Page 88 of My Only

I exhaled deeply, running my fingers along the edge of the note. And for a moment, I allowed myself to smile. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this had everything to do with last night.

“Damn. Where’s the black pepper?” Hassani muttered, peering into the built-in spice rack beside the stove. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

I shook the excess water from my hands and made my way over to him. One glance at the spice rack was all it took before I grabbed the tiny bottle and handed it to him.

“Thanks, baby.”

I smiled up at him. “You’re welcome.”

Returning to the shrimp I was prepping, I went back to deveining them while the familiar sounds of ‘90s R&B played from our tiny portable speaker.

“Is the paprika still on the rack or in the cabinet now?” Hassani asked next.

I shook my head, smiling to myself. “The paprika is still in the same spot, baby.”

He sighed, leaning in closer to the spice rack, hunching his tall frame slightly. “I don’t see it.”

Snorting a laugh, I abandoned the shrimp and returned to his side, reaching for the glass paprika shaker—right where I said it was.

I looked up at him, and he met my gaze.

“Thank you again,” he said.

“My pleasure.”

He chuckled before leaning down to press a soft kiss to my lips.

It was one of the rare times he was home early from work. Most of the year had been a blur of late nights and early mornings, with him leaving before I even woke up for the day. The Greene Gardens Project consumed so much of his time that, at this point, I was used to seeing more of his absence than his presence.

But after I mentioned that it had been way too long since we cooked dinner together, he told me he’d make it happen. And tonight, he was making good on that promise.

It felt good to have him home before the sun dipped past the horizon.

We were vibing—cooking, cracking jokes, just enjoying each other like we used to in our newlywed days.

I had just finished seasoning the shrimp when I heard him grunt under his breath.

“What are you looking for now?” I asked.

“The grapeseed oil.”

I pointed above his head. “In the cabinet, first shelf.”

He nodded, turning to open the cabinet door. “Damn, why don’t I know where anything is?”

“Because it’s been a minute since you’ve cooked in here, principal architect.”

He tossed a glance over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes in mock annoyance.

I burst out laughing.

“Yeah, aight,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

Drying my hands on a paper towel, I walked up behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek against his broad back.

“I’m just playing with you,” I murmured, turning my face and rising onto the arches of my feet to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “I am so proud of you.”

He took my hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the back of my wrist.

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