Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Later that night, Brinton showered and slipped into a pink cotton camisole and matching shorts that unceremoniously rose up whenever she blinked. But she wasn’t dressing up for anyone tonight.
Instead, she sat cross-legged in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom with a tiny squeeze bottle of hair oil she’d packed in her carry-on.
Doing her hair was a point of pride and one of the few self-care practices she could still manage. It made the heaviness of everyday life—the hulking weight of New York City and asphyxiating fear of the future—slightly lighter.
Section by section, Brinton meticulously gathered the braids at her temples, applied the golden elixir to the neat partings, and massaged it into her scalp. She was in a trance as she worked, fingertips gliding on auto-pilot.
Until the doorbell rang.
It was nine o’clock. Not exactly late, but she wasn’t expecting company. Brinton quickly washed her hands and padded down the stairs.
When she opened the front door, she found Jamie, all sun-kissed and sheepish grin, standing on the porch. He held a canvas tote bag in one hand.
His eyes widened, drinking her in as she wore next to nothing.
Self-conscious, she crossed her arms over her chest and wondered how quickly she could stealthily dislodge her wedgie.
“Sorry—were you heading to bed?” he stammered, eyes dragging up to hers.
“No, I’m up. What are you doing here?” she asked, tone harsher than intended. She regretted that when his smile faltered.
“I don’t sleep much these days, so I’m kinda wired,” he said, a little brighter. “Do you wanna hang out?”
She weighed her options: they could talk about last night. That had to happen eventually, even if she wished she had more time to get her story straight. But then, when he looked at her, with those disarming eyes, and dragged his teeth over his plump bottom lip…
It was hard not to fantasize about fitting their damp, naked bodies together like Jenga pieces.
Brinton shook the thought away, as tempting as it was. She stepped aside so he could enter.
She’d tell him that they had to set some boundaries, and that whatever was happening between them couldn’t happen. Then, she’d send Jamie on his merry way.
Naturally, that plan didn’t include watching the smooth curve of Jamie’s ass flex in his jeans as he crossed into the kitchen.
Shit, I will miss that.
“I was also hungry, so I stole some rations from the main house,” Jamie said, setting the canvas tote on the countertop. He pulled out a fresh loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper, a jar of homemade apple jelly, and a package of sharp cheddar.
“Want a taste?” he asked casually.
She wanted a lot of things.
“I’m not hungry, but feel free to make something for yourself,” she answered.
Then her stomach—the traitorous tart—rumbled so loudly, it startled her. Jamie smirked and continued unpacking his bounty.
“Fine, I could eat,” she said, joining him at the large kitchen island, but she stood on the opposite side. A feeble attempt to keep the sweaty Jenga at bay.
“What is all of this?” she asked, flicking her wrist across the counter.
He flashed a tempered grin. “You’ll see.”
After cutting four perfect slices from the soft loaf, Jamie spread a thin, golden layer of apple jelly on each and topped it with a generous slice of cheddar. He cut both sandwiches diagonally and slid one onto a plate.
“This, my dear, is the best sandwich you’ll ever have,” he said, handing her the plate. “My mom made it every day for me after school. She wasn’t big on cooking, hence why Liza was a godsend, but this’ll heal you like a prayer.”
Brinton looked up in time to catch him slowly suck an errant swipe of jelly from his thumb. He was looking down at the counter, not even trying to entice her, but—damn.
Like pure fucking honey.
“One bite will change your life,” Jamie mused, swallowing.
He could say that again.
When she took a bite, her eyes widened. “Oh my God…” she said, nodding at the explosions of sweetness and acid and salt on her tongue. It’s exactly what kissing him tasted like.
“Right?” he asked, as if thinking the same thing.
Is he thinking the same thing? Focus, girl.
As they finished their last bites, they stared at each other, the weight of everything unsaid bearing down. The severing of the branch of possibility between them.
The seconds ticked on agonizingly slow.
She lifted her eyes from her empty plate and met his gaze. “Jamie, about last night—”
He didn’t let her finish.
“I fucked up, Brinton.” He looked to that impossibly high ceiling, laughing to himself. “And it’s not the first time since you got here. I’m betting the house that it won’t be the last. I guess…I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?” she asked, caught in a vortex of panic and uncertainty.
Would he tell her that none of what they’d shared had been real, like she’d feared? Would he plead temporary insanity by rancid whiskey?
Crap, did whiskey even go rancid?
She’d google it later. Not that it mattered. She was ending this—whatever it was—tonight. She had to.
But dammit, it did matter. So much that she’d already put her career, the very thing validating her and making her worthy, on the line.
He spread his hands wide, leaning against the counter.
“How to be with someone,” he admitted. “I’ve never done it right, never thought I could.
In that alley last night, I gave you the impression that these last few days haven’t been exceptional.
That you’re like any other woman to me. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Because, Bee, I’m serious about you.”
He exhaled, his laugh a nervous jumble. “I’m sorry, I’ve never said that to anyone before, and I’m scared shitless.”
She couldn’t believe this was happening again. Brinton had set herself up for disappointment. And yet Jamie was a rainstorm on a blinding sunny day. There was no choice but to dance until you were soaked to the bone.
“I’m serious about you too,” she whispered, a lukewarm smile blooming across her lips. Sadly, that didn’t solve the bigger problem.
Her eyes floated shut, as if she could shield herself from what was coming next. “But you’re my interview subject. There can’t be any doubts about how this story came together.”
She shook her head as his smile dampened. “They’ll think I fucked my way to a byline. And I don’t want to lie about it, because that’s not who I am. So we can’t…”
Brinton couldn’t place exactly when her hands started shaking, but Jamie crossed to her side of the kitchen island and took them into his. The warmth spread through her fingers, sheathing each fractured nerve.
“What if I’m not ready to let you go?” he pleaded, eyes wide and handily reeling her in.
“I don’t think I’m ready either,” she said before she could swallow the words. The tender truth. “But I don’t know what else to do. Unless…”
Had Shay and her mother been right? Brinton had been miserable at Landmark. And who knew if this cover story would even change that?
“I could give the story to another reporter, and you can decide whether to share your secret.”
As Brinton said the words, her stomach slicked with disappointment. She’d fought for this opportunity for years, but if she let herself actually be happy, that all disappeared.
Agatha’s cacophonous snicker ransacked Brinton’s mind.
Jamie tightened his grip on Brinton’s hands. “I won’t let you do that for me. And I don’t trust anybody else but you to tell my story.”
His hands circled her back as his lips pressed against her right temple.
“There’s gotta be another way.” He pulled back. Possibility brewed in his eyes. “We’re still getting to know each other, so what if we…” Adorably, he cocked his head. “Pump the brakes on…you know.”
She eyed him, confused. No, she had no fucking clue.
He raised a brow. “Sleeping together?”
“Indefinitely?” Brinton’s vagina wailed at the thought.
He grinned, then softly kissed her forehead. “Oh, sweetheart, I hope not. But how about until after the article is wrapped? Whatever you need to feel comfortable, because lying will consume you. I would know.”
Hands inching down her lower back, Jamie thumbed her shorts’ soft waistband.
She buried her face into his firm chest.
“So, you’re suggesting we take things slow?” she asked, voice muffled by his soft cotton T-shirt. He smelled as good as ever.
Brinton feared cold turkey was the only option. Her mother had long warned her of All or Nothing Thinking, a cognitive distortion plaguing the anxious mind. The only way to counter it was to question it.
The question was clear: what if there was a universe where Brinton could be simultaneously successful and happy? She craved that so intensely.
Jamie flashed that real smile that made her knees go all soupy.
“Mh-hmm,” he murmured. “Besides, there’s plenty of other ways to…enjoy each other.”
He nuzzled Brinton’s cheek, wrapping her in his scent. His safety.
Jamie’s hands hovered a millimeter above her butt. It was enough to make her press into him in anticipation.
“And there’s a lot to enjoy,” he said, laughing darkly. He pulled his hands back up to her mid-back.
The little scoundrel was teasing her. She soaked up every second.
Jamie’s plan was also good. She trusted him because, unlike Eli, who cataloged her flaws with a magnifying glass angled beneath the sun, Jamie appreciated all the kinks and burrs that made her a work-in-progress.
In fact, she felt renewed each time they touched.
Suddenly, they seemed too far apart.
She licked her lips. “First order of business: you should kiss me now.”
Smiling softly, Jamie’s hands migrated to the hollows of her cheekbones. He angled her face up to meet his.
“Bee, you’re reading my mind.”
This time, their kiss was softer, sweeter. A physical manifestation of their sacred pact to each other, exhilarating and joyful and worth every hard-won ounce of yearning.
His fingertips firmly gripped the back of her neck, which she decided was a new favorite. Need tightened in her belly as his hands fisted her braids. The delicious tension sparked fireworks behind her eyes.
Unexpectedly, he pulled away. His eyes were shaded with curiosity.
“I think you got a little something on you,” he said. “Can I—”
Still a little dizzy, she nodded.
Curling his hand behind the shell of her ear, he caressed her so tenderly. Morse code from his fingertips straight to her heart. After denying herself the security of intimacy and gift of pleasure for so long, she felt light enough to levitate.
He pulled his hand away, fingers glossy and perfumed with rosemary and peppermint.
Uneasiness rooted in Brinton’s stomach. “Um—it’s oil. I was doing my hair before you got here.”
A Black woman’s hair was sacred. The art of it didn’t need explanation or require an apology.
But there was a critical point in a new relationship where a Black woman decided when it was safe to let that person see behind the curated veneer.
Without criticism of her lace fronts, oversized satin bonnets, or arsenal of oil sheen and edge control jammed into bloated bathroom cabinets.
When she was twenty-two, Brinton dated a guy—also Black, although that proved to be of little consequence—who asked her to sleep on a musty futon in his living room. So she wouldn’t “grease up” his thousand-dollar Frette cotton percale sheets with “all the shit y’all pile in your hair.”
Was Jamie part of the trusted few?
Brinton roughly blotted a wad of paper towels against the back of her neck as Jamie’s fingertips glided together. She slid him a fresh sheet, but he shook his head.
Eyes on her, he slowly worked the slickness between folds of skin and across thick veins on the back of his hands, as if anointing himself with her essence. Like it fortified him.
The act was all at once unassuming and the hottest damn thing she’d ever seen.
“I like it. It smells really good,” he said.
“Oh.” She blew out a breath, relieved. “My sister makes it for me and my mom. It’s like our family crest.”
He held out his left hand and pointed to the chunky gold ring on his pinky.
“I suppose this is our crest. My mom gave it to me when I was seven. I couldn’t even fit it then. She wanted me to have something I could grow into, carry with me long after she was gone. I didn’t know what she meant back then, but I do now.”
Brinton took his hand, her eyes following the wispy curves of the C carved into the bezel. Occasionally, she caught glimpses as he twisted it wistfully around his finger, but this was the first time she genuinely admired it.
Finally, Brinton understood why Jamie was so protective over his mother. He was fighting to keep those memories alive.
That nagging inner voice beckoned for Brinton to grab her phone, a few feet away on the counter, and turn on the voice recorder app. Ask him a few more questions. But her heart wanted to enjoy the hallowed intimacy between them.
So, she did.
“It’s so beautiful,” she said. When she released his hand, she dreaded the sudden emptiness.
“Do you need a hand with your hair?” he asked.
“You want to help me oil my scalp?”
“Yeah, I do.”
She glanced at him skeptically, mining the depths of his eyes for some ulterior motive. She found none.
“Let me get the bottle upstairs.”