Page 27 of I Wanna Dance

She opened for me, and the kiss went from a greeting to hot in seconds. Moments later, I was inside her, hard, ready. It was a quickie—fifteen minutes, no longer, but we each had a satisfactory orgasm. Perfect morning sex!

We took a shower together, and I was glad my bathroom had been renovated last year. The shower now had an oversized showerhead, and the cabin was large enough for two (maybe even three) people.

After that, I wrapped her in a fluffy white robe that I had brought from the guest bathroom, which my girls used when they visited.

I kissed her forehead. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

I put on jeans and a T-shirt, padded to the kitchen, and started the De’Longhi coffee machine.

When she joined me a few minutes later, wearing one of my shirts that was much too big for her, I couldn’t help but smile. It was romantic, like in the movies, and I liked it a lot.

“This looks ridiculous.” She tugged at the shirt’s hem. “I should’ve just worn the robe.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to see your sexy legs,cariño.”

She flushed, and because I couldn’t resist it, I pulled her to me and kissed her. I felt like I was in love for the first time and….

Love?

“What?” she asked when I went still.

I let it go. I’d just gotten carried away, that was all. Good sex did that to you.

“How do you drink your coffee?” I asked casually.

“Black.”

We sat at the small kitchen table, sipping coffee and talking about nothing in particular. The morning was easy, surprising me. The rhythm felt natural.

By the time we decided to go out for brunch, it felt less like we were navigating something new and more like we were slipping into something familiar.

We went to West Egg Café, a popular spot in West Midtown. It was busy, as always, but we didn’t mind the wait.

After we were seated, Leah scanned the menu. “Pancakes or shrimp and grits?” she asked.

“Both,” I said without hesitation.

She nodded and then put the menu aside. “Fried catfish or chicken?”

“Catfish.”

“Aren’t you a good ol’ southern boy?”

“Collard greens or fried okra?” I challenged her.

“Okra comes first,always.” She smiled at me. “Did I pass your test?”

“Only if I passed yours.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You did.”

As we debated the best of Southern cuisine, the sound of someone calling outPapimade me turn.

I looked up to see Isabella standing a few feet away, her face lighting up when she saw me. She was dressed in a flowy sundress, her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Beside her was a man I didn’t recognize—tall, with a scruffy beard and a flannel shirt.

“Mija.” I rose and gave her a quick hug. “Fancy seeing you here.”

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