Page 44 of Toxic B!tch
My thighs clench at the thought, and I bite the inside of my cheek to ground myself, to keep from losing focus.
Malik is still talking, oblivious to the heat curling low in my stomach, to the memories dancing just beneath the surface of my mind.
“We’re close to being done,” he says, sweeping his hand over the open space. “You’d never know it was a crispy critter when I’m finished.”
Crispy critter.
The words are so absurd I nearly laugh out loud. I press my lips together, swallowing it down.
His hands rest on his hips, his stance easy, confident. He’s proud of this, of the work he’s put into rebuilding something that was never meant to stand in the first place.
I tilt my head, letting my gaze trail along the beams, the framework that now hides the art I left behind. “Yeah,” I murmur. “You do good work.”
He glances at me, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”
I shake my head, forcing a smirk. “Nothing.”
He watches me a beat longer, then gestures for me to follow as he moves deeper into the house. I trail behind, my fingertips grazing the new wooden railing as we ascend the stairs. The scent of fresh-cut lumber and sawdust fills the air, but if I inhale just right—just deep enough—I swear I can still catch the faintest trace of smoke, of something charred and final.
Malik leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re quiet.”
I blink, snapping myself back into the present. “Just picturing it finished.”
“Yeah?” His eyes flick over me, studying. “You got an eye for this kind of thing?”
I smirk. “Something like that.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Didn’t peg you as the interior design type.”
I step toward the window, running my fingers along the new trim. “Oh, I have a vision for spaces,” I say, my voice softer now, more thoughtful. “How they should be used. What they should hold.”
The ghosts of my work linger here. They always do.
Malik doesn’t press, doesn’t dig any deeper, but I can feel his gaze on me, like he’s trying to see something beyond the surface.
It’s been too long since I’ve created. Too long since I’ve carved my art into something deserving. And this conversation—this space, this reminder of what I’ve done—is making me all hot and bothered in a way that has nothing to do with Malik and everything to do with my work.
I need to deal with Elle.
Soon.
Before my urges start bleeding into the wrong places.
I take a slow breath, pushing the thought away for now. Malik’s watching me, waiting, and I realize I’ve let a moment of silence stretch too long. I flash him a small, easy smile, the kind that always works. “I gotta go,” I tell him. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His brow furrows. “Tomorrow? Did you tell me you had plans tonight, and I forgot?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I smooth my expression before any panic can show. “Umm, no,” I say quickly. “I just have to work, but I’m off tomorrow night.”
He nods, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “I could come up to the bar.”
I press my lips together, thinking fast. I adore how much he wants to be around me, how he actually listens when I talk about my life, my schedule, the things I do outside of us. But tonight isnot the night for him to be watching me from across the room. I have plans.
Plans that don’t involve being observed.
“Malik, handsome,” I murmur, stepping closer, letting my hands smooth up his chest. “I love that you wanna be there and just watch me work, and I mean this in the best and nicest way possible.” I look up at him through my lashes, lips twitching. “But my boyfriend being there all the time cuts into my tips… ya know what I mean?”
