Chapter Fourteen
Sin
Muscle Memory
Kwame honored my mother’s invite and has come to Sunday dinner every single week since that first visit. After his third straight appearance at the house, I asked him to help me with the dishes so I could speak to him alone and reassure him that he didn’t have to come.
As soon we got in the kitchen, he’d connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker on the window over the sink.
We’d worked in a comfortable, quiet, and perfect sync through a playlist full of D’Angelo, Chaka Khan, and Charlie Wilson.
He’d loaded the dishwasher, and while I’d hand washed everything that couldn’t go in there, he’d swept the floor.
I’d cleaned the counters while he’d dried the pots, knives, and crockery I’d washed.
By the time we were done I couldn’t remember what I’d wanted to talk to him about.
The next week, he offered to help me as soon we were done eating.
Mae was thrilled to be off the hook and my mother extolled his parents for raising such a helpful, respectful son.
She dropped hints about him and Mae’s simultaneous singledom and didn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable it made all of us.
My family was a lot. We argued passionately, laughed loudly, didn’t have filters, and didn’t take a lot personally.
From the little I’ve gleaned about his family, he’s not used to that kind of intimacy.
He’s never seemed anything but happy to be here.
He loves my dad’s stories about his boarding school days.
He’s been reading Adonis’ briefs for his moot court class and doesn’t seem to mind.
The hour of quiet he gives me while I do the dishes is a gift I hadn’t even known I needed.
My mother made her famous garden egg stew tonight, and the price for that is the four different pots she uses in the process.
I’m just finishing the last one when Kwame breaks the silence.
“You used to be an investigative journalist?” My hands freeze mid scrub and let the stainless steel pot slide into the sink full of hot soapy water. I turn slowly to face him.
“Why do you ask?” I ask, eyebrow cocked.
“I’m just wondering how you got so good at giving advice. I’ve yet to disagree with you.”
“You read my column?”
“Yeah, even though your name isn’t on the byline.” He returns my perplexed expression. “Is it a secret that you’re the voice behind the page now?”
“No. But the column is the draw. The writers behind it aren’t meant to be. The only thing I was allowed to change is the sign-off.”
“We’re all sinners here. I like that. It’s clever. And so is your advice. Do you get to decide what submissions you answer?”
“Thank you, and yes.” I flush at his praise and sincere interest. I turn my attention back to the pot while I talk. “Although, I’m starting to get the impression they’re sorry they gave me that power,” I admit.
“Why? I like that it’s not just ‘How do I get my husband to pick up his socks?’ kind of stuff. I loved your answer to the woman who wrote in about her para-social relationship with a content creator she follows.”
My heart flutters at the detail. He really read it. “It’s such a common problem. And one of the reasons I like being behind the page.”
He nods. “Yeah, I am so glad I don’t have a career that requires me to use social media or perform in anyway.”
“I think it’s a great way to connect but also very easy to blur lines.” I hand him the clean pot and he wipes it dry.
“Thank you for reading it. I’m glad you like it,” I say honestly touched. No one in my family has read it. At least not to my knowledge.
“It’s my pleasure. I went back and read some of your old work when you were in New York and I was surprised by how different this is.”
I stiffen at the question and have to remind myself that he’s just making an observation.
“I know. That’s what I wanted.” I’m caught off guard by the heaviness in my throat when I say those words.
It’s true. I took this job, vastly different from what I was doing because I wanted something safe, fun, and anonymous.
“I read your series on the battle to repatriate stolen artifacts. I wonder if my mom knew you were doing that work?”
I cock my head to the side and slide into one of the barstools in front of the island.
“I don’t know. The story got a lot of attention.
When the transit was robbed on its way to DC, I’d started looking into it and even identified someone who I thought was running a black market for West African art and relics. ”
“In DC?” His eyes widen. He wipes his hands and pumps a drop of lotion into his palm and holds it out for me to use.
My heart skips a beat like he just handed me a flower. That’s why his hands are so soft.
“Yup. Not just DC, but it seems to be a hub of activity.”
He sits on the stool next to me and his shoulders and thigh brush mine so casually, but I’m acutely aware that this is the closest we’ve been physically since that first night.
“So why aren’t you working on that story?”
I roll my neck and groan at the twinge of pain where it meets my left shoulder. “Because I write an advice column now.”
“You sound much more excited about your stolen artifacts story,” he presses.
I press my fingers into the spot on my shoulder that’s tense and rub. “I loved investigative journalism. But it didn’t love me back.”
“What does that mean?” He brushes my fingers away and replaces them with his. The pressure is delicious and I don’t bother pretending I want him to stop.
I let my head fall forward and explain. “It means I had a few brushes with great stories that my editors whitewashed and ruined or that turned out to be bad leads. It’s competitive, and it can be dangerous when you’re telling stories that threaten power.
I just want to write, have an impact, and to have time to live my life.
” It’s a jumble of half-truths but it’s all I’ve got.
“You’re a prosecutor, right?” I turn the light on him.
He shakes his head. “Not anymore. I took a job with a private law firm when I moved here. My practice area is the same though, antitrust and competition.”
“In English for those of us who aren’t legal eagles?” I tease.
“I have clients who are trying to merge, acquire other businesses.”
“That sounds very different from prosecution. Do you like it?”
“It’s weird being on this side of the table. But I’m giving it a chance for the same reason I’m in DC, and the same reason I came to see your parents.”
“Wait, your mom asked you to do that, too?”
“Yes. She asked me to give their vision a chance for a year, so I am.”
“And when that year is up?”
“I’ll see. But right now, it’s not looking good for DC.”
“You miss LA?” I ask.
“My best friend Titus lives there and I miss being in the same city as him.”
“That’s nice. My best friends live elsewhere, too,” I commiserate.
“Do you still miss NY?” I groan at the question and the extra pressure he puts on just the right spot.
His fingers are so nimble. So competent. So certain. Like he has a right to touch me. I don’t mind it at all. He never crosses the line and since I can’t have sex with him, these massages are the next best thing.
“Thank you,” I groan and let my head loll while I ponder his question. “I miss how walkable the city is. Otherwise, I love being back in the DMV. I’d forgotten how picturesque it is. That we get all four seasons here. I think once I find a house I want to call home I’ll feel better about it.”
“Where do you live now?”
“NoMa.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the newly gentrified corridor of NE south of Union Station. NPR built their new headquarters there in the twenty-tens and it’s gone from a place you’d cross North Capital to avoid to having a Starbucks on the corner and college students walking around at one o’clock in the morning.”
“Shit. There goes the neighborhood,” he quips
We laugh at the same time. I’ve never minded the long-distance friendships I’ve built over the years, but I have to admit it’s really nice to have a friend who knows the heart of where you’re from.
We settle into a comfortable silence.
“Sin,” his voice is low and close.
“Hmm?” I drawl when he doesn’t continue.
“Are we still just friends?” he asks in a somber, quiet voice.
My heart skips a beat and my eyes fly to his.
The humor that was there earlier is gone and in its place is heat and a question.
I bite my lip, and his eyes move to my mouth.
“I really regret not kissing you more that night.” His voice is so husky and inside me something slips loose.
He hooks his hand around the leg of my chair and drags it around until I’m facing away from the counter.
He stands in front of me and cups my face.
It feels so good, I moan. I can’t help it.
I close my eyes.
This isn’t what I came here for. I should leave.
But I don’t want to.
“Do you remember?” His breath brushes my eyes and lean in.
“Every single second,” I admit.
“Why did we decide not to do it again?”
“Bad timing,” I murmur.
His thumb strokes my throat.
“What about now?”
My heart lurches. I wish I’d met him before the thought of trusting him terrified me.
I want to tell him that I’m not ready.
I start to tell him.
At least I think that’s what I was going to say. But all I manage is a “yes” before his mouth touches mine.
It’s soft and yet so hot I melt instantly. His mouth is cool and the bitterness of the beer he’s been sipping clings to his lips. I want more. I want him. It is all I know.
I sling an arm around his neck, and his arms wrap around my waist and he deepens the kiss. It’s urgent and yet savoring.
His tongue teases my lower lip before he and his body feel so solid and sure against mine.
He tastes so good. I feel so good…I’m sure I’d float away if he let me go.
One hand slides up my side and cups my breast. “You’re perfect, Sin.
So damn good and soft,” he murmurs against my open, panting mouth.
My nipple is hard and painfully taught. His thumb flicks and the pleasure of it burns a decadent trail to the very center of me.
If he bent me over right now, he could have me any way he wanted.
I reach between us and cup his erection through his jeans and he thrusts into my hand.
“Take it out,” he grumbles, and I slide my hand past his waistband and the heat of him makes me gasp.
The clatter of something hitting the floor in the other room shatters our bubble and we jump apart just before my brother walks into the kitchen carrying the pieces of a mug I recognize immediately.
“What happened?” I ask as he walks over and dumps them into the sink. “You broke her favorite mug? How?” I smack his arm.
He winces and leans away from me. “It was an accident. It’s just a mug.”
“It’s her favorite mug. I bought it for her, and I’m her favorite child,” I remind him and walk over to the sink to assess the damage.
Kwame comes to stand by me and my heart starts to thud.
“Let me have a look. I used to fix broken ceramics for fun.” He grins at me and reaches into the sink and picks up the fractured handle. Those fingers had just been on my body. God. I like the way he touches me.
I’m practically panting and he’s focused on my mom’s mug.
He doesn’t look like his heart is racing. In fact, he doesn’t look like anything special just happened.
God. What is it with me and men who don’t show their hand? I’m not doing this again.
“I think I can fix this. Do you have Gorilla Glue?”
“Yeah, we do. That would be great.” Adonis strides over to the junk drawer and starts rummaging through it.
“This will only take a minute,” he says with a nonchalant grin that makes me wonder if I imagined all of that.
I return it best I can and grab my phone. “Take your time.” I check the time and feign disappointment. “I’ve gotta go. I have call I need to take at home. I’ll see you next week.”
He follows me out of the kitchen. “Sin, wait.”
“I can’t. I’ve got a seven a.m. meeting and I am not a morning person.”
“It’s seven thirty, Sin.”
“Ninety minutes until my bedtime.” I blow an uncommitted kiss in their direction and stroll out. “See you next week.”