Page 67 of Kentrell

I figured he’d say that. “Then what do you want to talk about?”

“You.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Who you been fuckin’ with?”

The way he said it was so casual, like he wasn’t lobbing a bomb across the table. I tried to laugh it off.

“Nobody.”

“That’s hard to believe.”

“It’s not,” I said, setting the glass down. “I’ve been focused. I’m working toward partnership. I don’t have time for distractions.”

“Or you don’t make time.”

I raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “Just sound like you runnin’. From what, though…”

“I’m not running from anything.”

“Then who broke your heart?”

That question hit different. He asked it with zero judgment, zero slickness. Just… direct. Clean.

I looked down at my glass.

“My father.”

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t flinch.

So I kept going.

“My mom used to say he was the love of her life. Said he was charming and brilliant and thoughtful. Left flowers on her windshield. Wrote her poems on gum wrappers. Loved her like nobody else could.”

My voice got softer.

“She said after he passed, she never looked at another man again. Said there was no point.”

I gave a short laugh. “She used to say, ‘Zoe, a man who sees you for who you are and stays? That’s the one.’ So I grew up thinking love was rare. Untouchable. Something perfect you either found or didn’t.”

Kentrell just stared at me, unreadable.

Then, he shifted in his seat?—

“So you put off letting a muhfucka play in that pussy ‘cause you think yo mama hung up on yo daddy?”

I damn nearchoked.

I coughed into my napkin, eyes wide, wine threatening to come out my nose. “I beg your pardon?!”

He didn’t even blink. Just leaned forward.

“You heard me.”

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