Page 75 of Happy Is On Hiatus
“It has everything to do with what’s happening between us.” He cupped her cheek. “Because that’s what you’re so afraid of. That’s why you want to be alone to sulk about a situation that you know will resolve itself in time. You told me how close you and your cousins are and how smart Rita is. There’s no way she’s going to continue to hold this against you.”
Too much of what he was saying sounded right, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She pulled out of his grasp and turned away.
“Like I said, you don’t want to be alone. You want to run and keep running, just like you’ve always done.”
“It’s what works for me.”
“Is it?” She didn’t have a moment to answer, because in a flash, one of his hands was on her waist. He’d come to stand in front of her again,and his other hand was at the nape of her neck. Her lips parted on a gasp, but he must’ve taken that as permission, because his lips met hers and his tongue slipped inside to stroke.
There were words in her head. Some of denial, some of admission, and some of confusion. Being alone had worked for her, but right now, at this very moment, reaching her arms around his waist, pulling him closer so she could bury herself in the feel of him and this brutally erotic kiss, was more important than the past.
It shouldn’t be, or should it? She was too confused and too aroused to worry about it at the moment.
When he dragged his mouth away from hers, she wasn’t ready. She leaned in, nipping his bottom lip to tell him so. But he only pulled back again. “See, that’s the easy part,” he said. “I need you to know that I’m the kind of guy who sticks around for the hard stuff too.”
She let her hands fall to her sides. What he’d just said had never been an option before. Not one that she offered, or one that had ever been thrown out to her.
“You’ve had a crappy night, and I’m tired from your cousin harassing me at the card table, to that pregnant woman screaming that she was pressing charges against all of us. I’d like nothing more than to climb into bed and get some sleep.”
Was he serious? Did he really think he could kiss her like that and then talk about going to sleep? What the entire hell was going on tonight?
Then he chuckled. “I can see the words working in your mind. But it’s late, and all I really want to do right now is hold you. So, c’mon, let’s go to bed.”
This time, instead of coming close to her again, Desmond simply extended his hand to her. Sharae let her gaze fall from the accepting and at the same time imploring look on his face, to the parts of his arm left bare by the short sleeves of his shirt, to the long fingers of his hand. A strong hand that she’d enjoyed feeling against her cheek moments ago,down her back as he’d comforted her on the couch, cupping her ass just last night when he’d pumped unmercifully into her.
Stop being afraid. If you like him, let him like you back.
Rita had told her that earlier today, before the shit had hit the fan. And Sharae had promised herself she’d take that chance. She’d introduced Desmond to her family—first Jemel and Rita and then to the Aunts. They were the most important people in her life, and she’d watched as they talked to and laughed with Desmond, seamlessly letting him into the Johnson family fold. And for a few hours today, it’d felt good observing him with the people she held dear, hearing him laugh at Ivan’s corny jokes and watching as he stood his ground with Tariq. He’d danced with her, gotten her a drink from Uncle Jimmy, and promised Uncle Hale he’d visit NVB soon. It’d felt so right.
“Do you want my arm to fall off?” The deep timbre of his voice asking a question that was vaguely familiar snapped her out of her reverie.
When she responded with a questioning look, he laughed again. “I know you’ve seenLady Sings the Blues.”
She couldn’t help the smile that came before her response. “You’re no Billy Dee Williams.” Then she closed the distance between them and put her hand in his. “But I guess I’ll keep you around anyway.”
Chapter 27
THE NEWNESS.
On Wednesday evening, Rita walked into Jemel’s house. The text message she’d received yesterday, inviting her to dinner, had said six thirty. It was barely six o’clock, but Rita knew Jemel couldn’t cook. She suspected their meal would consist of something Jemel had ordered, and she was there early to help get the meal warmed up and properly plated. Not that Jemel couldn’t do that part at least, but because it was habit.
The front door had been ajar, so she’d walked right in and followed the old Motown tunes she heard blaring from the kitchen. It’d been three days since Rita had last seen Jemel. She’d spoken to her over the phone and via text, but aside from her girls, nobody had been to Rita’s house since the cookout. And Rita hadn’t gone to anyone else’s house. She hadn’t talked to anyone besides Necole and Taryn either, so seeing the Aunts when she stepped into the kitchen was a bit of a shock.
Aunt Rose had just poured a bowl full of thinly sliced bell peppers and onions into a frying pan. They sizzled as they hit what Rita knew were a couple of teaspoons of hot olive oil. Across the stove on another burner was a cast-iron skillet with a quarter stick of butter melting inside. Her mother stood at the counter closest to that burner, lightlyrolling pork chops in flour. Aunt Ceil closed the refrigerator, a bowl of scalloped potatoes in her hand.
“Could make me tell a lie to my guy, my guy,” the sisters harmonized along with Mary Wells’s soprano voice.
They each had an apron tied around their waists, plain-colored ones that they probably brought with them, because the one Jemel wore as she approached Rita was a ridiculous mess. Anyone who bought a faux-silk cotton-candy-pink apron withGlam-Cookin white script across the top wasn’t a real cook. At least that was what Rita had told Jemel when she’d first bought the thing.
“Girl, they been rockin’ Motown since they got here an hour ago. Lucky for us, I already started pouring the wine.” Jemel leaned in to kiss Rita on the cheek and then offered her a glass.
It was pink Moscato, Jemel’s personal favorite, and it was chilled the way Rita preferred her wine. So she took a sip before looking around the kitchen again.
“Ain’t no time for sippin’,” her mother shouted over the music. “Salad needs to be put together, rolls gotta go in the oven, and those brownies should be cut and put on a tray.”
Meeting Vi’s gaze, Rita swallowed and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Still don’t stop them from being bossy, though,” Jemel whispered before dancing her way to the other side of the kitchen, where she reached into a cabinet to take down drinking glasses.
