Chapter 9
Ihadn’t planned to stay with him all weekend. But Tariq hadn’t planned to let me go.
Friday night blurred into Saturday morning on the worn leather of his couch, tangled in that oversized fire department tee I refused to give back.
He said it looked better on me than it ever did on him—so I wore it while we ordered food we never finished and had conversations that turned into kisses that turned into us. Again and again.
By Sunday morning, I wanted my space. My robe. My candles. My sheets.
He offered to drive me. Instead, we took the long way back to mine.
Stopped for coffee and held hands in his truck like time didn’t exist. When we got to my place—my high-rise on the edge of downtown, with its muted walls and floor-to-ceiling windows—I told him to take off his shoes.
He kissed me in the foyer. Carried me to the bathroom like he owned the place.
And maybe, for the weekend, he did.
I ran the bath myself. Lit the sandalwood.
Watched him sink into the water with me, his long body stretched opposite mine in my deep soaking tub.
Steam clung to the glass walls. Suds curled against his skin.
And when he reached for me—wide hands at my waist, mouth at my throat—I didn’t pretend to be shy.
I climbed into his lap and let the water rock with us, splash over the marble lip as we moved.
I screamed. He grunted. We kissed like it was a second language.
He pressed my back to the tile and whispered things I should’ve stopped him from saying.
This morning, he left early. Kissed my cheek like we were something. Promised he’d call. Said, “Be good,” like he knew I wouldn’t.
I missed him already.
My phone lit up beside my tea. I reached for it, thinking it was him. Instead, it was Asha. One of my closest friends. A lifeline with good cheekbones.
I answered the video call with a lazy smirk. “You’re up early.”
Asha looked radiant as ever—bare skin, her straight hair pulled back away from her face, a hint of gloss on her lips. The kind of woman who made beauty look like routine.
“Truly. Especially since I’m in Chicago.”
Right. She and Ezra split time between Pittsburgh and the city where she was raised. Ezra—architect genius, all brooding brows and honey-warm voice. The man built rooms that knew how to breathe. He’d designed love into walls, emotion into blueprints.
She and I met at a gallery talk I almost skipped, back when I still had patience for the scene in L.A.
Asha had been seated beside me—intense, beautiful, curious.
We exchanged numbers and texted all night about the absurdity of the overpriced wine.
Somehow, years later, here we still were. Friends. The real kind.
“You look flushed,” she said, squinting at the screen. “Like someone’s been ruining your back and your sleep schedule.”
I laughed. “He left an hour ago. I haven’t moved from this spot since.”
“Oh, so we’re in the I’m not claiming him, but he can rearrange furniture in my body phase.”
“Very much so.”
“Who is he, Sanaa?”
“Tariq. And before you start with your delicious questions about how we reconnected—I’ll give you answers when I know what’s happening is more than a weekend thing.”
Asha raised a skeptical brow. “You let him stay?”
She surprised me by not asking more, but that’s also what I loved about my friend. She respected my need for privacy. She called me mysterious, and to me, she was the pot calling the kettle.
“All weekend.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You don’t even let me stay all weekend.”
“That’s different,” I said, grinning. “You eat all my mangoes.”
She laughed and shook her head. “So how was it? Wait—don’t tell me. Just blink slowly if it was everything.”
I blinked. Slowly. Twice.
“You whore,” she whispered gleefully.
I gave her the cliffs. The laughs. The bathtub. The shirt I still refused to give back. She gasped, teased, and threatened to hop a flight just to interrogate him herself.
“But here’s why I’m really calling,” she said, finally composing herself. “Ezra just wrapped the Palisade property for KIB. Khalil wants someone to curate the interiors—art, objects, soul. He specifically asked for someone who understands texture and tension.”
I arched a brow. “And you thought of me?”
“You’re the only person I know who can match a sculpture to grief and make it beautiful.”
I sipped my tea, moved by that more than I’d let on. “Send me the brief. I’ll look it over.”
She nodded. “I’ll send it this afternoon. Also… you sure you’re okay? I read the news.”
Asha was the only person, outside of Tariq, who knew Elijah was a client of mine, and she knew exactly who he was.
My eyes lowered. “It was a bad one.”
She hesitated. “This isn’t some shady shit, is it?”
“It’s starting to feel like it” I exhaled. “TBut I’m just finding out what I can and passing information along. I’m not an expert on fires. I deal with art. Thassit.”
Her voice softened. “Still.”
“I’m fine,” I said, though my voice betrayed me. “I’ll call you later?”
“Promise.”
“Promise.”
Before I could even put the phone down, my line lit up. Elijah.
I took a steadying breath, then answered. “Elijah.”
“Sanaa. Got your message. You’ve been busy.”
“Tariq updated me,” I said quickly, “He saw some things. Sent me photos. The debris shifted. You were right—it wasn’t structural.”
“Arson?”
“Something like it. Intentional. Smart.”
He was quiet. So quiet it unnerved me.
“Send me what you’ve got,” he finally said. “I’ll take it from here.”
I exhaled. That meant my part, a part bigger than I signed up for, was done.
“I figured you would.”
“When I rebuild,” he said, “I’ll call you.”
“Make sure you do.”
The line clicked off. No goodbye. No extra words. Just silence that carried a weight all its own.
I’d barely made it through the morning briefs before I caught Livia in the act—leaning just a little too far over my inbox, pretending to organize files that were already alphabetized.
I narrowed my eyes. “You gave him my location.”
Livia didn’t flinch. She smoothed her slick bob behind her ears—deep brown and straight, her lips painted a brave, glossy plum—and tilted her chin like she was daring me to be mad.
“You said no calls, no emails, no drop-ins.” She raised her brow and grinned. “You didn’t say anything about…beautiful men with good intentions and strong jawlines.”
I sighed, already halfway defeated. “You’re skating close to insubordination.”
“Only if it didn’t work.” She winked and walked off, her heels clicking with the kind of ambition I saw in myself ten years ago. Young, bold, and too smart to waste. She’d been angling for the office manager promotion, and honestly, after this weekend, I couldn’t hold the stunt against her.
The gallery had no business being that hot.
Still reeling, I retreated into my office and closed the door behind me, pressing my fingers into the small of my back where his hands had just been. The ache bloomed slow and warm.
“Hey baby girl,” my mother sang. “You at the office again?”
“Mmhmm,” I murmured, letting my head fall back against the chair. “Just catching up.”
“You need to rest, Sanaa. Let somebody love on you for once. Settle down. Have some babies before your knees start creaking.”
“Mom—”
“Don’t Mom me. I saw the way you lit up the last time that man brought you flowers. And you didn’t even keep the vase! Something’s wrong with you.”
I laughed despite myself, the sound loosening something tender in my chest. “That was a different man.”
“Well maybe this next one’s the one. You never tell me nothin’. You used to tell me everything.”
I stared at the ceiling, teeth pressing into my bottom lip. I wanted to tell her. Wanted to spill everything—how his mouth still lingered on my skin, how I was walking crooked because of what we did on that table. How his voice stayed in my ear like a song I couldn’t stop playing.
But I didn’t. Because if I told her, she’d never stop asking. And part of me needed this to live in its own space for a while—sweet, sacred, secret.
“I’ll see you soon, Ma,” I said, softer now.
She clicked her tongue. “Don’t forget your father’s trying to grill this weekend. He said bring dessert and your good sense.”
A rustling in the background—then his voice, clear and proud: “Tell her bring that attitude too. I got something for it.”
I smiled hard. “Love y’all.”
I hung up.
The second I did, my phone buzzed again. I answered, already breathless.
His voice came low and slow—honeyed gravel.
“You left me hungry.”
God. My thighs clenched instinctively.
“You called to say that?”
“I called to say I’m still tasting you. Still picturing that look on your face. The one you made when I slid inside…”
I exhaled, ragged and quiet.
“…and when I filled you up, you whispered my name like you missed me your whole life.”
I was wet now. Just from his voice. Just from memory. My hips shifted beneath the desk.
“You can’t call me like this in the middle of my workday.”
“You can leave early,” he murmured. “Or you can sit in that office and think about how I’m gonna fuck you when I see you again.”
I bit down on a moan. “You’re not playing fair.”
“I’m not playing at all. I want to give you some more of this dick.”
That did it.
I didn’t even breathe. Just grabbed my purse, my keys, my phone—and headed for the door.
Livia didn’t even look up at first, too busy grinning at whatever text had her giggling. Then she caught the breeze of me flying past her desk, heels hitting tile like I had somewhere to be and someone waiting.
“I’ll be out the rest of the day,” I tossed over my shoulder.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“Mmhmm, I bet you will be. And I know why, too,” she called after me, sing-song and smug.
I didn’t turn around. I was already gone. Already wet. Already craving the kind of afternoon that didn’t need a damn clock.