Page 22

I knew just the place. Brixton—where my father had lived as a student before he abandoned London for the bucolic setting of Stow-on-the-Wold.

My tutor in the law department had warned me of the rampant crime and drug dealers that plagued every corner and suggested I take a weekend and get to know the area, see it at night, first thing in the morning, and in the middle of the afternoon before I decided.

So I did.

What I found was a bustling, vibrant neighborhood that was exactly as my father described it. My father, who’d never had a chance to formally study anything, had been a self-taught historian, and he’d regale me with stories he’d read about the famous Windrush years and the way they shaped the area. But the memories that brought more smiles to his face than any other were from The Effra, a pub where he and his friends, newly arrived from Ghana in the 1980s, found hearty welcomes and each other.

When I arrived here nearly six years ago, The Effra was still there and run by the son of the former landlord. It wasnestled on a residential road away from the busy Coldharbour Lane, where the majority of night clubs, pubs, and restaurants in Brixton were crammed together.

The Sunday I walked into The Effra, they said they were hiring a barkeep and that the job came with a small flat upstairs. It was kismet. Dominic hired me on the spot, and I accepted before I even saw the place I’d call home.

It’s tiny, dated, and the noise from downstairs only relents when the pub closes at midnight. But it’s all mine and has allowed me to save up all the money Conrad stole and then some while I went to school full-time.

Six years later, I love living here as much as I love working downstairs.

But tonight, I’m dreading the quiet that’s waiting for me. As if being lonely wasn’t bad enough, I’m also bored because my one source of entertainment is with a man who probably forgot my name before he woke up the next morning.

The buzzerat my door wakes me up with a start. I blink at my watch and groan. How is it already nine o’clock? Last time I looked at the clock, I’d just finished drowning my sorrows in vanilla ice cream topped with an indulgent amount of chocolate sauce and had closed my eyes for what was supposed to be just a few minutes. My buzzer goes again, and I come fully awake and push myself off the sofa.

“Coming,” I call as I approach the door. This late, it’s either the lady from next door bumming alcohol off me or my best mate from college, Kyle, who never calls before he shows up.

I don’t bother looking in the mirror as I pass it. They’ve both seen me in a lot less than my pajamas.

I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt such an acute regret about a decision as I do about that when I open the door and see Omar Solomon on the other side of it.

I stand there rumpled and pray that I don’t have drool dried on my face or crust in the corners of my bugged-out eyes. I give him a once-over and swallow hard. He doesn’t look like he’s spent the night eating his feelings. His black shirt is open at the top and frames his golden, clean-shaven, exquisitely formed throat like the work of art it is. It fits his broad chest and trim torso like it was cutjustfor him. The cuffs are linked with a small gold “S.” And it’s tucked into his black trousers. They cling to his slim hips and long legs and give just a hint of the muscle that cords them. His dark hair is wet and slicked back like he just showered, and his rugged jaw is shaved clean. He smells like a sultry summer night and looks like a dream. I want to run my hands all over him.

“Is this a bad time?” he asks. I clasp them in front of me and refocus my eyes on his.

“No, I just… I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, amazed that I can speak through the buzz of frantic butterflies that are flying around inside me, knocking against my heart, fighting their way up my throat as if they’ve had enough and want out.

He bites that sensual top lip of his, and his dark hazel eyes, the color of the golden syrup the restaurant uses for their famous sticky toffee puddings, narrow on me, and I recognize that expression from hours of watching video of him on the pitch. He looks just like that right before he makes one of the moves that earned him his nickname of Mastermind, and I hold my breath to see what he’s going to do next.

“You left your iPad in my car.” His voice is as gruff as it is when he’s barking at someone for a misstep in a play.

“Oh, Iwonderedwhere that got to,” I lie through my teeth. “It was good of you to bring it all this way. Sunday would have been fine.” I flash a sheepish grin.

“I wanted to bring it sooner, but a pipe burst in the kitchen, and the week got away from me.” His gaze narrows on my face, and he winces. “And I don’t think I had a chance to say how fucking sorry I am about your nose, Jules.”

I forgot I’m sporting a pair of black eyes and still have the bandage across my nose. God, I wish I’d looked in the mirror. “I’m pretty sure you apologized, and it was an accident,” I admonish him.

The facsimile of a smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain focused on my face.

“I broke my nose like that a few times. I know how painful it is in the moment, and that it looks worse than it feels for a bit…but of all the breaks and tears I’ve had, it was the easiest to live with and healed fast. Is it feeling better today?”

“It’s a little sore, but the pain meds help.” I touch the side of it gingerly. He’s right. The worst of it was the impact, and all that blood.

His smile seems forced, and he shuffles his feet. “Okay, good.” He pats the pocket of his slacks. “I really like the painting you use for your screen background.”

I’m thrown by the change of subject and have to look at the tablet in my hand before I fully understand what he’s saying. “Oh, yes, it’s by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, I love all her work, but this painting is my absolute favorite.” I run a reverent fingertip over the picture of the dark-skinned, dreadlocked man sitting with a black cat perched on his shoulder. I was drawn to it because the firm set of his jaw reminds me of my father.

He nods in agreement. “Yeah, I looked her up. All her paintings have titles that are as evocative as the actual images.”

“I know.” I groan in half pleasure, half pain and clutch my iPad to my chest. “This one is titledIn Lieu of Keen Virtue. She’s had a series of private audience events at the Tate Modern running since January. It ends this week.”

“I saw. Have you been?”

“Iwish. The tickets sold out in less than a day. I was on the waitlist in case any came available, but I’m number six hundred and something, and I can’t imagine anyone returning those. So I’ve just resigned myself to wait until she does it again.” I sigh heavily.