Now we’re talking.

Me: What’s happening Saturday?

Lotus: Brooklyn, if you want.

Me: Oh, I definitely want.

Lotus: I’ll send deets. I know how much you love those. ;-)

15

Lotus

“This is not a date,” I tell the girl in the mirror.

I’ve tamed my braids into a top knot and I kept my makeup light, natural. I’m wearing a lilac strapless top and tiny denim shorts that barely cover the tattoos ringing the very tops of my thighs. My eyes are sparkling.

Dammit, why are my eyes sparkling?

What is this boom-crash-thump my heart does while I’m waiting for Kenan’s knock at the door?

Why is my belly flip-flopping at the thought of spending the entire day with him?

“This is not a date,” I grimly remind my reflection.

“If it looks like a date and quacks like a date,” Yari says from the door to my bedroom, “it’s a date.”

“What do you know?” I ask, turning around to grin at her. She’s still in her pajamas and her hair is a half-curly, half-straight mess all over her head. “Also, what bush did you sleep in?”

“Girl, there wasn’t much sleeping,” she says, her smile a dirty, satisfied smear on her pretty face. “Pedro spent the night.”

“Oh, well look at you, getting some.” I laugh and put on oversized hoop earrings. “Haven’t you known him like forever?”

“One of those guys from the neighborhood who’s been sniffing around since high school, yeah. I never gave him the time of day, and after all these years, I finally did.” She tips her head down and slants me a meaningful look. “Lo, dude showed me what he was working with last night. It’s a lot.”

I smooth sunscreen on my arms and legs. It’s a myth that brown doesn’t burn. “That good, huh?”

“Yeah.” She pauses to look me over, head to toe. “You say you don’t want to catch a fish, but you baiting that hook mighty hard. You look good, Lo. You might have to remind Kenan it’s not a date, too.”

“He knows,” I say and grab my small leather crossbody bag.

The teasing leaves Yari’s face. “What’s really going on with you two?”

I pause in making sure I have lip balm and cash for the day. “What do you mean?”

“Look, I know you claim not to be into Kenan like that, and I know you’re in this legs closed phase, but you don’t fool me. I know you, Lo,” Yari says. “You like him, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.

“I don’t know, Ri. I’m attracted to him. He seems too good to be true. We haven’t kissed again since that party, but . . .”

I recall the firm, soft press of his mouth into mine. Remember him handling me like I was precious.

“But . . .” Yari prompts, smiling.

“He says the next time we kiss, I’ll have to make it happen.” I release a breathy laugh. “I want to make it happen. I do, but I got some real shit to sort through.”

I fiddle with the strap of my purse.

“I always thought the issue would be falling for a bad man, like my mother did, but falling for a good man could be worse.”

“How do you figure?”

“With those other guys, it was just sex. We knew what it was. They could have my body, but nothing else. Kenan won’t settle for that, and I don’t know if I’m ready to trust him, to trust anyone, with more. I never have.”

“Well, maybe you could—”

A knock at the door cuts into whatever sage advice Yari was about to hand down.

“Oh!” I touch my pockets. “I need to grab my phone and get myself together.”

“I’ll get the door.”

“Looking like that?” I ask dubiously.

“Why the hell not?” she asks over her shoulder as she leaves my bedroom. “He’s not my date.”

“It’s not a date!”

I find my phone and hurry to the living room before Yari says or does something outrageous, which is her default. By the time I get in there, Kenan is already overpowering our small couch.

Gladiator.

He does look like a warrior in repose. Massive. Powerful. Intimidating. Towering even when sitting down, his face set in austere lines while he listens to whatever crazy thing Yaris is saying. He’s dressed casually in shorts and a white polo shirt.

Damn. He should never be allowed to wear white. The contrast with his skin . . . it’s too much. It should be outlawed. I’m already mentally drafting my letter to Congress.

When he catches sight of me over Yari’s shoulder, his expression softens and he smiles. It’s a slow build, taking its time moving from the dark, deep-set eyes to his beautiful mouth. Have I ever thought of a man’s mouth as beautiful? Kenan’s is, a precise, wide bow at the top, and a full, sensuous curve at the bottom. I remember how those lips felt on mine. How his tongue dove into my mouth, aggressive, seeking. I remember how he tasted.

Yari glances back at me and grins.

“Well, I have some chilling to do,” she says. “You kids have fun getting blisters walking all over Brooklyn.”

Once Yari’s gone, Kenan and I stare at each other for a few seconds, a warm, wordless greeting.

“Blisters, huh?” He finally speaks. “You said we’d be exploring Brooklyn, but you didn’t say anything about blisters.”

I chuckle and step closer to inspect his black and silver tennis shoes that look like there should be a dashboard under the laces. “I think you’ll be fine. I like those kicks.”

“Thanks. Designed them myself.”

I peer closer and notice Gladiator sketched along the side. “Oh, it’s your shoe.”

“Well, they let me help.”

“And I see you’re wearing our watch,” I tell him, walking to the door.

“Yeah, trying it out, but JP did not let me help.”

“JP doesn’t let anyone help. Believe me.”

We start down the four flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator the owners recently added to the brownstone.

“He seems to have a soft spot for you, though,” Kenan says. “He lets you help?”

“Collaborate some, but my job is mostly details and grunt work, and the occasional opinion. JP trusts my instincts and my style.”

“You always look great, so I guess he’s smart for that.”

His words warm me. I don’t tell him, but keep walking toward our first destination.

“You didn’t drive, right?” I ask. “I will not be held responsible if that tank of yours gets stolen while we’re gone.”

“No, I took Uber Black.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that.” I grin up at him as he walks beside me. “Rich people’s Uber.”

“If you say so.” He chuckles and glances around my neighborhood. “This is nice.”

“Yeah, they say Brooklyn’s the new Manhattan. I didn’t know the old Manhattan. I’m a transplant, so it’s always been like this to me. Ri and I love Bushwick.”

“It’s a cool-ass vibe for sure.”

“Oh, just wait.” I rub my hands together. “We’ll go to Williamsburg. We can go to Prospect Park. Maybe we should see the carousel. It’s so historic. We can take the train and—”

“You mentioned food?” he cuts in.

We laugh together and I shake my head.

“I take it you’re hungry?”

“Yeah, my regimen requires me to eat a lot and all day,” he says.

“I got you. There’s this place called Sally Roots on Wycoff Ave. We’ll be there soon. Their brunch is off the chain.”

“Healthy options?”

“Some, yes, but you are eating ice cream today.”

“It’s not a cheat day for me,” he says with a grin.

“Oh, yes, it is. You can afford one day off.” I poke his stomach, but my finger goes nowhere. It doesn’t sink, but presses into steely abdominal muscle. “Shit, you can afford a week off, a month.”

He grabs my finger and curls his around mine, smiling down at me and not letting go. “I haven’t taken a month off in a long time. It’s a way of life for me. I can’t imagine being that undisciplined for that long.”

“Not even in the off-season?” I hope I sound normal, but he has moved from holding my finger to stroking that sensitive strip of skin between my thumb and index finger, and I’m straight up breathless.

“What off-season?” His laugh comes short and quick. “At my age, I can’t afford to let up. And no old man jokes, PYT.” He grins and then frowns. “Shit, I’m sorry, Lotus. I got you practically running and out of breath.”

“It’s okay.” I pull my hand away and slow my steps, both things helping to steady my heartbeat some. “You walk a little slower, and I’ll walk a little faster. We’ll meet in the middle.”

I’m grateful when we reach the restaurant. Despite my talk of walking all day, it is Brooklyn in July. And it’s hot as a mofo. Sally Roots is blessedly cool, with an island vibe that transports us from the urban jungle to a tropical paradise in a matter of steps. Island knickknacks and antiques are crammed on the shelves of the bar, and the walls, painted blue like the Caribbean Ocean that inspired the menu, cool the space like a breeze.

We forego the crowded dining room and ask the server if we can sit in the backyard, which is shaded by umbrellas and overhanging trees.

“This is nice,” Kenan says, looking around the near-empty space. “Laid-back. I like it.”

“Me, too. Ri and I love their brunch on the weekends.” I look at the menu through his eyes. “So anything here work for your super-strict diet?”

“It’s not super strict. It’s strategic and not a diet.” He narrows his eyes on the menu. “I like to limit sugars, especially during the season and playoffs because it slows down recovery after games. I can indulge a little since it’s summer.” He catches my eyes over the menu. “Since it’s you.”