His scowl deepens. If Bridget could see his face right now, she’d hang up. He looks pissed. Beyond pissed. Disgusted. I’d shudder if he ever looked at me that way, and she has no idea. Or maybe she’s gotten used to it.

“If you’re lying, Bridget—”

I hear her whining voice cutting into his comment. He squeezes the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “Tell her to be ready in an hour, and I’ll come get her.”

My heart sinks. Our day is almost done, but I was hoping we could ride home together on the train and then he could take his Uber . . . excuse me, Uber Black . . . back to the Upper West Side.

“I’m sorry, Lotus,” he breathes out frustration. “I was supposed to have Simone tomorrow, but Bridget says she has some commitment and needs me to get her tonight instead. I know Bridget’s probably playing games and manipulating, but I don’t ever want Simone to feel like I choose not to have her with me. You know? I’m already playing catch-up with her.”

My heart contracts. He has no idea how much I know. I know how it feels for your mother to choose a lover over you. How it feels for her to choose not to have you with her. Not just for a night, but for years. To forfeit an entire childhood for an unworthy man.

“I get it,” I say simply, inadequately conveying my understanding. “Simone should be first. I’ll never begrudge you that.”

His eyes, usually so guarded, aren’t that way now with me. His face is as intimidating as the rest of him. Handsome, but comprised of sharp lines and blunt bones—austere. But when he looks at me, the hard lines soften and it’s like watching rock melt. I’m the sun.

I feel that power for a moment—the power to make someone as hard as Kenan look tender. That power surges, and then it converts into responsibility.

Gentleness is power under control.

And I feel the urge, despite him being so much bigger, a hundred and fifty pounds heavier, and ten times stronger—to be gentle with Kenan. To be careful with the power he vests in me every time he shows me more, tells me more.

I feel a sense of responsibility that a man like him, who has been betrayed by someone who should have been faithful, might just choose to trust again. To risk trusting with me again. We’re not so different, he and I. I was betrayed by the one who should have protected me, too. Not a wife, but a mother—by a family’s complicit silence. We’re not so different, and maybe that’s what my cotton candy clouds are trying to tell me. It’s a good day. A good day to trust again.

Standing on the rail makes me tall enough to reach him. I touch his face, caress the strong rise of bone beneath the mahogany skin, and turn him toward me until our lips brush together. He pulls back the slightest bit with a stare that doesn’t waver.

“Remember what I said.” His voice is husky and heavy, maybe with the weight of this no-turning-back moment. “When we kiss again, you have to make it happen, and it means you want to be more than friends.”

I close the space he inserted between our lips, and lick into the seam. He gasps, and his eyes close immediately.

“I want to be more than friends,” I whisper over his lips. “Open your eyes and don’t look away.”

When he opens his eyes, they lock with mine, and I suck his lower lip and lick into the corners. He angles his head to capture my top lip between his, never dropping his glance. His hand, huge and encompassing, curves at the back of my head, his fingers curling at my nape. He deepens the kiss, tasting me with surging, hungry licks that make me whimper and moan. Now it’s my turn to gasp and close my eyes because the contact is so charged it sends a current down my spine and through my toes.

“Don’t look away,” he echoes back to me.

We set a frantic rhythm of bobbing heads as the kiss grows more urgent. I’m turning my head and he’s angling his, both trying to delve deeper without breaking the electric thread of our gaze. While our tongues mate and our lips beg and our bodies strain to learn the shape of each other, we never look away. And it’s more intense than fucking.

This kiss wipes away every man who came before him in a baptism of greedy lips and searching tongues, dipping me, dousing me, saving me.

Changing me.

I’m new. Different.

Even when it ends, our lips still cling, loathe to let go of this revival that purifies even the air we breathe. And here, trapped between our lips, each breath is holy. Here between our chests, our hearts bang like ancient drums. Here between our eyes, his and mine, a searing glance sees everything.

It’s the best kiss of my life. It’s my first glimpse of real intimacy.

And it’s almost more than I can bear.

18

Kenan

I had Simone all day yesterday, and she spent the night. Now it’s Monday, and I haven’t been able to see Lotus again. I want to badly after our “not date.” It may not have been a date, but it was definitely a kiss. I want a repeat as soon as possible. I’m getting off the elevator to Dr. Packer’s office when my phone flashes with an incoming notification from a local florist.

Your package has been delivered.

That August is good for something. My San Diego Waves teammate, married to Lotus’s cousin Iris, has been bugging me ever since I asked for Lotus’s number.

“So how’d the date go?” he’d called to ask yesterday.

“What date?” I’d asked, deliberately obtuse.

“Brooklyn.” There’d been barely checked eagerness and frustration in his voice. “If you play this right, we could practically be brothers.”

“As appealing as permanently chaining myself to a wet-behind-the-ears rookie is,” I had said, letting the barb I always use with him sink in, “I think I’ll handle this myself.”

“You don’t think Lotus told Iris every detail?”

That had given me pause.

“She did?” I’d kept my voice neutral. They’re close. It wouldn’t have been unheard of. It’s just so new, and I haven’t told anyone yet.

“No,” August had grudgingly admitted. “Iris couldn’t get anything out of her. We’re both on pins and needles here.”

“Why don’t you and your little wife worry more about having that baby and less about what grown folks are doing here in New York.”

“You’re grown, but Lotus isn’t,” he’d laughed. “Good ol’ Glad. Robbing the cradle.”

If we’d been together, I would have body slammed him. Or at least given him a good headlock.

“Even though you aren’t sharing shit with me,” he’d said, “I'mma give you some free advice. Something I did for Iris, and you see where it got me.”

“Like I need your advice,” I’d scoffed.

The phone went silent for a few dead-air seconds, and I’d huffed an exasperated sigh. “I mean, you may as well tell me now.”

He’d taunted me with his laughter before sharing his advice. She better like the flowers I sent.

“If you steered me wrong,” I mutter under my breath as I cross the lobby, “I’m shaving all those damn curls off next time you fall asleep on the plane.”

Simone and Bridget are already seated in the waiting area. I know I’m not late. I usually beat them here.

“Hey, Moni.” I swipe my hand over her face to greet her, and reach up to tug her ponytail.

“No, Daddy,” she says, blocking my touch with both hands. “Don’t touch it. I need it neat for the recital tomorrow.”

“There’s a recital tomorrow?” I frown, glancing between them. “It’s not on my calendar.”

“Well, guess Davis made a mistake,” Bridget says waspishly.

My assistant, Davis, back in San Diego, doesn’t make mistakes with my schedule or any aspect of my life. I’d be lost without him.

The door opens and Dr. Packer walks out with a warm smile for all three of us.

“Good to see you,” she says, gesturing for us to precede her into the office.

“Wait out here for a few minutes, Simone,” Bridget says, cutting her eyes at me. “We need a few minutes alone with Dr. Packer first.”

“We do?” I ask, frowning. First I heard of it.

“We do,” she confirms, sailing past me and into the office.

What now?

“Is there a problem, Bridget?” Dr. Packer asks from behind her desk. “I know we chatted a few weeks ago without Simone, but I like to limit impromptu meetings like this and schedule our time without her. Seeing this could make her feel like we’re talking about her.”

“Well, we kind of are,” Bridget says, “thanks to Kenan’s reckless behavior.”

“Me?” I point a thumb at my chest. “Reckless? How so?”

“This is how so.” She pulls her phone out and shoves it at me.

When I see the photo on Instagram, I want to roar at Bridget for being in my business. At the same time, I want to kick myself for not being more careful. The server at Sally Roots posted the selfie with me. Just beyond the shot, almost like a photo bomb, Lotus is looking at her phone. Her head is down, but those platinum-colored braids are distinct. Bridget saw them that night at the restaurant. I asked the server not to tag me, and he didn’t, but he used #KenanRoss.

“You object to me taking a photo with a fan?” She’s going to have to say it—be petty enough to make a big deal out of something that isn’t.

“What I object to,” Bridget spits out, “is this woman you’re running all over New York with.”

“Running all over New York? Hardly.”

“What do you call this then?” She shoves her phone at me again.

This photo shows Lotus and me on Jane’s Carousel. We’re laughing in the shot, and I almost smile again at me looking so big and ridiculous on that carousel despite the awkward situation I’m in now. The poster’s caption: “Don’t see this every day.” #KenanRoss

Bridget must have been trolling me and searching by that hashtag on Instagram. I want to hurl her phone into the nearest wall.