Page 73 of The Wright Man

"Out of excuses, Reed," he said, standing and stretching like the smug bastard he was. "Bring yo' ass on and let me feed you."

That last part? Uncalled for. Unholy. Unfair.

A shiver skated down my spine. I was ninety percent sure I made a sound.

The rest of the salon noticed. I saw someone fan themselves out the corner of my eye.

"Okay," I said quietly, already feeling the flush rising in my cheeks.

I grabbed my purse and slid my phone into my back pocket.

"I'm going to murder you when I get back," I muttered to Alicia as I passed her station.

She didn't blink. "Bring me back a cookie."

I rolled my eyes and pushed open the door.

Maleek followed close behind, his hand resting at the small of my back like it had every right to be there. Warm, firm, grounding.

And I didn't move it.

Chapter Eleven

Maleek

The second we stepped out of the salon and into the late afternoon sun, I knew I was in trouble.

The heat didn't have shit on her.

Angelica walked half a step ahead of me, hips and ass swaying just enough to make my pulse tick up, that little gold ring in her belly button catching the light. She didn't have that piercing four years ago. I clocked it immediately when she reached for her spray bottle back at the salon, her crop top riding up just enough to reveal soft brown skin and the glint of gold. It had taken everything in me not to stare.

Because I had no business wanting my best friend like that.

But Jesus.

And now, watching her with no distractions, no noise... it still felt like watching something sacred.

I'd sat in her chair less than an hour ago, but it felt like I'd stepped back in time. Her hands moved like they still knew me. Her fingers worked through my hair like they remembered every inch, like they'd never forgotten how to care for me.

And I hadn't realized just how much I'd missed it—missed her—until I was sitting there, neck tilted back, heart damn near pounding out of my chest. No loud music, no gossip, no noise in my head. Just her. Just us.

Now, here we were. Just me and her again. Walking like we had a hundred times before. But something about it felt new.

She glanced over at me when we reached the curb. "You always this quiet after a deep condition?"

I smirked and held the door open for her. "Only when the stylist fine."

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the corner of her mouth twitch.

The café was small, but new—airy and modern with matte black ceilings, reclaimed wood accents, and gold light fixtures. It smelled like espresso and butter, with a hint of basil floating in from the open kitchen. The kind of place you could linger without meaning to.

The hostess greeted us with a too-bright smile.

"Two?"

"Yeah," we answered together.

She smiled wider. "Indoor or patio?"