12. “Was I that good?”
“WAS I THAT GOOD?”
YASMINE
Isaw him before he saw me.
He stood in aisle three of the hardware store, in front of a wall of drill bits. Soft blue tee, jeans that had definitely seen better days, work boots scuffed to hell and back. His locs were tied low at the nape of his neck, a few strands loose.
Even in the middle of fluorescent lighting and cold steel, he still had that same easy way about him, like salt air followed him around.
I’d been pretending I was fine with what happened in that bar bathroom. With leaving him in the parking lot after. I hadn’t done anything wrong, not exactly, but it didn’t feel right either.
I could still leave. Grab what I came for, check out, and be gone before he finished whatever private negotiation he was having with the drill bits.
Instead I stayed, basket hanging off my arm, loaded with light bulbs, batteries, and a very shiny new deadbolt.
CeeCee was staying with me now. The lock on my door was original to the lease, and I needed to know it was solid. More than that, I needed to know only CeeCee and I had keys.
He turned and spotted me. “Hey,” he said. Just that. Easy.
“Hey,” I said.
He walked over, hands in his pockets. “Been a minute.”
“Yeah.”
“You been alright?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.” I met his eyes. “Why?”
“You’ve been avoiding me, darlin’.”
“Been busy.”
“Is that so?” He let the lie sit there until it got embarrassing.
“Okay,” I said. “And avoiding you a little bit.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He waited.
“I got in my head.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Was I that good?”
“Okay, shut up.”
His gaze dropped to the lock in my basket. “You sure you’re alright?”
I shrugged. “Family stuff.”
He nodded and let it be.
“And you?” I asked. “How you been?”
“Busy,” he teased. “New guy keeps ordering the wrong thing. ’bout ready to put parental controls on the parts system.”
“Sounds rough.”
“I haven’t called his mother yet, so I’d say I’m maturing.”
I smiled and he smiled back.
Our eyes met and held. And just like that I was back in the dark with him. His hand on my thigh, his mouth at my ear, breath hot against my skin.
“Hale—”
“Yaz—”
We both stopped.
My fingers tightened around the basket handle until it bit into my palm. The lights felt too bright for how close we were standing. Somewhere in the next aisle, a customer argued with an employee about grout.
“What were you going to say?” he asked.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “You?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “Something you’re not ready to hear.”
“Shouldn’t that be up to me?”
“Another time.” He turned away. “I’ll see you around, Yasmine.”
I watched him take one step. Then another. The space between us opened too fast.
“Wait.”
It was out before I could stop it.
He stopped and turned back, waiting.
“I—”
Whatever I’d meant to say stalled somewhere between thought and speech.
I looked down at the deadbolt instead. “You know anything about changing locks?”
He barely spared it a glance, “A little.”
“I was going to call someone, but—” I exhaled. “Would you help me?”
“Of course.”
No hesitation.
The quickness of it threw me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to assume—”
“Yasmine.” His voice was low, certain. “I want to help.”
Not it’s no problem.
Not I don’t mind.
I want to help.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll follow you out. We’ll get it done.”
“I didn’t mean right now. You probably have things—”
“Got tools in my truck. We’ll figure it out.”
I’d expected later. Tomorrow. Some buffer of time.
But I’d missed him.
“Okay.”
He studied me. Checking. Whatever he found, it was enough.
“Okay,” he said, softly.
I picked up my basket and headed for the register. A second later, Hale fell into step beside me.