Page 56

Sighing, I nodded, then realized he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Good. Get off my line.”
He hung up again, rude ass. I cursed him out as I got ready for bed, then slid between my sheets…
I don’t know why I smiled.
I ain’t playing with yo’ ass and don’t keep me waiting, his bossy ass had said. Well, the next morning, I kept him waiting, even after I got up early enough for a light breakfast. He texted me to dress casually as hell and told me that he wanted to see my freckles. When I finally came downstairs, the boring little brown dots he found so fascinating were concealed, but I’d listened to him about the outfit. I wore a t-shirt with my sorority’s letters emblazoned on it, some jeans that hugged every curve of my thighs and legs, and a pair of red and white dunks. I looked at him as I dropped my phone and keys in my Tory Burch bucket. Quiet reigned as I stared up at him. Kissing my teeth, I broke the silence.
“I’m not going until you tell me where we’re headed.”
“I mean, you going. Just depends on if you want to ride in the front seat or ride in the trunk,” he responded nonchalantly.
I gasped. He’d never said anything like that to me before. Was he serious? Did he do things like that? I thought about the situation with Aaqil. Hell yeah, he did things like that.
“Montréal—"
His gorgeous smile stopped my outrage. I watched as he opened my door and stepped back.
“I’m just saying, you being annoying, love. You already down here ready to go, so why try to start something?”
I pursed my lips but preceded him out the door and waited for him to make sure the house was secure. He led me to his car, a shiny black Porsche Boxster. I scoffed at the thought of me in either of the tiny front or back trunks, then almost jumped out of my skin when his lips grazed my ear.
“You fold into a pretzel well, mama. You’d fit.”
For that act of mind reading, I didn’t speak to him for the first 15 minutes of our ride. Then, determined to be messy, I asked, “Do you really put people in trunks, Mr. Hamilton?”
He side-eyed me. “I promise I haven’t put anyone in the trunk, Ms. Hill… of this car.”
Yeah, he knew how to shut me up. He also knew how to delight me, I realized minutes later, when we pulled up in front of Oscar’s Vintage Volumes and Vinyl. Two stories of vintage books and records? I couldn’t even hide my smile. I waited for him to open my door, then hurried past him. Real grabbed my wrist, and I looked over my shoulder.
“I ain’t got no money, so when we go in here, don’t look at nothing, don’t touch nothing, and don’t ask for nothing,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes and pointed at my bag. “Whatever.”
I almost fainted when we walked in. Rows and shelves beckoned me. I was headed toward a display when Oscar materialized from a side room. A big grin appeared beneath his bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache.
“I was wondering why it got so bright in here all of a sudden. Real, you brought the sunshine!” he thundered.
I couldn’t help smiling as I stared over my shoulder at Real. His upper lip curled in disgust.
“You lame as fuck for real, huh?” he insulted Oscar.
I rolled my eyes. “Montréal!”
Oscar waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about him, baby girl. All that class his mama and auntie got, and this is how he acts.”
He walked over and hugged me. “Watch this,” he whispered. Then, his voice rose. “Damn, girl! You feel as good as you look.”
“Oscar, please don’t make me shoot you over my girl,” Real groused.
Oscar laughed heartily before beginning to explain the store layout to me. But I couldn’t hear him. Real’s words had me stuck. His girl? That’s the last thing I was. Biting my lip, I decided I was putting too much meaning into it.
“Why you stop?” Real asked as he drew even with me.
Inclining my head toward Oscar, I tuned in to what the store owner was saying. A minute later, I was making my way around the bottom floor and the circulating staff, my eyes wide as they greedily took in alphabetized vintage records carefully preserved in sleeves. Names from Arthur Alexander and Louis Armstrong to Lauryn Hill and Billie Holiday to Dinah Washington and Ethel Waters popped out at me. My mind buzzed with all the artists I wanted to go back to inspect more closely.
“Breathe,” Real said softly, making me realize I had been holding my breath.