CHAPTER 4 #2
I was so incredibly tired of dating these niggas.
I was tired of the same old, predictable song and dance—the flashy DMs, the performative wealth, the endless, exhausting games that always ended with me sitting in my kitchen at three in the morning, wondering why I wasn't enough to keep a man from looking outside his home.
I was done getting entangled with dudes who had more followers than discipline, boys who wanted a strong woman to hold them up but hated her the minute she demanded they stand on their own two feet.
Morgan had been the absolute blueprint for that mess.
He had the style, he had the vocabulary of the streets, he knew exactly how to talk to make a girl feel like she was the center of the universe—until he didn't. Until he was caught bare-assed in the sheets I paid for.
“No more,” I whispered to the empty room, the Pink Panther silently escaping a bumbling chef on the screen behind my words.
I needed something else entirely. I needed a man who didn't look like he belonged in a music video or a club flyer. I wanted substance. I wanted refinement, sophistication—a man whose mind was larger than his ego, someone who had built a life out of discipline and quiet power.
And the absolute second that thought solidified in my head, my mind drifted right back across the street to Dr. Joshua Willis.
He was the literal definition of a different world.
He didn't text you fire emojis at midnight; he spoke to you on the sidewalk using words like “resilient energy” and “nurturing spirit.” He didn't wear designer tracksuits; he wore tailored linen and dark blue suits that made him look like an ancient king who had lost his way in the suburbs.
There was a quiet, heavy structure to his existence that called to something deep inside me—a part of me that was tired of being the only adult in the room.
Maybe the person I was looking for was literally sitting right across the asphalt, wrapped in the dark shadows of that big-ass house.
I let out a slow, heavy breath, my thumb hovering over the screen.
I didn't want to leave the gamer guy completely on read—not out of kindness, but because I didn't want him thinking his little message had left me thinking at all.
I tapped out a single, neutral upside-down smile emoji, hit send, and immediately signed clean out of my Instagram account.
I shoved the phone deep into the bottom of my canvas tote bag, burying it beneath my notebooks and my water bottle.
I needed a break from the digital noise.
I needed to be present in the quiet reality of my own thoughts.
***
An hour slipped past in a haze of soft saxophone music and shifting television lights.
By nine o'clock, little Mia was completely out of it, her breathing so deep and steady that I knew she wouldn't wake up until her parents carried her to bed.
I carefully lifted her from the sectional, her small limbs loose and heavy with sleep, and carried her down the short hallway to her bedroom.
The room was painted a soft, pastel pink, filled with stuffed animals and the faint, sweet smell of baby powder.
I laid her down on her toddler bed, pulling the thick, unicorn-printed quilt up over her small shoulders.
She let out a tiny, snuffling sigh, turning onto her side as her thumb found its way back to her mouth.
I stood there over her for a long minute, brushing a stray curl away from her forehead, my heart swelling with that fierce, protective warmth that always came over me when I was around the little ones.
They were so clean. So unbothered by the jagged edges of the world outside their windows.
“Goodnight, beautiful,” I whispered, kissing the tip of my finger and pressing it gently to her cheek.
I walked back into the living room, leaving the bedroom door cracked open just an inch so I could hear if she stirred.
The television had transitioned from Pink Panther to Thundercats—another one of my absolute favorites from the old-school vault.
Lion-O was on the screen, holding the Sword of Omens high above his head, the red emblem glowing as his cartoon voice boomed into the quiet room.
I sat back down on the couch, but I didn't want to watch the screen anymore. I needed something to occupy the restless, hum of energy that was still vibrating in my bones. I reached into my tote bag, bypassing the psychology textbooks, and pulled out a thick, paperback novel I’d picked up at the airport bookstore a few weeks ago.
The cover was a dark, moody abstract image, and the blurb on the back promised a story that was pretty damn close to Fifty Shades of Grey.
I opened to chapter twelve, leaning my head back against the plush cushions as my eyes traced the crisp, white pages.
The descriptive writing was intense. The author didn't hold back, using words that were heavy, sensual, and explicit, detailing the slow, calculated movements of a powerful, dominant man taking absolute possession of a woman who had spent her whole life trying to maintain control.
The sensory details on the page were vivid—the feel of cold leather against bare skin, the heavy, ragged sound of breath in a dark room, the sharp, exquisite contrast between a massive, rough hand and a soft, yielding waist.
As I read down the page, the words began to blur, and the face of the fictional billionaire in the book completely dissolved, replaced instantly by the image of Joshua Willis standing on his dark porch.
I gasped softly, my fingers tightening on the edges of the paperback.
In my mind, I could see it clearly—those massive, six-foot-eight shoulders leaning over me in the dark, those intense blue eyes looking down into mine with a clinical, consuming hunger, those heavy, sculpted arms pinning my thick thighs against a cold surface.
The scent of jasmine and shea butter from my skin seemed to mix with the imaginary smell of his expensive cologne and old paper.
My chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow pattern. A sudden, burning heat flushed through my entire body, starting deep in my stomach and rushing up to my cheeks until my brown skin felt hot to the touch. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a wild bird trying to escape its cage.
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered aloud, my voice sounding thick and breathless in the quiet room.
I slammed the book shut with a sharp, loud thud that felt like a slap against the silence. My fingers were shaking slightly as I shoved the paperback straight back into the deep interior of my tote bag, burying it out of sight.
“I guess I’ll read this later. Too much damn spice for a Friday night,” I chuckled to myself, using my hand to fan my face as I lay back down across the full length of the couch.
I was completely bothered, excited, and entirely restless.
The room suddenly felt ten degrees hotter than it had five minutes ago.
I lay there staring up at the white ceiling tiles, watching the shadows from the Thundercats battle dance across the plaster, trying to force my mind to return to a safe, professional baseline.
But it was no use. The good doctor had taken root in my head, and his roots were digging deep into the soil of my imagination.
To save myself from my own thoughts, I pulled my phone out of the bag and looked at the screen.
9:30 PM. I needed a distraction that carried some real, grounding weight.
I unlocked the phone, found my contacts, and dialed the one number that had always been my North Star when the world got too loud.
Momma.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, the call clicked open, and the rich, warm, unmistakable sound of Samantha Long’s voice flooded my ear, instantly bringing the smell of Houston grease and vanilla cake into my mind.
“Ciara? Baby girl, is that you?” she asked, her voice carrying that comfortable, slow Texas drawl that sounded like a heavy blanket on a cold night.
“Yeah, Momma, it’s me,” I said, leaning my head back against the throw pillows, a genuine, heartfelt smile finally breaking across my face. “Just sitting here watching little Mia over at the Fergusons'. They out on a date night.”
“Look at my baby, always looking after everybody else’s house,” Momma laughed, the distant sound of a television commercial playing in her background.
“You eating right out there, Ciara? You sound a little tired over the phone.
You ain't letting that job or them online classes run you into the ground, are you?”
“Momma, I’m eating fine. I made some grilled chicken and quinoa today that would’ve made you proud,” I said, laughing softly as I shifted my weight on the couch. “But look... let me ask you something before we get to talking about your kitchen.”
“What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”
I paused, my fingers tracing the hem of my olive-green shirt, my street voice softening into that intimate, raw tonality I only used when I was talking to the woman who birthed me.
“Momma, by any chance... did you tell that new psychologist about me? You know, the hot blonde guy that moved into the neighborhood about a month ago?”
The line went quiet for a split second, the only sound being the faint hiss of the long-distance connection. “You talking about that big doctor, Joshua Willis, right?” she asked, her tone turning curious.
“Yes, Momma. Him.”
“Nah, sweetheart,” she said, a soft chuckle bubbling up on her end. “I ain't spoke to that man in my life. I just heard the older ladies down at the beauty shop talking about how smart he was and how he moved down from up north. Why you asking? What’s up?”