Page 30 of Puck & Make Up

Hell, she’s fucking adorable all the time.

“How do you know there’s something else?” Her voice is edgy.

I tug that strand of hair again. “Because I know you.”

“How?” she asks miserably. “I swearIdon’t know who I am anymore.”

That wraps a capable feminine hand around my heart and squeezes tightly. “What do you mean, sugar?”

A long, despondent exhale. “I thought I was supposed to be a firefighter and I loved it, but then I didn’t.” Her eyes come to mine for a blip before dancing away again. “And then I thought Monroe’s was going to be my place, but that can’t be now either, I guess, and—” Her voice breaks. “Honestly? What the fuck am I doing with my life? I’m too scared to act on my feelings, I don’t have a job—not even in the family business any longer—and I’m hiding from my friends and…”

“You’re spinning.”

She looks up at me with such consternation that I laugh. Then I do what I do best. I wrap her in my special brand of Fox Brown charm?—

A hug.

“Dammit,” she mutters a long moment later.

“What?” I whisper into her hair.

Oranges and woman andmine.

But patience now.

Go slowly so I don’t spook her now that I’m through those outer layers of shields.

“I hate that you give good Hug,” she mutters.

Smirking, I hold her a little tighter. “That’s one of the Fox Brown superpowers, sugar lips.” I tease, cupping the tops of her shoulders and leaning back so I can see her face. “Want to know what else is?”

Her nose wrinkles again, and I want to kiss the little ridges, want to just kissher. “I think I should refuse to answer that, just on principle.”

“But you’re not going to?”

She shakes her head, sighs again. “No.” It’s a grumble. “So fine. Tell me what else is in your superpower wheelhouse.”

I wink. “Problem solving.”

After a workout that left my legs shaking and my abs burning, I knock on Dessie’s door with my free hand.

My other being full of takeout.

Carbs. Wine. And helping her sort out her life.

That’son the agenda tonight.

And maybe also getting more of my fill of her, my drug that’s Dessie—especially now that I’ve navigated my way through the prickly exterior.

Or maybe not, I think as I see the scowl on her face.

“What?” I ask, stepping inside when she pulls the door wide. “You don’t like Italian?”

“I love it,” she grumbles. “As you know,” she adds, taking the bag from me, walking into the kitchen, and pulling the contents from inside, setting them onto the counter. “Considering you brought fettuccine Alfredo for me.”

Idoknow this.

I know her favorite coffee, her favorite type of pasta, her favorite dessert (and yes, my ego loves that the answer to the last one is my cookies).

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