Sianni McWashington-Maddox #2
“You really not gon’ tell me where we going?”
“Nawl.”
“You annoying.”
“And you still gon’ get dressed.”
The smug look on his face told me he thought he'd already won.
The irritating part?
He probably had.
I pointed at him.
“If I come downstairs and don't like where we're going, I'm blaming you.”
“Cool.”
“I'm serious.”
“Me too.”
I shook my head and started toward the door.
The second I reached it, I heard him behind me.
“Wear something cute.”
I stopped and looked over my shoulder.
“Kyrie, I swear—”
His laughter followed me all the way down the hallway.
I ended up changing into something simple, but still cute, because knowing Kyrie, he wasn’t about to take me anywhere basic. I slipped on a fitted two-piece set, fixed my hair, added a little gloss, then grabbed my purse before heading back downstairs.
Kyrie was standing near the front door on his phone when I came down. The second he looked up, his eyes dragged over me slowly, and that familiar smirk pulled at his lips.
“Damn,” he muttered.
I stopped on the bottom step and looked at him. “What?”
“You.”
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “You say that every time I get dressed.”
“’Cause every time you get dressed, you look good as fuck.”
“Kyrie.”
“What?” He slid his phone into his pocket and walked toward me. “You want me to lie?”
“No, but you don’t have to be so extra.”
“I’m not extra. I’m honest.”
I shook my head as he reached for my hand and pulled me toward him. “Where are we going?”
“You still asking questions?”
“Yes, because you still not answering them.”
He opened the front door and glanced back at me. “Just trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then stop asking.”
“That don’t mean I don’t wanna know.”
He laughed while leading me outside. The truck was already in the driveway, and, of course, he opened my door before I could even reach for it.
I tilted my head at him. “You really don’t have to keep opening my door.”
“Good thing I want to.”
I sucked my teeth. “You get on my nerves.”
“And yet you still got in.”
“Because you’re blocking the door.”
He grinned and waited until I was settled before shutting it behind me. A few seconds later, he climbed in on his side, started the truck, and pulled out of the driveway like he had somewhere important to be.
The whole ride, I kept trying to figure out where he was taking me.
Every time we passed somewhere I recognized, I looked over at him, waiting for him to give me something.
He didn’t. He just drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my thigh like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“You know kidnapping is illegal, right?” I asked.
He glanced over at me. “You got your phone.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not being held against my will.”
“You got dressed willingly.”
“Because you threatened to carry me outside.”
“I didn’t threaten you. I told you what was gon’ happen.”
I stared at him for a second before laughing. “You are so crazy.”
“And you still sitting here.”
I shook my head and looked out the window, trying not to smile too hard.
The more we drove, the more curious I got.
We didn’t pull up to a restaurant, the mall, or anywhere I thought he would take me.
Instead, he drove toward an area filled with little shops, cafés, and buildings that looked more artsy than anything.
When he finally parked, I looked through the windshield and froze.
A large sign sat above the building in front of us.
The Art House Studio.
I blinked, then looked over at him. “Kyrie.”
“What?”
“You brought me to an art studio?”
He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “You like art.”
For a second, I just stared at him.
He shifted in his seat and cut his eyes at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Nawl, what?”
I shook my head, but my chest felt warm. “You really brought me here?”
“Yeah.” He reached over and unbuckled my seat belt before I could do it. “You been painting me all morning. Figured I’d let you look at something else for a little while.”
A laugh slipped out of me. “You jealous of a canvas now?”
“I’m jealous of anything taking up too much of your time.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“And you smiling.”
I hated that he noticed. I tried to press my lips together, but it didn’t work. He laughed like he had won something, then got out and came around to my side.
Once we were inside, I understood why he had brought me there.
The place was beautiful. Not fancy in a stiff way, but warm and creative.
Paintings covered the walls, some bright and bold, some soft and emotional.
There were sculptures near the windows, supplies stacked neatly on shelves, and a few artists working in the open space toward the back.
For a minute, I forgot Kyrie was even beside me.
I walked slowly, my eyes moving from one piece to the next. One painting had a woman sitting in the middle of a room full of flowers, her face turned away like she was hiding from the world. Another had two hands reaching for each other, but not quite touching.
That one made me stop.
Kyrie’s hand slid into mine.
“You like that one?”
I nodded without looking away from it. “Yeah. It’s pretty.”
He stared at it for a second. “What it mean?”
I glanced at him, surprised he even asked. “I don’t know what the artist meant, but to me, it looks like wanting something but being scared to actually reach for it.”
He was quiet for a second before nodding. “I can see that.”
I smiled a little. “You can?”
“Yeah.” He leaned closer, his voice low near my ear. “Don’t mean I would buy it, though.”
I burst out laughing. “Why?”
“’Cause why they hands ain’t touching? Just grab the damn hand.”
“Kyrie.”
“What? I’m practical.”
“You are not practical. You’re impatient.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
He smirked and tugged me closer by my hand. “If I want something, I’m not standing there almost touching it. I’m grabbing it.”
The way he looked at me when he said that made my stomach do something stupid.
“See?” I muttered. “You always gotta make stuff about you.”
“You said what you saw. I said what I saw.”
I shook my head, but I liked that he was trying. He didn’t know much about art, and I could tell some of the pieces confused him, but he still walked beside me, still asked questions, still listened when I explained what I liked about certain ones.
That meant more than I wanted to admit.
We made it deeper into the studio when a woman near one of the displays looked up and froze.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, but it was loud enough for both of us to hear. “Are you Kyrie Maddox?”
I felt Kyrie’s hand tighten around mine just a little.
He turned toward her with a polite smile that looked like it took effort. “Yeah, wassup?”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to bother you, but can I get a picture? My brother is a huge Vipers fan.”
Kyrie glanced down at me first.
I gave him a small nod. “Go ahead.”
He let out a quiet breath before stepping beside the woman. She took the picture quickly, thanked him about five times, then hurried off with her phone pressed to her chest like she had just met God.
I tried not to laugh.
Kyrie came back over to me, already looking irritated.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You lying.”
He slid his hand back into mine and kept walking. “I ain’t lying.”
“Kyrie.”
“What?”
“You mad because somebody interrupted our little date?”
He looked over at me. “Who said this was a date?”
I stopped walking.
He stopped too, turning back to face me.
“This not a date?” I asked.
His smirk came back slowly. “It is if you want it to be.”
“You are so annoying.”
“And you like me.”
“Unfortunately.”
He laughed and pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead right there in the middle of the studio. “Then yeah, ma. It’s a date.”
My face got warm, and I hated how easy it was for him to do that to me.
We kept walking, stopping in front of a section where people could paint their own small canvases. I looked at the setup, then looked at him.
“You wanna paint?”
He gave me a look. “Do I look like I paint?”
“You might be good.”
“I’m good at a lot of things, but that ain’t one of them.”
“Scared?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Of paint?”
“I don’t know. You acting real nervous.”
He stared at me for a second, then sucked his teeth. “Aight. Bet.”
That was all it took.
A few minutes later, we were sitting at a small table with two blank canvases in front of us. I picked up my brush like it was nothing, but Kyrie stared at his like it had personally offended him.
I laughed. “You good?”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You holding the brush like a weapon.”
“’Cause I don’t trust it.”
I laughed harder, and he cut his eyes at me.
“Keep laughing.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Mmhm. Watch when mine come out better than yours.”
“Now you know that’s not happening.”
He leaned back in his chair, looking too confident for somebody who hadn’t even dipped his brush in the paint yet. “You don’t know that.”
“Kyrie, baby, I paint.”
“And I’m naturally gifted.”
I shook my head while dipping my brush into the paint. “Okay, Big Daddy Picasso.”
A grin spread across his face. “I like that.”
“I knew you would.”
For the next little while, we painted side by side. Well, I painted. Kyrie made a mess and pretended like it was intentional. Every few minutes, he tried to peek at my canvas, and every time I caught him, he acted like he wasn’t doing anything.
By the time we were done, mine had turned into a soft sunset over water.
Kyrie’s looked like… something.
I tilted my head, trying hard not to laugh.
He noticed immediately. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you trying not to talk shit.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Kyrie…”
“Nawl. Say it.”
“What is it?”
He looked offended. “It’s abstract.”
I blinked.
“Abstract?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“I know enough.”
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I laughed so hard I had to put my brush down.
Kyrie sat there staring at me like he was annoyed, but the corner of his mouth kept twitching.
“You think you funny.”