Chapter 8
I woke up sometime later, sprawled across the bed, confused because I didn’t even remember falling asleep.
I blinked a few times and reached for my phone on the nightstand to check the time.
Apparently, what was supposed to be me lying down for a few minutes after an amazing shower had turned into a whole nap. It was damn near six in the evening.
The smell of fresh garlic and herbs drifted upstairs, reminding me that Bishop had promised to cook pasta for me.
I smiled to myself as I pushed the covers back and sat up.
Whatever he was doing down there smelled good enough to get me out of bed.
I quickly slipped into a nightie, my robe, and slippers, then headed downstairs.
The music hit me first when I got to the bottom of the stairs.
Something smooth and old school was playing low from a speaker he must have brought with him.
I recognized the beat but couldn’t place the song right away.
The kitchen smelled incredible. Garlic and butter and something savory that made my stomach growl immediately.
I walked slowly toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway to watch him.
He had his back to me and was moving around the stove with the kind of confidence that came from doing something a thousand times.
His braids were pulled back and tied with a rubber band.
He had changed into a clean white shirt that stretched across his shoulders and back.
Two pots sat on the stove, and he stirred something in a pan with a wooden spoon.
On the counter next to him sat a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses.
He must have sensed me standing there because he looked over his shoulder and grinned. “There she is,” he said. “I was ‘bout to come wake you up.”
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I said, walking into the kitchen. “How long was I out?”
“’Bout two and a half hours. You needed it though. I wore that ass out.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re not humble at all, are you?”
“Not ‘bout my dick game.” He shook his head, turning back to the stove. “Can’t be humble ‘bout facts.”
I walked up behind him and peeked over his shoulder to see what he was making. There was lobster, crab, and shrimp in one pan with garlic and butter. In the pot was pasta that looked almost done. The other pot had a cream sauce that smelled like heaven.
“What are you making again?” I asked.
“Seafood scampi,” he replied. “You ain’t never had no shit like this. Trust me. It’s somethin’ special.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“Nah, you good. Just sit down and look beautiful. That’s all you gotta do.”
I rolled my eyes, but I sat down at the island and watched him work.
Bishop drained the pasta and tossed it into the pan with the seafood and garlic.
Then he poured in some cream sauce, added seasonings, and stirred everything together.
The smell alone was enough to make me want to dive face-first into the pan.
He grabbed two plates from the cabinet and plated the food like he was working in a restaurant.
He even added a little garnish of parsley on top.
Then he brought both plates over to the island and set one down in front of me.
“This looks amazing,” I said.
“Wait ‘til you taste it.” He grabbed the bottle of tequila and poured two shots. “But first, we gotta toast.”
“To what?” I asked, picking up my shot glass.
“To you,” he replied, holding his glass up. “For choosin’ yo’self after so long and lettin’ a nigga like me help you get yo’ groove back.”
I laughed and clinked my glass against his. “To me,” I said, and we both threw back the shots. The tequila burned going down, but it was smooth. I made a face, and he laughed at me.
He sat down next to me, and we both started eating. The first bite made me close my eyes and moan. The seafood was perfectly cooked, and the sauce was rich and buttery with just enough garlic. The pasta was cooked exactly right. It was the kind of meal that made you forget about everything else.
“Oh my God,” I said. “This is so fucking good.”
“Told you,” he said, grinning. “I don’t play ‘bout my food either.” We ate in silence for a few minutes because the food was too good to interrupt with conversation. I kept sneaking glances at him while we ate, and he eventually looked over at me, chewing slowly. “Let me ask you somethin’.”
“What?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it beside his plate. “What made you comfortable enough to let me nut in you? I assume you on some type of birth control?”
I paused with my fork halfway to my mouth. I wasn’t expecting that question, although I probably should have been. “I can’t get pregnant,” I said, setting my fork down. “I had my tubes tied some years ago.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Damn. You ain’t never want no lil’ shorties?”
I took a sip of my wine before answering. “At one point I thought I did, but my ex-husband and I talked about it years ago and decided children weren’t for us. We were both comfortable with the decision.”
Bishop nodded and took another bite of his food. “But that was you and him. Y’all divorced now. How you feel ‘bout the whole kids shit for yo’self?”
That made me pause again. For so many years, almost every major decision I made had been about what worked for my marriage.
I hadn’t really stopped to reconsider that one now that there was no longer an us.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I guess if I ever decide I really wanna be a mother, adoption is an option.”
“Word?”
“Absolutely.” I picked up my fork again. “But that’s not something I’m thinking about right now. I just got divorced. For once, I wanna focus on myself and figure out what makes me happy without having to consider anybody else.”
He stared at me for a second before nodding. “I respect the fuck outta that.” I nodded, and he asked, “What made you start yo’ nonprofit?”
“I grew up in a rough neighborhood,” I exhaled, reaching for the bottle of wine on the table. “My parents worked hard to keep me out of trouble, but a lot of my friends didn’t have that. Some of them ended up dead or in jail. I wanted to do something to help kids who were in the same situation.”
“That’s real,” he said. “Not a lot of people actually do somethin’ ‘bout it. They just all talk.”
“I got tired of talking. I wanted to make a difference.” I poured some red wine and took a sip as he poured himself some more tequila. I was starting to feel warm and loose. “I don’t believe I asked, so… how old are you?”
“I’ll be twenty-nine in a few months.”
“Hmm. Interesting. We’re thirteen years apart.”
“Goddamn. You look good as fuck for forty-one.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks, and I dropped my eyes with a smile. “Thank you,” I said, suddenly feeling even warmer. “Back to kids… what about you? Do you want any?”
“Eventually,” he shrugged. “But not right now. I gotta get my restaurant off the ground first. I can’t be a good father if I’m out grindin’ and stressed the fuck out all the time.”
“That’s smart. A lot of men don’t think like that.”
“My pops wasn’t around much. I’m not doin’ that to my kids. When I have ‘em, I’m gon’ be there, locked all the way in for real.”
I liked that about Bishop. He was honest about where he was and what he could handle. “What about your mom?” I asked. “Are you close with her?”
“Oh, hell yeah. That’s my dawg.”
“That’s dope. I love that for you. Me and my parents are close too. If they weren’t away celebrating their anniversary, I’m sure as hell my mother would’ve been calling me nonstop this weekend.” We both laughed and continued talking about life, love, and everything in between.
We finished eating, and he took our plates to the sink. I watched him rinse them off and load them into the dishwasher. He moved around the kitchen with an ease that I could get used to. I liked watching him. Something about the way he did things was calming.
He came back to the island and poured us another shot. “You good or you tappin’ out?”
“I’m good,” I said, even though I was already feeling tipsy as hell. “I can hang.”
He laughed. “Aight then,” he said, and we took the shot together. He leaned back in his chair and gave me a look that sent a shiver up my arm. “You different from the women I usually deal wit’. You got yo’ shit together. You kind, smart, and you understand what ‘no strings, no pressure’ means.”
“You’re different too,” I nodded. “You’re younger than me, but you’re more mature than my ex-husband ever was.”
He laughed. “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Some niggas never grow up no matter how old they get.”
“Ain’t that the truth…”
He stood up, walked around the island to where I was sitting, and pulled me up from my chair, wrapping his arms around my waist. I looked up at him, and he kissed me. It was slow and deep and tasted like tequila. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back.
“You’re dangerous,” I said when we finally pulled apart.
“Why you say that?” he asked, licking his lips.
“Because you make my pussy wet without doing too much. It makes me want more.”
“More what? Be specific, beautiful.”
“More of you.”
Bishop kissed me again, and I felt his hands slide down to my ass. “You can have as much of me as you want,” he said against my lips.
We stood there in the kitchen kissing and holding each other while the music played low in the background.
I felt desired and chosen, and I low-key didn’t want the weekend to end.
I was enjoying his company a little more than I probably should’ve been.
He was easy as hell to talk to and laugh with.
Somewhere between last time and this moment, I’d fucked around and started to like him.
He must’ve noticed me getting lost in my thoughts because he squeezed my waist and looked down at me. “What you overthinkin’ for?”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.” He kissed me once, then pulled back with a smirk. “Come lay up wit’ me. Let’s see how long we can watch a movie before I have yo’ ass screamin’ again.”