Chapter 6 #3
He chuckled softly with a hint of mischief in his voice. “Shiiid, that’s because I haven’t finished yet.”
“Boy—”
“Say the word, and I’ll flip you over right now. I don’t have to clock in till noon.”
I bit my bottom lip, feeling my cheeks warm. “It’s tempting, but if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to pass out. Then you’ll have to explain to the paramedics why your girl is lying naked on the floor with a smile on her face and no electrolytes in her body.”
He laughed, rolled over onto his back, and stretched as if he hadn’t just been the personification of pleasure twelve hours ago.
“My girl,” he murmured, voice thick. “Hell yeah, that shit sounds good as hell. Good to hear you know you mine now. I’ll make your pretty ass some pancakes.”
“You cook?” I raised an eyebrow, grabbing my silk robe and shimmying into it like a woman who just got baptized in hood holiness.
“I do more than just cook,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed.
And sweet baby Jesus on MLK Blvd,… that man stood up in gray sweatpants.
Gray sweatpants. No underwear. He wore those gray sweatpants, no shirt, just tattoos and temptation. His sleepy, low-lidded expression suggested he had dreamt about me and woke up still in that fantasy.
And that thang was swanging like it had its own Social Security number.
“Elias Jamal Edmonds, if you don’t stop walking around with that monster hanging like it has rent to pay…”
He winked over his shoulder. “You’re acting like you didn’t just have a meeting with it last night.”
“I met it. I just haven’t processed it yet.”
By the time I finished my morning hygiene routine and made it to the kitchen, he was already at the stove with a bottle of syrup in one hand and a Bluetooth speaker playing some old-school Maxwell. A plate of bacon was already sizzling beside him.
“I like my pancakes fluffy with a bit of an edge,” I said, leaning against the counter.
“I like my women the same,” he declared, sweeping his eyes over my body and giving me a wink.
“Boy—”
“I’m serious, baby. I saw you getting in your head earlier when I said you’re my girl.
I’m a detective, and I’m very observant.
Don’t think too hard about it. I’m not that nigga you was fucking with.
You belong to me, Jonay. And not just in that possessive, ‘I had you, so now you mine,’ type shit.
But in that deep, grown man, I see your soul, and I still want every broken piece of your sexy ass type shit. ”
My lip trembled as he continued to make me swoon.
“I don’t care how long it takes for you to fully trust it,” he continued, his voice smooth and captivating. “You are mine, in spirit, in skin, in softness, in fire. I know what it feels like to lose what you love. So, when I tell you I’m not going anywhere, believe that, mama.”
I nodded, tears blurring my vision.
“I feel safe with you, Elias,” I whispered. “I’ve never felt that way before, not even in my last relationship, where we were together for years. But this connection between us,” I said, pointing between him and me, “feels like home.”
He pressed his forehead against mine.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him softly, slowly, and with certainty.
We didn’t even eat right away. We stood there, holding each other as if breakfast could wait, but love couldn’t.
In the stillness of that moment, with syrup cooling and eggs growing cold, I realized I wasn’t just falling for Elias; I was finally rising in love.
My phone lit up with his name.
Detective Fine Shyt AKA Mr. Elias Jamal Edmonds.
He had the name that walked into a room first, the type of name that carried a whole chest behind it. Steady, certain. It buzzed across my screen while I was folding warm towels fresh out of the dryer, and my heart did that messy little jump like I’d been caught sneaking sweets before dinner.
I answered, pretending my voice wasn’t two octaves higher than usual. “Detective.”
“Hey, Deputy Gorgeous. You still owe me that date,” he said, that baritone soft but sure, the sound of someone already smiling.
I pushed a towel into a neat square and set it down, smirking. “Brick & Ember wasn’t a date?”
“That was me ambushing you.” He chuckled lightly. “I mean a real one. One where I take the lead, cuff you properly, and show you what it feels like to let a man court you without hesitation.”
Heat flared across my cheeks. Cuff me properly? Sir. “And what does that look like, Detective Fine Shyt?”
“It looks like you dressing beautifully but comfortably,” he said, voice dropping into a slow slide that made my breath snag. “Because tonight, I’m putting you in your element. Creating. Think you can trust me to lead?”
That word—trust—bloomed and ached in the same breath. I’d stacked brick after brick around my heart, swearing nobody would get in without ID, references, and a background check. But with him? The walls felt… negotiable.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
He paused like he wanted to sit with that. “Good. I’ll call when I’m outside.”
When the line went quiet, I stood there holding a towel to my chest like a life jacket, grinning at absolutely nothing.
The closet suddenly felt like an exam. I ran my fingers across hangers like I could read answers in cotton.
Black dress? Too serious. Floral skirt? Too flirty.
My hands hovered over outfits until I landed on a yellow, flowy tank top that kissed my skin with sunshine, white denim shorts, and yellow open-toe sandals.
Fresh French mani and pedi gleamed like glass.
My hair, pinned half up, half down, secured with the hand-painted yellow butterfly clip I’d made on a rainy Sunday, reminded me I could build pretty things out of quiet.
A whisper of lemon-jasmine oil behind my ears.
Lip gloss, not lipstick. I looked like myself, just brighter.
When his On my way text came through, my stomach flipped like a gymnast. I pressed a hand to my chest and laughed softly at myself. I was grown as hell and still acting like a teenager before prom.
My belly did tight little cartwheels. Girl, pull it together. I checked the mirror one last time, smoothed my top, and whispered to my reflection, “Relax, and don’t overthink.”
The knock made my pulse hop.
I opened the door and almost laughed because he really did look like my future dressed casually. Crisp polo, forearms rolled into temptation, and that clean skin-and-cedar thing he wore like a second signature. His eyes dragged down and up slowly, respectful but unflinching.
“Damn,” he said simply. “Directions followed to the letter. Beautiful and comfortable. But you”—his mouth tilted—“you’re always gorgeous as fuck to me.”
I tucked a loc behind my ear so I’d have something to do besides combust. “Hi.”
He stepped in just enough to glance around.
His gaze snagged on my canary throw pillows, the framed print with yellow brushstrokes, the lemon-colored stainless steel water bottle sitting loyal on the console table.
He smirked, nodding like a detective who just cracked a case.
“Favorite color’s yellow. You wore it the first night I met you, it’s all over your space, and that little sunshine canteen goes everywhere you do. ”
I blinked, impressed and a little exposed. “Detective eye never clocks out, huh?”
“Not with you.” His voice softened. “Come on, gorgeous.”
He walked me out like he was escorting prize cargo, opened the truck door like a gentleman, then palmed my waist, firm and careful, while I climbed in. He leaned close to buckle my seat belt, and my breath stalled.
“Pretty cargo gets protected at all times.” He murmured the words warm against my cheek.
I sat very still, trying to remember how lungs worked.
The engine purred to life, and Coco Jones slid through the speakers like velvet and honey. I made a sound that wasn’t words, and it already had me embarrassed. “Oh my God. ‘Here We Go (Uh-Oh)’? You didn’t.”
He gave me a look that said, Of course, I did. “Sing, then.”
I did. Quiet at first, then full, like my voice remembered how to be brave. He didn’t talk over me. Didn’t joke. Just drove with one hand and used his other to carelessly rest it on my lap, the mirror catching his grin, eyes soft the whole time. It felt like being applauded without clapping.
When the song faded, I exhaled. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something to keep.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, he said, “Because you are.”
The road unspooled in golden ribbons ahead of us. My smile wouldn’t behave even if I tried.
We pulled up in front of a black-brick facade crowned with a gold script sign: Melanin Mixery.
And then a second line caught the light as we walked under it: Mix Bold. Smell Black. Stay Legendary.
Inside, the world slowed. Espresso-brown and obsidian walls, silhouettes of Black kings and queens outlined in gold leaf, glinting like living jewelry.
Edison bulbs crisscrossed overhead in warm constellations.
The playlist wrapped around us, Lauryn to Sade to a splash of Afrobeats, bass low enough to feel it in the ribs.
The air was sandalwood, shea, citrus, and something sweet, like a hug you could inhale.
A hostess with a velvet voice and waist-length locs greeted us with two warm towels misted in lavender and shea. “Cleanse before you create,” she said, smiling like a benediction.
I pressed the cloth to my palms, and the scent eased something tight in my chest, something I didn’t know I’d been clutching. “This is…”
“Yours tonight,” Elias said, eyes locked on my face, not the room. “I rented it out.”
I laughed helplessly. “You did not. Stop playing!”
“Gorgeous, I don’t play with you or about you.” He offered his arm. “Come on.”