Page 44 of The Wright Man

And just when I thought I might drown in the quiet between us, he opened his mouth.

Voice low. Familiar. Heavy.

"Hey, Angel."

Chapter Seven

Maleek

Hey Angel.

The words had barely left my mouth before I regretted them.

Not because I didn't mean them—I meant them. I meant them so much it hurt to say them out loud. Like the sound alone might shatter something fragile between us.

But I'd practiced a hundred different greetings on the walk over. Was ready to joke, to ease it in light. I was even prepared to use Cap as an excuse to talk to her. But the second she opened that door and looked at me, every word I knew vanished.

Because... there she was.

Angelica.

I don't know what I thought I'd see after all this time. Anger, maybe. Ice. Hell, even indifference.

But I wasn't prepared for this.

She was so damn beautiful I almost forgot how to breathe.

Same deep brown eyes. Same long lashes and full lips. Same little scar under her left eye, from when Boyd pushed her at the playground and I beat the piss out of him.

But everything else?

Everything else had changed.

The girl I used to watch anime with on Saturday mornings had turned into a woman built to end me.

Curves like poetry. A body that had lived and loved and lasted.

She'd always had an hourglass figure—small waist, thick thighs, enough ass to drive a man to church—but now?

Now the hourglass had some weight behind it. Soft, sexy weight. The kind that wrapped around her belly and hips like it had secrets, and made that dress hug her body like it was in on them.

And shit, it looked good on her.

Too damn good.

Something low and traitorous kicked in. The kind of reaction that had no business showing up on this porch, in front of this woman, in this moment. I told it to sit down.

I clenched my jaw and looked away for half a second, trying to get my shit together.

Because this was Angelica. My best friend. Somebody else's wife.

Focus, Wright.

I had no damn business noticing how her thighs touched when she shifted her stance, or how the little bit of cleavage peeking from that dress looked soft enough to die in.

But fuck me—I noticed. And I felt every bit of it.

She still had the same beautiful face I'd memorized a hundred different ways—laughing, crying, sleeping next to me on the couch with one sock half-off.