Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 497(@250wpm)___ 414(@300wpm)
A smile that evaporates when he sees me.
“Tru, I didn’t know you were here.” He clears his throat. “Sorry to barge in, Mo.”
“Like you don’t bust up in here every damn day unannounced,” she says. “One day, you gonna get an eyeful.”
She walks over and gives him a hug. He watches me over her shoulder, his eyes running along my bare legs, still flung over the couch. My instinct is to sit up, cover myself, preserve some modesty.
But I don’t.
My other instinct is to make him want me the way I want him. The heat of his stare is addictive. His eyes caress my bare shoulders and legs, and despite the warm summer night, my body is covered in goose bumps.
“You’re back early.” My voice comes out husky, breathless.
“Uh, yeah.” He makes no move to come farther into the room. “I wanted to get back.”
When he looks at me, I missed you is in his eyes.
I’ll wait is in the hands he shoves into his pockets.
Without saying a word, his body tells me with eloquence how he feels, what he wants. I want it, too, but Mona’s warnings ring in my ears.
If anyone gets hurt when things go south, it’ll be you.
“I got edibles and wine,” Mona tells him, walking back to her bottle on the floor. “Join us.”
“You know I don’t do weed,” he says wryly. “I can’t spare that many brain cells.”
He focuses on her while he talks, but his gaze keeps drifting back to my legs. I bend my knee and run my fingers along my thigh.
Just to see what happens.
He lowers his head. His Adam’s apple bobs with a deep swallow. The muscle in his jaw flexes.
“Noah got to camp okay?” Mona asks, flicking a look between the two of us.
Ezra nods. “He walked in like he owned the place, of course.”
“He probably will by the time it’s over.” Mona laughs. “You’ve gotta play Monopoly with this kid, Kimba. Ruthless kingpin.”
Her comment falls into the vat of silence accumulating between Ezra and me. We watch each other warily, furtively.
“So, no gummies,” Mona says, grabbing an unopened bottle of wine from the coffee table. “Wine? Join the party.”
“I think I’ll go actually,” he says, his voice deep and graveled. “I just wanted to let you know I was home early in case you needed anything.”
“Like a good neighbor,” Mona says. “Oooooh, what if I lived next door to the State Farm guy? He’s so fine on those commercials. I’d be borrowing sugar every day.”
“Yeah, well,” he says, his words clipped, controlled. “I’m gonna go.”
When he leaves, Mona looks at me and shakes her head. “Be careful, girl. If I were you, I wouldn’t.”
But she’s not me, and looking at the empty place where Ezra just stood, I already know I probably will.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ezra
“Damn sprinklers.”
I crush the dried leaves of Noah’s tomatoes in my fist. The system has been unreliable for weeks. The timer’s been temperamental. It looks like the garden wasn’t watered at all while I was in New York.
“I need to get someone out here to check it,” I mutter, walking to the collard greens in the rear of the garden.
I do realize midnight is an odd time to perform such a thorough inspection of our vegetables, but it seems like as good a way as any to distract from the fact that Kimba is next door in Mona’s living room.
Her legs were flung carelessly over the side of the couch. Long and toned and the color of burnt honey. The bodice of her strapless dress barely contained her breasts. She probably didn’t realize the top of one nipple, like a drop of chocolate, was barely visible from just the right angle.
I stood at just the right angle.
Hell.
I drop to my haunches and check the soil the sprinklers would only reach when they oscillate. Looks like it hasn’t seen a drop of water.
A noise brings me to my feet. Kimba stands at the fence dividing my yard from Mona’s. She aims a tentative smile over a row of corn stalks. “Can I come in?”
I nod, but don’t otherwise move. I stand still because I’m afraid if I get much closer, I’ll grab her and won’t be able to let go. She’s obviously been out based on her attire. I’ve seen her on television dressed like this. Awards shows. Events. Political functions. Polished and pulled together in a way that probably requires a third party. A stylist. That confection of a dress forms a shimmering bell from her waist to her knees. Her shoes look like they cost about as much as monthly tuition at YLA. Her hair, which I’d gotten used to seeing in its natural texture, falls pressed, straight and shiny around her bare shoulders.
“You look pretty,” I say unnecessarily. I’m sure several men, any number of them with eyes in their heads, told her that tonight.