Page 36 of Church Girl
I hate that I’m fascinated. That a nagging curiosity to know more scratches at me.
“Illustration, huh?” I finally say, and she nods, still not looking at me. “What do you plan on doing with your degree?”
She shrugs, and I grunt out an irritated sound. “What did I say about lying to me?”
This time, her head tilts toward me. “You’re my boss, but I don’t owe you a conversation. Or my thoughts. As a matter of fact—” she backs away from the counter “—my workday is over, and I’m not on the clock.”
“So you’re a runner.” I flick off the heat underneath the spaghetti. “I’m learning so many things about you today, Liyah.”
“Aaliyah,” she corrects, voice low.
Tension practically vibrates from her, drawing her so stiff one Chicago autumn breeze would crack her in half. Interesting that of all the things I’ve let fly from my savage mouth,this—a question about her college major—gets such a dramatic reaction.
She might not have wanted to let me see that I got under her skin. I don’t know how to back off, how to let go. It’s a good trait when you’re opening a new business in a crowded field, but, as I’ve also been told, it’s an annoying one as well. I can easily guess which camp Aaliyah falls in.
“Aaliyah,” I murmur, giving her that. For now. “Do you feel better getting that off your chest? Good.” I nod, not giving her a chance to answer. I already know what her little stubborn ass will say anyway. “Now go put those plates on the table so we can get ready to eat.”
Her lips flatten—or try to. Good luck with that. The Bears have a better chance of winning another Super Bowl than that damn dick tease of a mouth has of disappearing.
“You have selective hearing,” she growls.
I arch an eyebrow. “When it comes to bullshit, yeah. And we both know you leaving right now and disappointing G is bullshit. So I tuned that all the way out. Now—” I jut my chin toward the small breakfast nook “—go. I’m hungry.”
She doesn’t move, though. And my brow rises higher, irritated and...riveted by the play of emotions flickering over her face like a movie reel. Some of them I recognize—anger, frustration, surprise. Arousal.
My dick jerks in my joggers, and it takes everything in me not to reach inside my boxers to readjust the flesh that’s been at some semi-state of hard in her presence these past weeks.
The other emotions that whisper across her face, though? They’re tougher to evaluate, dissect or label. Maybe grief? Anxiety...defeat?
That last one has a need to protect roaring loud in my head, clenching my gut. Only Gia has ever stirred an urge—an instinctive need—so strong in me. Not even Sheree did. And that’s sad as fuck. But it’s also what it is.
“Liyah.” Frowning, I move toward her. The loud, jarring ringtone from her cell halts me mid-step.
Her petite body flinches. Sucking in a low but audible breath, she reaches in the back pocket of her jeans and removes her phone. She glances down at the screen then answers it, pressing it to her ear. She does all this without glancing my way.
But she does return to the counter and pick up the plates.
“Hey, Tamara.” She moves to the table and sets out the dishes. “Yeah, I’m going to be here a little later, but I should be home before you leave for work.”
Listening to Tamara, she crosses back over into the kitchen and opens the drawers with the silverware. Another thing she changed. Before she got here, I could’ve bought stock in plastic forks and knives.
“Yes, ma’am.” That honeyed accent sounds even more pronounced wrapped around those two words. She laughs and the light note directly contradicts the mood she wore like a soaked blanket only moments ago. “At some point, you’re going to stop worrying about me—” She breaks off, a scowl darkening her features as she snatches the cutlery from the drawer. “Her stomach’s just fine, thank you. Heffa.”
Both my eyebrows jack upward as a loud but muffled bark of laughter emanates from the other end of the phone.
“Bye, girl.” She pulls the phone away from her ear and presses her thumb to the screen, still glaring down at it.
“Your cousin?” I ask. “The one here in Chicago?”
“Yes, Tamara. She’s letting me stay with her since I only have a partial scholarship,” she mutters, nudging the drawer closed and returning to the table, silverware in hand. “She worries about me more than my mama.”
Her disgruntlement tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Is she older?”
“Only by a year.”
“Must be pretty close then. Especially if she’s letting you live with her. I love my sister, but ain’t no way in hell she’s staying with me. We’re not a death penalty state, but I’m not built for life in jail, either.”
