Page 2 of The Spark

Heat flooded my face, my entire body. I wanted to slap the smug off his face, but I also wanted to?—

“Boy, quit playin’,” I snapped, shoving him.

He laughed, catching my wrist before I could move away. My pulse jumped. My breath hitched.

And for half a second, just half a second, it felt like something shifted.

Amir’s smile faded just a little. His grip tightened.

And then?—

The bell over the door jingled, and a little girl’s voice rang out.

“Daddy! I’m hungry!”

Amir let go of me like I was on fire.

We turned to see Nia, Mr. Reggie’s daughter, bouncing in from school with her backpack barely hanging onto her shoulders.

I exhaled, forcing my body to relax. Forced my hands to unclench at my sides.

Mr. Reggie came out from behind the counter, shaking his head.

“Y’all still in here? You ain’t got no homes?”

Amir smirked, backing away from me completely. “Just waiting on my girl to pick something.”

I glared at him, but he just winked and turned back to the records like nothing had happened.

Like my entire world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

And just like that, we never finished our argument.

But years later, I’d still hear Dumb It Down and Roc Boys and think about this moment—about him.

And that was the moment I knew—I was in deep.

And Amir Barkley would never leave my heart.

1

Seventeen years later, and Amir Barkley was still a problem.

I knew it the moment I opened my door and saw him standing there, a sleek black leather duffel slung over one broad shoulder, a toothpick rolling between his succulent lips, looking so damn unbothered. Like he wasn’t about to flip my entire life upside down just by existing in my space.

He smelled like clean linen and man, like a fresh lineup and the kind of trouble that whispered your name at two in the morning. And just like always, he carried himself with that effortless swagger—the kind that let you know he never had to ask twice for what he wanted.

"Damn, A. You gon’ let me in or just stand there looking at me like you forgot what I look like?"

I hadn’t forgotten. Not even close.

If anything, Amir had only gotten worse with time. That baby-faced, lanky boy I used to know had turned into six-foot-three inches of deep brown skin, bedroom eyes, and a body that looked like sin wrapped in a matte black Fear of God hoodie.

The beard made him a threat.

The waves were still ridiculous.

And that mouth—still reckless and kissable.

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