunshine felt sharper, the air too thin. The broadcast killed my vibe as our world narrowed to that grim report. I popped a beignet into Washington’s mouth and then gifted myself with some emotional support carbs. We used to be 20/20 junkies. We’d talk-eat straight through kidnappings, dismemberments, even that time the subject expert said, “And poof! They were toast!”
But then, the fun vanished, and we annihilated those beignets. Because the newscaster had said, “We’re waiting for confirmation from authorities, but I believe one more similar event constitutes a serial killer.”
Nothing saysOh, craplike realizing you’re out of pastriesandsomeone is out there killing Black women in Louisiana.
