24. Chanice
Chanice
As soon as I open my eyes, last night comes rushing back to me.
The sex, tears, and trauma-dumping that led to me spending the night.
I feel my cheeks heat and my chest constrict at my stupidity.
I have no idea what I’m going to say to him.
This is supposed to be light and casual, and I keep asking him to bear witness to my heavy life.
What am I even giving him in return? Not a title, not even consistent sex.
He’s such a good guy to be putting up with this.
I roll over and see he isn’t in the bed, making me wonder if he ever ended up joining me.
Maybe he went to work, hoping to avoid a repeat show.
When I look for my phone, I find it on the nightstand stand, plugged in and next to a bottle of water.
It shows me that even still, he is taking care of me.
Checking it, I see that Imani saw my text and got the kids to school. I shoot her one back, promising I will be home tonight. Then I text my boss at the café that I won’t be in today. I know I need the money, but I really need a day to process everything that is going on.
I down the water and pull at my hair, wondering how I let myself sleep without a bonnet. I can only imagine how flat and equally wild my curls look.
After peeing, I confirm it is, indeed, crazy-looking, and all I have to fix it is a ponytail.
Safely securing it in a pineapple, I walk out ready to face him if he is here.
Not bothering with my pants, I am more comfortable in his shirt and my underwear.
At this point, it doesn’t matter as we have passed the boundaries of casual.
Before I even get up to the main floor, I can hear him. He is singing along to a Bowie song playing lowly in the background. I also hear the sound of an oven beeping, which makes sense because, as soon as I get upstairs, I can smell something delicious.
“Morning,” I shout over all the noise.
Turning to face me, a wide smile peels across his face.
He puts whatever is in his hands down and takes off the oven mitts.
In a few long strides, he is in front of me, pulling me into his arms. He smells freshly showered, only making me more self-conscious.
Not at all bothered by the stale smell of my skin, he nestles his face into the crook of my neck.
“I made an English breakfast,” he says while pulling me back in the direction of the kitchen.
He places me in front of the island chairs, gesturing for me to sit. I look at the full plates of bacon, eggs, baked beans, tomatoes, and toast sitting on the counter and smile. It looks great.
“Let me just finish cutting the fruit, and we can eat.” He turns around, giving me a view of his ass in briefs.
Still not dressed, I am getting breakfast and a show as this sexy man cooks for me in his underwear. The taut lines of his back form muscles going down that match the ones that flex in his arms as he moves. He looks damn good in a suit, but even better with nothing on.
His beauty aside, the thoughtful gesture of waking me up with food is just another reason on the long list of why I should just date him. It’s obvious that he will give more than he takes. Isn’t it worth the time and effort to see?
“So, I don’t want to upset you again, but what exactly did they say about the situation?”
He puts the slices of some strawberries and bananas in a bowl next to my food. Then he brings over a cup of tea.
“There will be a hearing to reinstate her rights. They are allowing me to present my case and make a statement about why I should get to keep them.” I take a bite and let myself savor the food for a moment.
He slides in next to me with his own, but looks at me instead of eating.
“If it’s a trial, then you can get a solicitor for it.”
I take another big mouthful, thinking of how to approach this topic. Heat creeps up my neck, making my skin crawl. I keep looking down at my plate, completely incapable of looking him in the eye.
“I, um, don’t know how to ask this.”
“The answer is yes.”
His words have me snapping my head up and looking in his direction. He is staring at me with such intensity that it steals my breath.
“You don’t even know what I want,” I whisper, my mouth incapable of any other volume.
“It doesn’t matter. I would give you anything in this world, so whatever you ask of me, it’s yours.”
My heart accelerates beyond any beat it has ever before. The way he offers me all I could want on a platter with such ease has me melting in a way that will have me fitting perfectly against him. With his words alone, I’m rearranging my heart so that it has all the room to give him space.
“Alex.”
“Chanice, just tell me what you need.” He reaches across the gap between us and grabs my hand. Interlocking our fingers, he ties me to him even more than I already was.
“A solicitor. I need a solicitor.”
I thought there would be more guilt in me asking him for money, or even apprehension. The way he so openly offers to take care of me snuffs out any insecurities that should’ve burned in me.
“Done.” He kisses my knuckle and then tells me he will text me some options.
Knowing that I have this upper hand, and him on my side, alleviates some of the weight I have on my shoulders. I clear my throat of the tears building in it. Looking into his eyes, I see everything the world deprived me of.
“This is good, by the way.” I point down at my plate, trying to balance out the heaviness of this conversation.
“I was worried it wouldn’t be good enough for a chef like you.”
“I’ll cook for you one day.” His kitchen is gorgeous, and it would be amazing to use a gas stove, or the cast-iron pan he made this in.
“I’d like that.”
We keep holding hands while we eat, only talking if it’s something about the case. When we’re done, he writes down the details of the court date.
“I should go.”
Having finished two servings of bacon and most of the fruit, I would rather curl back into his bed. If I stay, I may be in danger of never leaving. He doesn’t protest like he did last night, and just follows behind me while I walk back towards his bedroom.
Just as we are passing the unused dining table, something in a room catches my eye. Without his permission, or my common sense, I walk towards it and fully push open the door.
Sitting on an easel in the middle of the room is a painting of me.
In it, I’m draped across a lounge, head tilted back, curls surrounding me like a cloud.
My smile is bright as I look up at a ceiling painted with little angels who have a similar complexion.
A cloth flows around my curves, showing off the rolls that make me up.
I look alive, vibrant, and full of so much joy that it pours out of me.
I look beautiful. A little sound of surprise leaves my mouth as I finally see myself the way he sees me.
I take a step closer, my hand pressed to my open mouth, eyes roaming every small detail laid bare on the canvas.
“I just finished it,” he says, walking in front of me. He turns it a little so I can see the image even clearer.
“This is amazing.” I wish I had better words to describe the art in front of me. The way it makes me feel is beyond language.
It’s like something has uncoiled in me that has been wound tight my entire life. The light inside of me that fights to stay lit has finally been given something to feed it. It brightens enough that I glow like the painted version of me.
“It would be even better if you sat for it.” Somehow, he looks both proud and insecure, looking between me and the work.
My eyes go back to it, entranced by the better version of me this displays. I don’t know how me being here in person would add anything more to it, but the idea still sounds nice.
“I would love to.”
“Now?” he asks, perking up a little.
Before I can even respond, he is swapping out one canvas for another, placing a blank one on the stand.
“I look like crap.” My hair is barely contained, makeup from yesterday smeared, and I am pretty sure this shirt is fighting for its life to stay on my body.
“You look gorgeous.”
I arch one eyebrow, causing him to laugh.
“Chanice, you’re a natural beauty, but if you want, I can take some liberties to enhance it.” He points to the green velvet couch behind me, and I concede.
I’m not sure how he wants me, so I just flop into it and wait. Instead of directing me, he turns the easel and starts sketching.
“Wait, shouldn’t I be doing something?”
“Just sit however you feel comfortable and hold that pose. When it is time for the face, we can talk about what look you want to give.”
At first, I sit forward, hands resting on my knees.
Then I imagine all the rolls this pose is creating and think better of it.
Moving so that my back is against the cushion, I bring my short legs up and cross them.
My knees already ache from last night, and I remember that I can’t hold this position for long.
I try lying down, resting my head on my hand, but that seems too close to the one he has already done, so I change my mind again.
After trying out three more positions, I sigh.
“Please just tell me what to do.”
Laughing, he comes over and pulls me up.
Planting a kiss on my lips, he guides me until I am sitting in front of the couch.
Pulling one leg up, he rests my arm across the knee.
The other he places on my leg, still lying down.
It looks casual and unplanned, like I’m just relaxing at home.
Satisfied, I give him a nod of approval, freeing him to go back to what he is doing.
At first, I just watch him, in awe of his concentration.
His eyebrows are furrowed, his mouth puckered a little, with lines drawn across his forehead.
Every once in a while, he stops and brings the pencil up to his lips, tapping it across the bottom one.
He doesn’t stop, just moving with ease through the process.
When he seems to have flushed out the design, he grabs some paint.