Page 8

8

Ace

I wonder what Raya’s doing.

My focus should be on the project updates in front of me, but my mind keeps circling back to her—those big brown eyes staring up at me in the parking lot of the job she stalked me at, daring me to tell her to leave.

Crazy.

But also?

Lowkey flattering.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my jaw as my phone vibrates against my desk.

Raya

Good morning, king. I hope your day is as amazing as you are

I fight against the corners of my mouth. I can’t be sitting here in my office smiling at text messages like a little princess.

Raya’s applying pressure.

I tell myself it’s just words. Any woman can send you some bullshit when she enjoyed the dick the night before. But a lot of women don’t. Most, I’d say. And very few women show up to your job when you don’t call her after two days.

I mean, I’m usually the one tipping out on these hoes, but there’s a part of me, deep down in there, that feels like shit when they let me leave. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, because I leave for a reason, but it stings when they don’t fight for me.

As toxic as it was, that shit with Shayenne made me feel wanted. Yeah, I played it like I was pissed. I didn’t think anybody would understand it if I told them otherwise. But that shit was validating, just like seeing Raya posted up in the parking lot outside my building.

My brain went straight to war when I saw her, oscillating between this bitch is insane and this woman is really feeling me .

Women will never understand how we feel, because men are sex-starved and thirsty as fuck. We’re always the ones pursuing. Shit feels biological most of the time.

All that rah rah shit we be talkin’ is just pride and ego. Truth is, even the best of us rarely feel like a woman truly wants us enough to cut through all the guessing games and bullshit and pursue us right back.

I appreciate that, princess. Work is beating my ass but you just put a smile on my face

Good. I’d love to come over later and put some food in your stomach

I shift in my seat as my dick swells.

I would love that too. 7?

See you then, handsome

I set my phone facedown on my desk, but the damage is already done.

She’s got me.

And I think she knows it.

As I step onto the site, the hum of construction surrounds me—metal clanking, machines whirring, voices barking orders over the noise. The smell of cement dust clings to the morning air as I make my way toward the foundation.

Simon waves me over. His hard hat is cocked to the side on top of his head like a birthday hat.

“We have a problem,” he announces, and I groan inwardly. Always something.

I follow him to the edge of the platform where the foundation is settling. A section of the concrete is ever so slightly misaligned. It’s barely noticeable, but it matters. A lot.

“Who poured this?” I ask, crouching down.

“Team C. Looked good yesterday, but after it settled overnight, we got the shift.”

I run a hand down my face. A weak foundation makes a weak bridge. One small miscalculation, one minor crack, and the whole thing collapses.

“Gotta fix it. No shortcuts.”

Simon nods. “I’ll get the team on it.”

I stand, rolling my shoulders, already planning what I’ll write up in my progress report. It’s somebody else’s fuckup, but it doesn’t matter. This is my team, so it’s on me.

I blow out a sigh. A weak foundation is a death wish. Nobody notices until one day, at the absolute worst and least expected time, it all comes crumbling down. It’s better to subject it to early scrutiny, no matter how much time you have to sacrifice.

The foundation has to be solid.

So I’ll take my lumps now. Fuck what anybody says.

Shit is tense around the site, though. Nobody wants to be anywhere near a mistake this big. I retreat to the dirty white trailer that contains my on-site office. The hum of the rickety old air conditioner greets me as I step inside, along with the scent of stale coffee and industrial-strength hand sanitizer.

I sit at the long folding table stacked with blueprints, soil test reports, and structural analysis documents. I open up my laptop and pull up the 3D rendering of the bridge foundation, studying it closely, jotting down my thoughts in my notebook.

I check the clock on the wall. Only a few more hours until Raya. Seeing her. Kissing her. Setting off round three. The sex was amazing, just like I lied to my boys and said it was. I might even let her ass sleep over.

It’s strange how much I’m looking forward to ending my day with her. It’s almost like she already belongs in my life. She definitely moves like she does, showing up uninvited and expecting my attention. I never gave her the green light, but she drove right on in and made herself comfortable.

Most women try to play it cool. They wait around for the ‘what are we?’ conversation, hanging on my every word and expression for any hint that I want things to get more serious.

But not her.

I wonder if that’s a red flag.

I guess it's possible.

Or it could be exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

The doorbell rings exactly at seven o’clock.

She’s standing there when I open the door, smug and smiley.

“Hey, you,” she purrs.

“Hey.” My eyes flicker over her belted jacket. “Ain’t you hot in that?”

She shrugs. “I’ve been hot all day. Are you gonna help me with these bags?”

“My bad. I was distracted.” I grab the grocery bags out of her hands. “I’m wondering what you got on under there. Usually when a woman shows up in a coat like that…”

I trail off as she slowly slides the belt out of its loop. The ends fall as her hands grip the lapels. My dick stiffens in anticipation, but when she flings the coat open, there’s a long Spelman t-shirt underneath.

I laugh and shake my head. “You play too much.”

She leans up and pecks my lips. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you play with me later.”

“You gon’ let me play regardless.”

She smiles and hangs her coat up, heading into the kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times before. I follow, watching as she unpacks the groceries and moves through my space like she already knows where things go.

“I love this,” she says, running a hand over my counter.

“’Preciate it.”

“Feels like a bachelor’s kitchen, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

She tilts her head. “It’s missing a woman’s touch.”

She goes into my spice cabinet. There was no hesitation. She didn’t try a few before she found the right one, she just went straight for it. I feel a little unsettled as I watch her pull out a bunch of my seasonings and line them up on the counter.

“You do this for every guy you date?” I ask as she, once again, hits the bullseye, finding my cutting board on the first try.

“No,” she says softly. “But I like taking care of my man.”

My man.

It’s not the first time she’s said this. I know I should be wary of how easily she claims me, but instead, I let the words rattle around in my brain, then settle in my chest.

I lean against the counter, watching her slice tomatoes.

“So, tell me something real, Raya.”

She glances up. “Like what?”

“Like…what’s your relationship with your parents like?”

She keeps slicing. “It’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is an answer. You just don’t like it.”

Her biting tone doesn’t match the amusement on her face. She seems to think the better of it, answering, “My mom’s amazing. My dad is cool. He…he works a lot, so he’s not around as much.”

“So you live with them?”

She freezes, then recovers quickly. “Yeah. Saving money. The cost of living is crazy in Atlanta now.”

“Yeah. I feel y—“

“It’s nice, though,” she continues. “They’re a little much sometimes, but they love each other. And me.”

It’s very smooth the way she says this. Almost too smooth, like it’s rehearsed.

“What about past relationships?” I ask, still checking the foundation.

Her smile is coy. “Why? You the jealous type?”

“Nah,” I say with a smirk. “Just curious.”

Her gaze is dark and unreadable. “Let’s just say…I’ve had a few, but none of them were worth remembering.”

Something about the way she says that makes my stomach tighten.

Not in a bad way.

Just in a way.

I try to read her, but there’s not much to go on. No details, no names, no bitterness…nothing at all, really. Just a door quietly closing on a past she doesn’t want me to see. A fine ass mystery, this one.

Silently, I watch her patter around my kitchen. Savory smells begin to waft through the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

She doesn’t pay me any mind until I pull my phone out, her eyes boring into me as I check my email. She’s staring in that way that makes me uneasy, but I don’t stop what I’m doing. It’s good to introduce a little competition, or the appearance of it. Keeps them on their toes.

When I finish, I return my gaze to her, staring hungrily at the tiny shorts she’s wearing under her t-shirt. They’re doing a terrible job of covering the bottom of her ass. My mind flashes back to the first time I grabbed that thing, and my dick rocks up in response. I reach into my basketball shorts to adjust myself, and even though her eyes are on whatever she’s stirring in that pot, I think she’s still watching me.

“What are you making me? I hope it’s not spaghetti,” I joke.

She smiles, but she doesn’t answer.

“So…how was your day?” I say, trying again. She’s really making me work for it.

She checks on something in the other pan. “Exhausting,” she sighs. “The kids were bad as hell today.”

I chuckle. “What happened?”

“There’s this little girl, Aniya, right? I swear, she was sent to earth to torture me.” She shakes her head. “She drew on her desk with permanent marker. On purpose. I told her she had to clean it up, and do you know this little demon had the audacity to look me in my face and say, ‘That’s not my job.’”

I raise an eyebrow. “Damn. What did you do?”

She approaches me with a spoon full of something. “Taste this.”

I don’t know what it is, but she looks sexy as hell holding it out, so I open my mouth and let her feed it to me.

It tastes like beef. Probably stew. It’s actually good.

“What I did was tell her that her mama should have swallowed her. But I whispered it, so nobody else heard it.”

I freeze mid-chew.

The joke slithers between us, dark and sharp. At least, I think it’s a joke.

I watch her move back to her place at my counter with the empty spoon in her hand, waiting for her to laugh, or to backtrack. But she just rinses the spoon off and gets back to cooking like she didn’t just say that shit.

“You wild,” I say, forcing an uncomfortable chuckle.

She shrugs, smirking. “Kids are wild. I just match energy.”

I nod slowly, feeling lowkey disturbed by this.

“Did she hear you say that?” I ask, because I have to know.

She stares at me, as she does, studying, probably trying to gauge my reaction. Finally, she shrugs again and says, “I don’t know. Probably not.”

I’m even more disturbed now, because I realize I’m not all that bothered by what she just told me.

I kinda like her style.