Chapter 11
Sasha
I stood back and surveyed my handiwork: brioche French toast, scrambled eggs with cheese, hash browns, bacon, and sausage,
plus grits. Everything looked and smelled divine. Vuitton nipped at my ankles, whimpering and begging.
“No, boy. No bacon for you. Last time you threw up in the middle of my bed and Courtney was pissed.”
He sat down, looking up at me with puppy eyes, and whined some more. “Fine,” I said, picking up a strip to break off a small
piece for him. He gobbled it up quickly and then promptly whined for more. “No!” I said a bit more sternly. His ears went
back, and I felt guilty almost instantly. “It’s not good for you,” I reasoned in a softer tone.
We were in a brief stare down before he stood, shook his small body, and trotted off to jump up onto the couch.
Courtney came downstairs yawning and stopped when she got to the kitchen, scratching her head. “What’s all this?”
“I thought I’d do somethin’ to help cheer you up,” I said, rounding the island. I took her non-injured hand and led her over
to the table. “I know you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
Shit, that came out all wrong. I was trying to do a good thing, and my mouth was gonna mess it up before the day got started. Courtney’s immediate reaction was evidence of that fact.
She rolled her eyes, and my name came out as a heavy sigh. “Sasha.”
“No, that’s not . . . I just . . . I meant not being able to play is hard for you, so I wanted to do this . . . do somethin’
for you. So, I made you breakfast.”
Her eyebrows shot damn near to her hairline, and I tried not to be offended by the shock in her tone. “You what now?”
“I made you breakfast,” I repeated.
A smile lifted the side of her mouth. “You haven’t made me breakfast, or even cooked for me . . . ever.”
I rolled my eyes and gently placed my hands on her shoulders to force her to sit. “I distinctly remember makin’ you breakfast
the first night we spent together.”
She laughed. “You brought me a bowl of cereal.”
“I made it, so that counts as making you breakfast.”
She laughed again. “You’re not wrong. It does count as making me breakfast. So, it smells good in here. Did you make this,
or are you going to consider putting whatever food you bought on a plate ‘making it for me’?”
I sucked in a sharp breath. Don’t react. Don’t react. I would not let her comment set me off. We were not gonna argue. I wasn’t gonna argue. I wanted to do a good thing for my wife, especially because I could tell she felt some kinda way after
her call with Mya. “Since when do you cook?” The question she’d asked yesterday had been tinged with some bitter-ness, maybe.
“Do you think the dishes are for show?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe you put in a valiant effort, then—” She stopped talking, no doubt because she
saw the scowl forming on my face.
“I cooked. Remember the conversation we had with your sister about me with the pasta? I can cook, Courtney. You think I grew up with Big Mama and wouldn’t know how to cook?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Then why have I never been a beneficiary of your skills?”
I put my hands on my hips and cocked my head. “Oh, you’ve been a beneficiary of plenty of my skills. Just not the culinary
ones.”
“We’ve been married for three years. Not once in that time have you felt the urge to cook for me? I have to say, I’m kinda
hurt by that.”
Some of my defensiveness drained from me when I recalled how she’d sullenly trudged upstairs after the call with Mya.
“I’ve made you stuff.”
“When?”
“Whaddaya mean when? Like you said, I made you that bowl of cereal. And I make you great sandwiches. I . . . I have done plenty.”
We had another brief stare down. My assertion was weak. I hadn’t done any real cooking since we’d been together. It was no
fun to cook for one person, and I spent more time alone due to the schedule she had. And I don’t know, maybe it was some small
act of sticking it to her. Not letting her have all of me since I didn’t have all of her. I enjoyed cooking and wanted to
share that passion with the woman I loved, but something had held me back.
Until today.
I’d woken up with the overwhelming urge to present this side of me to her. To share with her.
“Okay, you’re right, my bad,” she relented. “Thank you for making me breakfast today to add to all of the culinary delights
you’ve served me.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “This will be the last time I do anythang nice for you,” I said with a pout.
She smiled wide, and like always when she turned her attention on me, my stomach did a flip. It’d been that way from the first
time I’d laid eyes on her. Plenty of customers had cycled through The Candy Shop, and to get the best tips I always made sure
to make them feel special, but Courtney somehow flipped the script. She didn’t throw out a random marriage proposal, or more
vulgar propositions like some did. The way she smiled at me, talked to me, I was more than a lap dance . . . she saw me. Wanted to see me. Made me feel special.
“Awww, don’t be like that,” she said, laughing. She hooked a finger into the pocket of my shorts and tugged me closer, resting
her hands on my hips. “You’re the one who said a bowl of cereal counted as cooking.”
I smacked my lips and rolled my eyes, trying my damnedest to resist her charms. The warmth of her fingers on the small patch
of my exposed skin was nearly enough to do me in. It wasn’t a lot, but I was a woman starved for her wife’s touch. That was
usually my downfall. We’d have whatever issue, big or small, and she’d smile or joke us into a better place. Fix us. Make
us better. Usually.
“Whateva.” My attention went to her cast. She’d never left me before. I walked my fingers back and forth along the rough surface and took measured breaths through the tightening of my chest.
“I’m sorry you’re hurt. I know . . . I know I haven’t said it, but I am sorry. And it’s my fault. Because if I hadn’t called
you to pick me up that night because I got wasted at the club, then . . . then you would have still been at Tina’s and not
here.”
A silence settled between us. We were on a constant roller coaster, and it was hard to predict when the drops were going to hit.
The look she had on her face the night she left flashed in my mind in high-def.
I shook my head and cleared my throat. It was fine; she was here.
I’d needed her and she’d come. That had to mean something. We were going to be fine. We were fine.
“But you’re home, and I’m going to be your nursemaid until you’re all better. And that means making sure you’re well fed.”
I started to walk away, but Courtney grabbed my hand. She held my gaze as she ran her thumb back and forth along the inside
of my wrist. “It’s not your fault, Sasha. I mean, shit happens. We can’t predict it. It’s not your fault.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded, then leaned down, placing my hands on either side of her face. Her words soothed the
guilt that had been hanging around my neck since her yell had jolted me awake. She was the one injured, but the way she continued
to make sure I was okay—I meant for it to be quick, but the moment my lips connected with Courtney’s, I needed more. I pushed
my tongue past her lips and moaned, remembering how good it was to be with her.
This was where she belonged. This was where I belonged. Together. Courtney snaked her hand behind my neck, the other gripping
my waist, the roughness of her cast scratching me slightly, but I didn’t mind. She wanted me closer instead of pushing me
away.
I stumbled forward, almost tipping her back, which jolted me and brought me back to my senses. “Oh shit, Court. You good?
I’m sorry.”
She laughed. “All good.” She didn’t let go of me and pulled me back so that my forehead rested on hers. “I love you, Sash,
you know that, right?”
I bit the corner of my lip and nodded before answering. “I do. And I love you too, Courtney. Truly and deeply. Now, let me
feed you before all this hard work gets cold.”
She let me go, and I had to get myself together because I was tempted to say screw the food in favor of screwing my wife.
Damn, was I that starved for her attention that simply kissing her got me horny?
I cast a glance in her direction to find her following my every move with the same intensity she used to when she’d watch
me dance at the club, and knew that the answer was a hell yes. The physical attraction between me and Court was never the problem.
I plated her food, giving her a generous portion of everything. “I hope you like it. Even the syrup is warmed,” I said as
I set the breakfast in front of her. “What kind of juice do you want? Orange or cranberry? Or you can have a mimosa like me.”
A funny look crossed her face when I mentioned a mimosa, and I wondered if she was gonna make some comment again about how
she thought I drank too much.
She shook her head. “Probably not best to mix alcohol with my pain meds. Just cranberry please.”
“You’re probably right.”
She wasn’t a fan of the pain meds and only took them when I insisted because I noticed she was grimacing a bit too much. She’d
complained that they didn’t really help with the pain, and instead made her sleepy more than anything.
I poured her a large cup of juice and gave it to her. I expected her to start digging in, but she didn’t. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just waiting for you.”
I don’t know why that simple thing was so huge. But a big goofy grin spread across my lips, and I quickly made my own plate
so I could join her at the table. “Alright, dig in.”
“This looks good, babe. It really does. And thank you for doing this for me.”
“You’re welcome.”
My phone buzzed, pulling my attention away from checking my reflection. I strolled over to the oversized barrel chair and picked it up to see a text from Denise.
Denise: Bitches where we headed tonight
Nowhere, I replied back.
Denise: The hell you mean nowhere?
Me: I ain’t going out
Denise: what the hell
Me: I told y’all Courtney got hurt. She’s home I’m home
Her response was the eye roll emoji.