Page 24 of Yearn

Rochelle nodded and took us to the side at the end of the meeting, “Shoot. I’m not coming back either because we’re starting our own club.”

Cadence widened her eyes. “We are?”

“Fuck yeah. Forget these old not knowing how to season, too prude to wipe their own pussies, skinny, no ass having bitches.”

I blinked.

“We start our own club.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Rule one: Black authors only. Rule two: Black heroines only. Rule three: at least two real sex scenes or it does not make the list and I’m smacking somebody in the face for recommending it.”

I added a fourth rule, “Let’s do a themed night with food and cocktails inspired by the book.”

And that was what happened.

The first book club night, we read a Black romance calledMidnight in Kingstonwhere the heroine vacationed in Jamaicaand met the man of her dreams. I made seasoned jerk wings, Rochelle brought rum punch, and Cadence came with a huge tray of golden fried plantains, sweet enough to stick to your fingers and salty enough to make you reach for another glass.

By midnight, the table was a battlefield of chicken bones and sticky plates. Our laughter carried through the walls until J and Oliver came downstairs in their pajamas, rubbing their eyes because we’d woken them up.

After taking them back upstairs and making sure they were fast asleep, we poured more drinks and kept right on laughing.

At some point, Rochelle grinned, pulled a joint from her purse, and the three of us slipped outside to smoke under the stars, whispering and giggling like teenagers.

Cadence coughed like a rookie and confessed out of nowhere, “Don’t let my pink and white cardigans fool you. I’ve read enough romance novels to know fifty different ways to ruin a man’s cock and make him thank me for it.”

I laughed so hard I spilled my drink on my pants, and Rochelle just shook her head like she was the only grown-up left in the house.

That was the night I knew—we’d built something real.

Something that was all ours.

The next month, Cadence hosted. The book wasSugar & Smoke,a bakery romance about a sweet Black baker fighting to save her block from a grumpy White billionaire hell-bent on bulldozing her neighborhood into a shiny new mall.

Enemies to lovers.

Slow burn to sizzling hot steam.

Sticky fingers and lots of alpha licking.

Cadence went all out.

The kitchen smelled like heaven before we even cracked the book open to discuss. A big pot of shrimp and grits simmered onthe stove, buttery and smoky with just enough cayenne to make our lips tingle.

Rochelle carried in her famous collard greens slow-cooked with smoked turkey until the leaves turned silky and the broth begged for cornbread.

I brought the whiskey on the counter, pulled out my shaker, and made rounds of whiskey sours—sharp and sweet enough to burn and soothe at the same time.

But the food wasn’t even the best surprise. Cadence had decorated the whole dining room like a bakery window. Little chalkboard signs labeled each dish, a vase of sunflowers brightened the table, and at each seat waited a crisp white apron stitched with our names in red thread.

She even handed us paper baker hats, and we wore them, laughing at ourselves until our sides hurt.

In fact, the table was so loud with clinking glasses and louder with us. If you’d walked by the window, you would have sworn it was a holiday feast, not just three women refusing to be small.

Only after we were good and full did Cadence unveil her desserts: cinnamon rolls so big they spilled over the pan, dripping cream cheese icing that made me lick my fingers clean, glossy chocolate éclairs that melted in one bite, and tiny raspberry tarts that disappeared too fast.

By the time we stacked our plates in the sink, Rochelle was digging in her purse again, grinning as she pulled out a joint.

We stepped onto Cadence’s back porch under the streetlight glow, passing it between us, smoke curling sweet and sharp into the night.

That was the thing about our club—it wasn’t just about the books. It was about food and laughter, about secrets spilling over whiskey, about the burn in your chest when you felt seen.