Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
The next day, Jamilah was happy to see Rashad’s SUV when she pulled in behind Side Chic’k.
He didn’t look up as she parked beside him and turned off the engine.
He wore a pair of headphones, head bobbing up and down as he wrote something in a notebook, perhaps the one he had come back for during the infamous conversation with her dad.
She studied him in silence, remembering his scent while their bodies were in close contact the day before, the strength of his hands as they squeezed her shoulders, the feel of his lips on her skin.
Not even a minute near him and already her mind was cooking up a meal not meant for the kitchen.
Jamilah hopped out of her car, walked over to his, and tapped the window.
He didn’t jump, which for Jamilah meant he was aware of her presence the entire time, yet too into whatever he was writing or hearing to acknowledge her.
Or perhaps she was purposely being ignored.
If so…ouch!
Rashad closed the notebook and pulled off the headphones. Reaching for his signature black-and-white bandanna, he held onto the notebook and opened the car door.
“Good morning, Boss Lady.”
“Good morning, Rashad. You do not have to call me that.”
“I like calling you that. All of my friends have nicknames. That’s mine for you.”
Jamilah didn’t miss that he’d called her a friend. Something about how he said it made her believe she could live up to the name.
They walked toward the back entrance. “Is that the famous notebook? The one you came back for that night?”
“Affirmative.”
“Rhymes, right?”
“Mostly.”
“Because when you’re not cooking, you’re rapping.”
His eyes slid in her direction as he opened the door.
“You were listening to music when I drove up.”
“Something like that.”
Jamilah remembered the conversation he’d had with Rita’s friend Shelby, that hip-hop was his other passion besides food.
Made her want to sneak and take a look at his notebook.
She’d never dare to make such an intrusion without permission.
The words contained inside were probably more sacred to him than those in Scripture.
They reached the kitchen. He placed the book on the shelf beneath the counter, then tied on his bandanna, a sign that he was ready to work.
Sensing his hesitancy to share more about music, Jamilah switched the conversation to cooking.
Ed arrived a short time later. Before the catering event, she’d talked to Ed and made it clear about Rashad’s leadership position in the kitchen.
Ed said he’d only been looking out for her.
Jamilah had responded that it was time she do that herself.
Since then, to her relief, both men acted like they had some sense and weren’t neighing stallions impressing a mare.
Ed complimented Rashad’s knife skills. Rashad remarked on Ed’s tats, which set off an ongoing conversation about life as a veteran.
Like Rashad’s uncle Melvin, Ed too had been in the army.
Prep was quick and efficient, much as it had been before Blair left.
Proof yet again that she’d been right to meet with Rashad and ask—beg, bribe, grovel—him to give Side Chic’k a second chance.
The only thing left was to convince her father to do the same thing.
Two hours later, work was in full swing, with the dining room more crowded than it had been in months. Whether from the QR Code on cards placed on the catering event’s tables or those recently handed out at nearby businesses, Jamilah didn’t know. But she was grateful.
“I don’t come over this way much,” a customer was saying when she walked up to the table. “I’d heard of Eighteenth and Vine but had no idea about all the things going on down here.”
“All finished?” Jamilah politely interrupted, before removing empty plates from the table. “We’re closing soon. Anything else I can get you? A to-go order, perhaps?”
A young man wearing a backward baseball cap and matching sweatshirt answered. “Everything was delicious. Those drumsticks were the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’ll be sure and tell the chef.”
The woman next to him asked, “The same guy from our Halloween anniversary party? What’s his name?”
“Rashad.”
“He’s cute.”
Jamilah hid her mild annoyance behind a smile. “I’ll also relay that message.”
She placed their bill on the table and headed toward the kitchen but not before hearing, “I wish that chef was on the menu.”
The comment was followed by laughter and groans.
The business closed for the night. The crew cleaned up. Finally it was just Rashad and Jamilah alone in the space. Words became few. The air became thick. Jamilah waged a silent war between what had always been expected of someone like her and what she wanted to experience right here, right now.
“Should I put these in the storage room?” Rashad asked, pointing toward the extra boards from his rearrangement project that had been temporarily stacked in a corner.
“Actually, as I said earlier, I could use that shelving setup in my closet.” Jamilah nodded her head toward the newly organized wall. “Like those.”
“No problem. I’ll put them in your car.”
“Um, is there any way you could like…install them?”
A slightly raised brow was his only reaction. Jamilah got busy wiping off an already clean counter. “But if you can’t, I understand.”
“No, I can do it. If that’s what you want.”
What she wanted involved a whole other type of wood, but he didn’t need to know that yet.
“I’d appreciate it. I can pay you.”
“No need for that. Just let me know when you want me to come over.”
“Would now be too inconvenient?”
“It wouldn’t be inconvenient, but it might not be wise.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” he mimicked. “Come on now, Boss Lady. I’m a man.
You’re a woman. We’re feeling each other.
Don’t even try to deny it. We started out rocky, but I think this past week showed both of us that when we work together, it leads to success.
I like what you’ve achieved. I respect your hustle and your vision.
I wouldn’t want sex to get in the way of that. ”
“Who said anything about sex?”
He stared at her in a way that made her panties wet. She fought to not squirm. He held her eyes for a second. Then a second more. Then a slow move of said eyes down the length of her body. She swore she could feel his hands.
“Never mind.” She started to brush past him.
He caught her arm. “I’ll do it to you, I mean, for you. The shelves. But it’s late. All the bangin’ I’ll be doing might wake the neighbors.”
It was her turn for a raised brow.
“With hammer and nail, of course.”
“Of course. But no worries. There’s a foot of concrete between floors which gives all of us there complete and total privacy.”
Jamilah locked up, then typed her address into his GPS.
He followed her to the car. Placed the planks sideways and through a window of his larger SUV for the short commute to her downtown loft.
On the way there, she second-, third-, and fourth-guessed the reasons behind her actions.
She wasn’t into casual sex. Had never experienced a one-night stand.
Rashad wasn’t the type of man she was normally attracted to, certainly not like anyone she’d ever dated.
Rashad entered a home that smelled like vanilla—all Wayfair and Etsy and Bed, Bath and Beyond—and took in the decidedly feminine decor.
“You surprise me, Boss Lady.”
“I asked you not to call me that.”
“Why? You look like a lady and act like a boss.” He reached over and fingered a very real-looking bamboo plant on an end table. “Would you prefer Suburban?”
“How about Jamilah? Or Jam. That’s Blair’s nickname for me that others who’ve heard it have adopted.”
“Nah, I’m not into doing what others do.”
“Why does my decor surprise you?”
“It looks…soft. Dainty.”
“You just said I look like a lady.”
His eyes raked her with that sexy look that scrambled her insides, before walking over to the art she was told would add a pop to her subtle living room canvas of lavender, pale yellow and bright blond wood.
“I was expecting something bolder, more modern, like this.” He turned. His voice deepened. “Like you.”
He kept surprising her, this supposed walking stereotype her father warned her about.
Ironically, the painting was a gift to herself from an artist on Etsy, an abstract picture of a chicken, a beautifully illustrated interpretation that captured her brand completely.
When the painting arrived, she called Walter and asked him to help her hang it.
He almost refused. That’s how much he hated it.
Said it was too loud and gaudy. That it ruined the calm, sophisticated aesthetic she’d achieved.
Rashad saw the picture as she did. Because he saw her. All of this passed through her mind in a matter of seconds, the amount of time it took for him to walk over to where he’d leaned the planks and pick them up.
“You should add something like that to the walls at Side Chic’k.”
“Chickens?”
“Color.” He looked toward the hall. “Where do you want the shelving?”
“In my bedroom.” Jamilah closed her eyes against how that sounded.
“Naturally.”
“Stop thinking everything is about you and sex.” Although it was about him and sex. “I’ve been wanting shelving in my closet for a while. When I saw what you did in the kitchen—”
“I’m just messing with you, shorty. No need to explain.”
Jamilah whipped around and all but stomped to her bedroom, her feelings a mix of frustration and eroticism. In her home, everything about Rashad turned her on.
She was uber aware of him as they entered her bedroom. His body seemed to fill up the room, all strong arms, tight butt, long legs, and effortless swagger. She tried to see everything through his eyes, while walking into a closet that suddenly seemed way too small.
“Dang, Jamilah. You’ve got a lot of clothes.” He stepped to her.
“I know.” Flummoxed, she reached for an armful of clothes, walked over and dumped them on the bed, then headed back for a second trip. “It’s just this one wall where I—”
“Come here.”
Rashad pulled Jamilah into his chest, wrapped his arms around her, and rocked them slow.
“Slow down, baby. I know what you’re feeling. I’m feeling it, too.”
The kiss at her temple was so light that Jamilah wondered if she’d imagined it. The hand that rubbed up and down her back, though, and the hard chest and strong back that her hands traveled down on a get-to-know were all very real.
Her heart raced. She felt his, too. Or was it just hers beating out of her chest and into his?
That chest. Her girls. They fit together perfectly.
All muscle and survival and dogged determination.
He continued to rock them as he ran his hand over her hair and down the side of face.
Kissed her forehead. Settled his chin on top of her head.
Took a deep, satisfied breath. His embrace made her feel safe. Treasured. Wanted.
Ooh, how badly she wanted him, too. More than a hug.
Or a kiss. She wanted all of him. She wanted to feel all of that unapologetic authenticity.
Her nipples began to harden. Her yoni pulsed.
Her breath increased as she lifted her lips in search of his, as though she were parched and he were a fountain. His lips lowered to hers.
The kiss was light, magical, filled with promises that Jamilah believed could actually be kept.
His lips skimmed over hers, back and forth and back again, his tongue following their shape like lip liner before slowly sliding into her mouth, as though coming home.
His deliberate patience had her whole body reacting.
Jamilah wanted to devour him like a Happy Meal.
When he finally increased the pressure and kissed her in earnest, she was ready to tear his clothes off and be taken on the floor.
The kiss was too short, yet it lasted forever.
He pulled her closer, placed a hand on her ass.
Pressed her stomach against his burgeoning dick, its size living up to the timber she’d envisioned.
She pulled at his shirt, the button at the top of his jeans.
Perhaps it was the time that had passed since her last benefits.
Maybe the enhanced bad-boy allure. All Jamilah knew was that she wanted him here, now, deep inside her.
She broke the kiss. “I’ve got condoms.”
Wobbly legs took her from the closet to the nearby nightstand.
Shutting down all thoughts, cautionary dribble and self-judgmental blah, blah, blah, she pulled a box of Trojans from the drawer and hoped the ultra thins that Benefits had used could cover that eggplant that had just tickled her navel.
Tomorrow would be enough time for that other R word, regret.
Now the only R she wanted was the one who could massage her breasts and spread her legs like he did the ones in the kitchen.
Shaky fingers pulled out a familiar square foil, then turned to face Rashad. She was surprised to find him directly behind her. He took the condom, read the front, and smiled before tossing it on the nightstand.
“I like that heat you’re coming with, Jamilah. But there will be no fucking tonight.”
His coarseness did little to douse the flame licking the flower between her dewy folds. She hoped she’d heard incorrectly.
“You don’t want to have sex?”
“Baby, you have no idea. But I can’t. Not like this.”
“Like what?”
Jamilah wanted to ask him to explain it to her like English wasn’t her first language, because for the life of her she couldn’t imagine why a testosterone-driven man like the one standing in front of her was turning down pussy-on-a-platter.
“Like doing something in the heat of the moment that we might regret tomorrow.”
He was thinking about the R word, too?
“You don’t come across as the type of woman who has casual sex.
At least, that’s not how I see you. If we ever do anything, I want it to mean something.
I don’t want it to be like all of my other encounters with casuals I’ve shopped for online, where a cute face, big tits, or a nice ass got the click. ”
Jamilah plopped on the bed.
“What if casual sex is what I want?”
“How many times has that happened? That you had a one-night stand or a casual dally with a brothah you just met a few weeks prior?”
Never.
Rashad read the answer on her face. “Exactly.”
He turned back toward the closet. “Now, grab that bag of supplies off the counter, and help me hang your shelves.”
Jamilah obeyed his command like the good girl she was trying hard not to be. She didn’t want to help hang shelves. She wanted to help herself to the appendage he had hanging.