Page 57 of Real's Love

Turning, I couldn’t help pushing my body into his and hugging him.

“How did you know?” I asked.

His arms eased around me, and he bent to kiss my forehead.

“You play Alexa when I get there, but you always have to turn off the record player in that old-school stereo console you have first. Even with the streaming music, you play old stuff,” he explained.

I smiled at the thought that he’d paid that much attention to my love of vinyl and older music.

“I wasn’t expecting?—”

“You should. You should expect… more.”

He pulled back and grazed my cheek with his knuckles before tilting my chin. I met his warm, copper-brown eyes. I didn’t know what to make of what I saw there. I tried to back up, but he held me tightly.

“Real—”

“You don’t ever want more than what those rules allow, love?” he persisted.

“I’m good,” I said.

I lied. Oh, God, I was lying, and I think he knew it. It was in those eyes, in the sudden smirk twisting his beautiful lips. My heart was beating so hard that I imagined the shape of it extruding from my chest like some old cartoon. I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry.

“You good?” he mocked. “Well, I’m not. I want more than that. I want more with y?—”

“Find anything you like? For God’s sake, Real, you can’t keep your hands to yourself for an hour?” Oscar scolded.

I broke away, relief swamping me as my gaze returned to the vinyl collection.

“Yes! So many I want to look at, and I haven’t even made it to the books!” I directed at Oscar.

“This conversation is not over, love.”

I didn’t acknowledge Real’s soft promise.

But I heard it.

For some reason,this girl was reluctant to spend my money in this damn shop, knowing she loved all this old shit. She actually squealed high-pitched as hell when she found an immaculate, autographed copy of some book calledAdam and Eva.

“It’s by Sandra Kitt!” she explained excitedly.

I raised an eyebrow. “Umm… okay.”

She made an exaggerated eye roll. “Real! It’s like the first romance book with Black characters published by a serial line.”

“Oh, so you like romance in books, just not in real l?—”

“When did you get so petty?” she snapped, honey eyes blazing up at me.

After that, I didn’t have to encourage her to spend anymore. Rare recordings from Otis Redding and Nina Simone had Oscar’s grin as wide as his face when we checked out. He felt really smug, given the Harlem Renaissance-era literature he’d taken her into a special room to see. He didn’t sell those, but he loved her enthusiasm, especially when she squeezed him in a delighted hug.

“You hungry?” I asked her when we were once again strapped into our seats.

It didn't matter; we were definitely going to this little café I had spent my precious time finding and researching.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, sounding distracted. I side-eyed her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

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