Page 49 of Honey and Spice

Malakai raised a brow. “DMs? Course not. I have a girlfriend who I’m dedicated to. Yoruba boys don’t cheat.”

I levelled a flat stare at him. He laughed and shook his head. “Kiki, I didn’t respond to any of them. I wouldn’t jeopardize what we’re doing. We’re in a relationship. I’m going to be how I would be in a relationship.” His eyes breezily took me in. “I like your turtleneck by the way. Very Nia Long inLove Jones.I have a madcrush on Nia Long inLove Jones. Actually, I have a mad crush on Nia Long generally. Anyway, I like your turtleneck.”

My entire body flushed.

He stood closer to me, bent low, lips inches away from my ear and whispered, “How am I doing? That’s what boyfriends do right? Compliment? And there are like ten other people from Blackwell right now, so we have witnesses.”

I nodded briskly. “Yeah. Yup. Well done.”

He leaned a little further back from me to assess me, before apparently quickly coming to a judgment of my emotional state and placing two large, warm hands on my shoulders. “Don’t stress.” His thumbs were resting lightly on my clavicles.

“I’m not stressed.”

I was stressed. Stressed about a deeply unwelcome blast from the past that came in the form of a ProntoPic notification; stressed that whenMalakai complimented me I liked it—even though I should have known he was acting—and stressed about how convincing we would be as a couple. Faking it sounded doable in theory, but now I realized how muchperformanceit would require.

Our initial kiss wasn’t an act, it was very much real, too real, so real that if it crossed my mind, I had to cross my legs, butnoweverything I did had to be considered, calculated. Now, I was also stressed that Malakai knew when I was stressed. And stressed that his thumbs on my clavicles were conjuring feelings that were far too erotic for ten thirtya.m.

He inclined his head, levelled his gaze, squinted. “Yes, you are. That brain of yours iswhirring,I can see it on your face. You’re doing your overthinking thing.”

“I’m not!”

Malakai straightened up and let out a knowing, lopsided smile. “Relax, Scotch. I know this is our first proper time in public, but we’re the only ones who know what we know. We got this.”

The “we” whizzed around in my brain like a breeze picking up speed while on speed when a “next” beckoned us forward to the till: it was our turn. I gathered myself and smiled at the barista. “Could I have a skinny latte with one dash of vanilla, one dash of caramel syrup, and, like, asplashof hazelnut, please?” I turned to look up at Malakai, who was already looking at me, the corner of his mouth flicked up. “What you want?”

“Do they have Mocha Malakai on the menu?”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Kai Tea Latte?”

I snorted.

“Okay, good. See, now you’re relaxed.”

I shook my head. “So, you want tap water or...”

“An Americano, please.”

“Oh. You’re one of those.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Pretentious.”

“How is having regular coffee pretentious? I’m drinking it how it’s supposed to be drunk. Why ruin it? No frills no fuss. It is what it is.”

“We get it. You’re a deep filmmaker who doesn’t want to tamper with the purity of coffee by actually enjoying it.”

“Oh, because I don’t have dessert for breakfast? Vanilla and caramel? Really? You want a cone with that? That’s not a coffee that’s—”

I nodded and turned to the barista. “Hey, Tomi, do you have anything hard enough to knock someone out with? Like a fruit scone or something?”

Tomi—one of the London Gyaldem—smiled knowingly. “You know what? Scones crumble. An apple might work, though?”

“Perfect. I’ll take... an almond croissant and an apple. Knocking someone out will make a girl hungry.”

Malakai laughed. “Cute.”