Page 51 of The Spark

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The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the bed, across her. She was still curled up against me, her warm, bare skin pressed to mine, her breath soft against my chest.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere.

Until the damn doorbell rang. Loud as hell. Once. Twice. Then a quick three more times.

Amaya stirred with a groan, her fingers tightening in the sheets. I sighed, reluctant to move, but whoever was at the door wasn’t going away.

Carefully, I slid out of bed, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before grabbing my sweats from the floor.

Still half-asleep, she murmured, “Who the hell is that?”

“Only one way to find out.” I tugged the drawstring tight and headed for the door.

I swung it open and froze.

There, standing on the doorstep, was trouble.

Beverly Jameson and Regina Barkley. Our mothers.

Two Black women in their early fifties, looking better than most thirty-year-olds.

My mother had skin the color of rich espresso, her locs pulled up into a neat bun, gold hoops in her ears, that knowing look in her deep-set eyes. She was a woman who never needed to raise her voice to get her point across—her presence alone demanded respect.

Mrs. Beverly, Amaya’s mom, stood beside her, her smooth cinnamon-toned skin glowing like she just stepped out of a spa. Her jet-black hair was always laid to perfection, framing high cheekbones and a sharp jawline Amaya inherited.

They both wore wide, smug smiles.

And then their eyes did a quick sweep of me—shirtless, barefoot, fresh out of Amaya’s bed.

Mama raised a brow. “Mm—had a good night, baby?”

Mrs. Beverly nodded approvingly. “I’d say so.”

I exhaled deep and slow, already knowing there was no winning this.

Before I could respond, the sound of soft footsteps had all three of us looking toward the hallway.

And there she was.

Amaya stood in her robe, her bare legs peeking out, her lips still swollen, her braids falling loose around her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing her glasses—her eyes narrowed slightly, squinting like she was trying to take in the whole scene but couldn’t quite make out the details.

The second she realized who stood in her apartment, she froze. Her mother. My mother. In the doorway. Looking entirely too pleased.

Her eyes widened in horror.

“Mom?!”

Mrs.Beverly smiled sweetly. “Good morning, baby girl.”

Mama crossed her arms. “You two gonna stand here looking guilty, or you gonna freshen up and let your mothers make you some breakfast?”

Amaya groaned, burying her face in her hands.

I sighed, shaking my head, then turned to close the door behind them.

This was gonna be a long ass morning.

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