Page 78 of Cannon
“Oh, is that right?” I drained my whiskey and set the glass down with a decisive click. “Well, Mr. Intuition, prepare to eat your words. Along with some of the best soul food you’ve ever tasted.”
“This I gotta see,” he chuckled, settling deeper into my couch like he belonged there.
I marched into the kitchen, determined to prove him wrong. Soul food was in my blood, even if I rarely cooked it. How hard could it be? I pulled out chicken, flour, seasonings, grabbed macaroni from the pantry, cheese from the fridge, and a bag of collard greens I’d bought with good intentions last week.
Forty-five minutes later, the smoke alarm was screaming, and I was frantically waving a dish towel beneath it while Cannon laughed his ass off from the kitchen doorway.
“Stop laughing and help me!” I yelled over the piercing beep.
He reached up easily with his tall frame and detached the alarm, silencing its screech. In the sudden quiet, I could smell the disaster that was my attempt at dinner. The kitchen was a war zone, flour dusting every surface, pots and pans everywhere, and smoke billowing from the oven.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, pulling open the oven door. A cloud of black smoke erupted, making me cough and step back. The chicken was beyond saving, burned to a crisp on the outside while somehow still looking raw near the bone. “Shit!”
Cannon peered over my shoulder, his chest rumbling with laughter against my back. “Damn, Queen. You trying to cremate that bird or cook it?”
I shot him a glare that would’ve made my dancers tremble, but it just made him laugh harder. I turned to the stove where my mac and cheese sat. It was a soupy, unappetizing mess that looked more like cheese soup with pasta floating in it. The collard greens were still tough, barely wilted despite being on the heat for twenty minutes.
“I just… I don’t understand,” I muttered, poking at the greens with a fork. “I followed my grandmother’s recipe exactly.”
Cannon came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. “You sure about that? Because it looks like you followed a recipe for disaster.”
I elbowed him in the ribs, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Okay, fine. You win. I can’t cook for shit.”
He turned me around to face him, his eyes dancing with amusement. “It’s okay, baby. You got other talents.” His gaze dropped to my lips, making heat pool between my thighs despite my embarrassment.
“Yeah? Like what?” I challenged, trying to maintain my dignity even with the evidence of my kitchen failure smoking behind me.
“Running a club like a boss. Making men fall at your feet. Taking care of your daughter.” He kissed me softly. “And a few other things I’m not gonna mention with ZaZa in the next room.”
I laughed, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders. “Fine. You’ve made your point.”
“How about I order us some takeout?” he suggested, already pulling out his phone. “Save us both from food poisoning.”
“You’re an asshole,” I said, but there was no heat in it. “But yes, please order something before we starve.”
“Chinese good with you?” he asked, already scrolling through his contacts.
“Perfect.” I started cleaning up my mess, scraping the burned chicken into the trash with a grimace. “Get extra egg rolls. And dumplings.”
While Cannon ordered, I wiped down the counters and opened the windows to clear out the smoke. I couldn’t help but smile at the domesticity of it all, me failing at cooking, him stepping in to save dinner. It felt… normal. Safe. Something I hadn’t had in years.
The doorbell rang about forty minutes later, and the smell of Chinese food immediately filled the apartment. Cannon paid the delivery guy while I grabbed plates and napkins.
“That smells amazing,” I said, my stomach growling as Cannon set the bags on the coffee table. “I’m starving after that kitchen disaster.”
“Let me grab the drinks,” he said, heading to the kitchen.
Just as we were settling onto the couch, I heard ZaZa’s bedroom door open. Her footsteps padded down the hallway, and she appeared in the living room doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing an oversized t-shirt and leggings.
“I thought I smelled food,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Then she noticed Cannon and froze, her posture immediately changing. She straightened up, ran a hand through her hair, and a slow smile spread across her face. “Oh, hello.”
The way she looked at him, like he was a snack she wanted to devour, made my motherly instincts flare up immediately.
“ZaZa, this is Cannon. He works security at the club,” I said, emphasizing the professional connection. “Cannon, my daughter ZaZa.”
“Nice to finally meet you,” Cannon said, his voice polite but distant as he extended his hand. “Your mom talks about you a lot.”
ZaZa ignored his hand and instead leaned in for a hug, pressing her body against his a beat too long. “All good things, I hope.” Her voice had that flirtatious lilt I’d heard her use on men before.
