Page 236 of The Wright Man

"It's not disrespect if I'm wearing it for you."

"Mmhmm." I stepped in, cupped her face, and kissed her deep and slow, letting the moment stretch. Even in heels, she still had to stretch her neck to reach me. I'd never not love that.

When we broke apart, I opened the door for her like the gentleman I sometimes remembered to be. She stepped through, and the moment she turned to walk down the steps, the back of the dress damn near brought me to my knees.

"Woman," I groaned. "That dress is killing me."

She tossed me a look over her shoulder, all hips and wink. "Good."

We made it to the car, and she reached for the passenger side door like I was some nigga off the street.

I swatted her hand away. "You know better."

"Yes, Sir," she teased, grinning as I opened it for her and helped her in like the queen she was. Once she was settled, I circled around and climbed into the driver's seat.

She glanced over, all big eyes and full lips. "Can I get a hint where we're going?"

I smirked, giving her the most vague-ass hint I could think of. “Somewhere you’ll be surrounded by warmth and creativity." She stared at me like I farted in the car.

"That wasn't helpful."

"It wasn't meant to be," I said, turning the key in the ignition. "Now sit your lil pretty, impatient ass back and enjoy being passenger princess."

She laughed and leaned back, scrolling through her phone while I drove us through the city streets.

The ride was easy. Comfortable. The kind of quiet you earn. Soft R&B played from my speakers—her contribution to my driving playlist. I used to fight her on it, but truth be told, I didn't even mind anymore. There was something about the bassline and her presence that calmed me. One hand on the wheel, the other on her thigh, thumb stroking slow circles.

At one red light, my hand slid a little higher.

She slapped it. "If you don't keep your horny-ass hands to yourself until I decide if this surprise is even pussy-worthy..."

I bit back a grin. "It is. I promise."

When we pulled up to the art museum, her eyes lit up immediately. She sat up straighter, reading the sign out front.

"This the one I told you about?"

"Yeah," I said, parking. "I wanted to do something cultural, intimate... something that felt like you. Artistic and unexpected. You said you wanted to come, so I figured, why not make it special?"

She turned toward me, eyes wide and full of joy. "You're gettin' the skin sucked off your dick when we get home."

I damn near choked. "That's what I get for being romantic?"

"Yup."

"You a demon."

She leaned in and kissed my cheek. "A grateful demon."

Inside, the museum was dimly lit, moody jazz playing over hidden speakers. And everywhere—everywhere—were sunflowers.

Paintings in oil, in watercolor. Sculptures in metal, in glass. Murals, mosaics, abstract pieces and lifelike portraits, all tied together by her favorite flower. Each piece a different facet of Blackness—joy, grief, celebration, protest. And the sunflower threaded through them all like hope.

Angelica stood at the entrance, eyes wide, lips parted.

"Maleek..." she whispered, as if speaking too loud might shatter the beauty.

I walked up behind her, slid my arms around her waist, and rested my chin on her shoulder.