Page 22 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

She shrugs. “I’ve been hot all day. Are you gonna help me with these bags?”

“My bad. I was distracted.” I grab the grocery bags out of her hands. “I’m wondering what you got on under there. Usually when a woman shows up in a coat like that…”

I trail off as she slowly slides the belt out of its loop. The ends fall as her hands grip the lapels. My dick stiffens in anticipation, but when she flings the coat open, there’s a long Spelman t-shirt underneath.

I laugh and shake my head. “You play too much.”

She leans up and pecks my lips. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you play with me later.”

“You gon’ let me play regardless.”

She smiles and hangs her coat up, heading into the kitchen like she’s done it a hundred times before. I follow, watching as she unpacks the groceries and moves through my space like she already knows where things go.

“I love this,” she says, running a hand over my counter.

“’Preciate it.”

“Feels like a bachelor’s kitchen, though.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what does that mean?”

She tilts her head. “It’s missing a woman’s touch.”

She goes into my spice cabinet. There was no hesitation. She didn’t try a few before she found the right one, she just went straight for it. I feel a little unsettled as I watch her pull out a bunch of my seasonings and line them up on the counter.

“You do this for every guy you date?” I ask as she, once again, hits the bullseye, finding my cutting board on the first try.

“No,” she says softly. “But I like taking care of my man.”

My man.

It’s not the first time she’s said this. I know I should be wary of how easily she claims me, but instead, I let the words rattle around in my brain, then settle in my chest.

I lean against the counter, watching her slice tomatoes.

“So, tell me something real, Raya.”

She glances up. “Like what?”

“Like…what’s your relationship with your parents like?”

She keeps slicing. “It’s fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Itisan answer. You just don’t like it.”

Her biting tone doesn’t match the amusement on her face. She seems to think the better of it, answering, “My mom’s amazing. My dad is cool. He…he works a lot, so he’s not around as much.”

“So you live with them?”

She freezes, then recovers quickly. “Yeah. Saving money. The cost of living is crazy in Atlanta now.”

“Yeah. I feel y—“

“It’s nice, though,” she continues. “They’re a little much sometimes, but they love each other. And me.”

It’s very smooth the way she says this. Almost too smooth, like it’s rehearsed.

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