Page 33 of Cannon (King Family Saga #3)

Queen

I let Cannon lead me out of the bathroom, his bandaged hand still holding mine like I might slip away if he let go.

The confession still hung in the air between us, raw and bloody as a fresh wound.

I’d never told anyone about Alfred Dixon before, not Nori, not my ex-husband, not a single soul.

But somehow, telling Cannon felt like setting down a weight I’d been carrying for decades.

“You need a drink,” I said, more statement than question.

His ocean-blue eyes met mine. “After all that? Fuck yeah.”

I led him to the living room. The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of music drifting from my Bose speaker. I pulled out a bottle of Hennessy from the cabinet and poured us each a generous glass.

“To fucked-up childhoods,” I said, raising my glass.

Cannon’s lips curved into that half-smile that made my stomach flip. “And surviving them.”

We clinked glasses and I felt the burn of cognac slide down my throat, warming me from the inside. Something had shifted between us in that bathroom, something deeper than just sex or attraction. I’d shown him my ugliest truth, and he hadn’t flinched.

“You hungry?” I asked, suddenly needing to do something normal, something that would ground us both back in the present instead of our ghosts.

“Why?” he asked, eyebrow raised. “You about to cook?”

“Yes,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “I can throw something together.”

He snorted, those blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “You know damn well you can’t really cook.”

“Excuse me?” I put my hand on my hip, indignation rising. “How would you know that? You’ve never tasted my food.”

“Intuition,” he said simply, tapping his temple. “I can just tell.”

“Oh, is that right?” I drained my whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive click. “Well, Mr. Intuition, prepare to eat your words. Along with some of the best soul food you’ve ever tasted.”

“This I gotta see,” he chuckled, settling deeper into my couch like he belonged there.

I marched into the kitchen, determined to prove him wrong.

Soul food was in my blood, even if I rarely cooked it.

How hard could it be? I pulled out chicken, flour, seasonings, grabbed macaroni from the pantry, cheese from the fridge, and a bag of collard greens I’d bought with good intentions last week.

Forty-five minutes later, the smoke alarm was screaming, and I was frantically waving a dish towel beneath it while Cannon laughed his ass off from the kitchen doorway.

“Stop laughing and help me!” I yelled over the piercing beep.

He reached up easily with his tall frame and detached the alarm, silencing its screech. In the sudden quiet, I could smell the disaster that was my attempt at dinner. The kitchen was a war zone, flour dusting every surface, pots and pans everywhere, and smoke billowing from the oven.

“Oh my God,” I groaned, pulling open the oven door. A cloud of black smoke erupted, making me cough and step back. The chicken was beyond saving, burned to a crisp on the outside while somehow still looking raw near the bone. “Shit!”

Cannon peered over my shoulder, his chest rumbling with laughter against my back. “Damn, Queen. You trying to cremate that bird or cook it?”

I shot him a glare that would’ve made my dancers tremble, but it just made him laugh harder.

I turned to the stove where my mac and cheese sat.

It was a soupy, unappetizing mess that looked more like cheese soup with pasta floating in it.

The collard greens were still tough, barely wilted despite being on the heat for twenty minutes.

“I just… I don’t understand,” I muttered, poking at the greens with a fork. “I followed my grandmother’s recipe exactly.”

Cannon came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You sure about that? Because it looks like you followed a recipe for disaster.”

I elbowed him in the ribs, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Okay, fine. You win. I can’t cook for shit.”

He turned me around to face him, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s okay, baby. You got other talents.” His gaze dropped to my lips, making heat pool between my thighs despite my embarrassment.

“Yeah? Like what?” I challenged, trying to maintain my dignity even with the evidence of my kitchen failure smoking behind me.

“Running a club like a boss. Making men fall at your feet. Taking care of your daughter.” He kissed me softly. “And a few other things I’m not gonna mention with ZaZa in the next room.”

I laughed, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “Fine. You’ve made your point.”

“How about I order us some takeout?” he suggested, already pulling out his phone. “Save us both from food poisoning.”

“You’re an asshole,” I said, but there was no heat in it. “But yes, please order something before we starve.”

“Chinese good with you?” he asked, already scrolling through his contacts.

“Perfect.” I started cleaning up my mess, scraping the burned chicken into the trash with a grimace. “Get extra egg rolls. And dumplings.”

While Cannon ordered, I wiped down the counters and opened the windows to clear out the smoke. I couldn’t help but smile at the domesticity of it all, me failing at cooking, him stepping in to save dinner. It felt… normal. Safe. Something I hadn’t had in years.

The doorbell rang about forty minutes later, and the smell of Chinese food immediately filled the apartment. Cannon paid the delivery guy while I grabbed plates and napkins.

“That smells amazing,” I said, my stomach growling as Cannon set the bags on the coffee table. “I’m starving after that kitchen disaster.”

“Let me grab the drinks,” he said, heading to the kitchen.

Just as we were settling onto the couch, I heard ZaZa’s bedroom door open. Her footsteps padded down the hallway, and she appeared in the living room doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings.

“I thought I smelled food,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Then she noticed Cannon and froze, her posture immediately changing. She straightened up, ran a hand through her hair, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Oh, hello.”

The way she looked at him, like he was a snack she wanted to devour, made my motherly instincts flare up immediately.

“ZaZa, this is Cannon. He works security at the club,” I said, emphasizing the professional connection. “Cannon, my daughter ZaZa.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Cannon said, his voice polite but distant as he extended his hand. “Your mom talks about you a lot.”

ZaZa ignored his hand and instead leaned in for a hug, pressing her body against his a beat too long. “All good things, I hope.” Her voice had that flirtatious lilt I’d heard her use on men before.

I cleared my throat loudly. When she pulled back and caught my expression, the one that said ‘back the fuck up’, she had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

“We ordered Chinese if you’re hungry,” I said, my tone making it clear that food was all she was getting. “There’s plenty.”

“Thanks,” ZaZa said, grabbing a plate and sitting in the armchair across from us. She loaded up with orange chicken and fried rice, her eyes darting between Cannon and me. “So, what happened to your hands?” she asked him, nodding at his bandages.

“Work hazard,” he replied simply.

ZaZa raised an eyebrow. “Must be some intense security work.”

“It can be,” Cannon said, not elaborating further.

We ate in awkward silence for a few minutes before ZaZa spoke again.

“So, let me get this straight,” she said, setting down her fork. “You can have company over, but I can’t have Marcus here? How exactly is that fair?”

I set my plate down, feeling my temper rise. “First of all, this is my house. Second, Cannon is a colleague who’s helping me with a situation at the club.”

“A colleague?” ZaZa snorted, her eyes rolling dramatically. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“That’s enough,” I said, my voice dropping to that dangerous register that meant business. “Eat your food and drop the attitude.”

ZaZa held my gaze for a moment, then shrugged and went back to her plate. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. I could feel Cannon’s eyes on me, but I kept mine fixed on my food.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, ZaZa spoke again, her tone softer. “The food’s good. Thanks for ordering.”

“You’re welcome,” Cannon replied, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet room.

“What time is your thing with Marcus tonight?” I asked, trying to move past the awkwardness.

“Eight,” she said, checking her phone. “I should probably start getting ready soon.”

“The art exhibit, right?” I pushed my empty plate away. “Is it at Columbia?”

ZaZa nodded, her face brightening. “Yeah. It’s his professor’s work, but Marcus helped set it up. He said it’s going to be a big deal…lots of important people there.”

“Sounds nice,” I said, genuinely relieved to see her excited about something positive. “Remember, you need to let me know if you’re going to be out past midnight.”

She rolled her eyes again but nodded. “I know, I know. I’ll text you if I’m running late.”

After finishing her food, she stood up and gathered her plate. “Thanks again for dinner. Nice meeting you, Cannon.” She gave him one last appreciative glance before heading to the kitchen with her dishes.

Once she was out of earshot, Cannon leaned close to me. “She seems better than what you described.”

“Today’s a good day,” I whispered back. “The meds are working. I just hope she sticks with the new regimen. And I need to meet this new boyfriend.”

We cleaned up the remnants of dinner while ZaZa showered and got dressed.

I could hear her music playing, the bass thumping through the walls as she prepared for her night out.

When she finally emerged, she looked beautiful in a flowy black dress, hair pulled back in a sleek bun, makeup subtle but perfect.

“How do I look?” she asked, twirling in the living room doorway.