Page 115 of Real's Love

“So, you not fucking me no more?”

“Nope.”

She huffed as she rolled her eyes. “Montréal, please,” she mumbled, disbelief evident in her tone. Lips pursed, she watched me get dressed.

I laughed softly, kind of insulted. Shorty acted like my dick ran me. It didn’t, at least, not when something this serious was at stake. I wanted her, and not just for some arrangement by her rules. Love was mine. She crawled across the bed, then moved to sit on her heels. Her hands went to my waistband.

“So, you don’t want to finish what you started?” she teased.

I grabbed her fingers and circled her neck with my other hand. Leaning down, I kissed her slow and deep before pulling away.

“Real—”

Good. I had her attention. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. You choose to believe I’m playing. I keep showing you that I don’t play about you, Love. And you about to stop playing with me.”

Turning, I walked away. It was hard as fuck when I thought about her so wet and ready.

But fuck it; a nigga had integrity.

I kneltin the warm soil of the garden at the Stone House, the sun beating down on my back and the sweet, earthy scent of fresh dirt filling the air. I was trying to focus on the task at hand—pulling weeds, trimming the overgrown herbs, trying to care for this little patch of Louisiana my family called home. But Real’s voice was cutting through the peace like a damn chainsaw.

He was sprawled out in the rocking chair on the porch, rapping Lil Wayne lyrics at the top of his lungs. “Damn, look at you. Now look at us. All my niggas is rich as fuck. Bihhhhh!” he shouted, his voice grating like nails on a chalkboard. Each word seemed to hang in the humid air, mocking me. Still salty from his rejection a couple of days ago, I wasn’t in the mood for this.

I’d come all the way to Emancipation, Louisiana, to get away from him and his bullshit, and here he was, as stubborn as ever. Real with his stupidly handsome features, annoying persistence, and nerve-wracking boundary crossing, was refusing to be unseen. I packed my life up and disappeared to avoid what was brewing between us. Obviously, it didn’t work because he was here, upsetting my atmosphere.

I tried to ignore him, focusing on the bright green plants surrounding me. But it was like trying to ignore a mosquito buzzing around your ear. I yanked a stubborn weed out of the ground with more force than necessary, wishing I could do the same with Real.

“Ay, Love!” he called, his voice irritatingly cheerful. “You hear me? I’m out here in the backwoods, chasing yo’ mean ass, when I’m a rich fly-ass nigga! Ain’t that dedication?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I stood up, brushing the dirt from my hands, and decided I’d had enough of his presence for one day. I headed towards the house, determined to escape his annoying ass. The more I saw his face or felt his presence, the more I felt my walls crumbling. That was something I wasn’t ready for.

I took a quick shower before wandering into the cool, dim kitchen, a welcome relief from the ridiculous heat outside. I opened the fridge, pulling out some leftover chicken, lettuce, and mayo—the ingredients for a simple sandwich. Before I could even start assembling, I heard the creak of the floorboards behind me.

I turned around, and there he was, leaning against the door frame with that infuriating grin plastered on his face. His heated gaze traveled over my sundress-encased body, making my most sensitive parts buzz instantly. This man drove me insane.

Every time his eyes were on me, I felt ready to bare everything, and I didn’t just mean my body. One thing Montréal loved to do was look at me. I never doubted his attraction; he would stare at me for hours, I swear. But more recently, it felt like he had been looking beyond my curves to areas I wasn’t ready for him to see. I had to get him away from me.

I sighed, my patience wearing thin. “Stop looking at me, Montréal.”

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m just tryin’ to unlock the mystery that is Everly. You’re like a puzzle I can’t figure out but refuse to stop trying to solve.”

I rolled my eyes, dolloping mayonnaise onto the bread. “Ain’t no mystery here. Just a tired woman trying to make a damn sandwich.”

“Nah, it’s more than that, Love,” he insisted, his tone suddenly serious. “I think part of the reason you unsuccessfully tryingto resist me is connected to why you had to go so deep to change your life, alter your identity.”

I paused, knife hovering over the mayo jar. My heart skipped a beat. “Maybe I just didn’t wanna be found,” I said, keeping my voice as casual as I could manage.

Real moved closer, his eyes searching mine. “By whom? Why you hiding, Love? What are you running from?”

I slapped the sandwich together with more force than necessary, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “Why are we back to this?” I muttered, not meeting his gaze.

His eyes lingered on me for a moment longer, and I could feel his curiosity pressing down on me. But then he nodded, stepping back with a shrug. “Alright, alright. I’ll let it go—for now!”

I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the small reprieve. As I took a bite of my sandwich, I couldn’t help wondering just how long I could keep my past under wraps. Real was persistent. And deep down, I knew that eventually, I’d have to face the truth I’d been trying so hard to leave behind.

I watched him leave the kitchen, thinking maybe, just maybe, he’d finally dropped the subject. But a few minutes later, he strolled back in, determination plastered across his face.

“Everly,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I said I’d leave it alone for now—but now, it’s later.”

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