Page 118 of Lavish
When I rounded the corner, I stopped.
Serena was curled up on the couch in one of my shirts—sleeves too big, collar slipping off one shoulder, her bare legs tucked under her. Doughboy was beside her, head on her thigh like he belonged to her now.
“What happened to you?” she gasped. “You look like a ceiling fell on you.”
“Part of the ceiling and roof,” I muttered.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re not kidding. Please tell me the roof did not cave in.”
“Just part of it, don’t worry. Now, food, woman?”
She narrowed her eyes but licked the spoon and I felt my dick twitch. “Jennie called—Reese’s sister, remember? She said a wedding at their resort had a ton of leftover food. She asked if we wanted any, so I picked it up on the way back.”
She gave me a small smile.
“I didn’t want to subject us to my cooking again, and I felt like being a good wife. So… Hope you like chicken marsala and truffle potatoes.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Yummy.”
“Uh, no!”
Footsteps padded behind me, fast and full of judgment. I turned just as Serena rushed over, eyes sweeping me head to toe.
“You’re filthy.”
“Thank you.” I grinned, winking at her, and she rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious, you’re not touching food looking like the way you are. It’s not sanitary.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Germophobe.”
Her gaze tracked over my shoulder, then up—zeroing in on my head. “Is that plaster in your hair?”
I ran a hand through it. Flakes dusted onto the counter.
“I’ll wash it out later,” I said, brushing some of the mess onto the floor with my sleeve.
“Miles Whitmore, did you just dust my floors with your crusty-ass scalp?”
“Technically, it’s notmyscalp?—”
She stepped closer. Her fingers reached up, brushing lightly through my hair with more focus than I expected. She plucked a small clump of dried plaster out, inspecting it like it personally offended her.
“You need to take these braids down and wash it properly,” she said quietly.
“I’ll do it in the morning.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to do it tonight. Take a seat, and let me get a comb, I’ll take down your braids.”
“When did you start doing hair?”
She shot me a look like I was slow. “I’m Black, Miles. Who did you think Laurene taught?”
I chuckled. “I need to call my stylist and get an appointment with her to rebraid it anyway.”
“Her?” Serena sniffed.
“She’s sixty. Old enough to be my grandmama.” I frowned.
