Page 8 of Hellcat Barbies: Imani
“Thank you,” I say then dive in myself.
He doesn’t talk much as he eats. My food is his concentration and I’m not mad at it. I love to watch people eat my food. Back in Diamond Cove, my leftovers, would be packaged up for my Hellcat Barbies. Here, I’ve been taking them to work. After a few other scrub techs saw that I could cook and tasted my food, they asked me to cook for them.
“There’s more if you want,” I say when I stand to place my plate in the sink.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I love to cook and tend to cook extra. I’m sure.” Before he can question me again, I grab his plate and refill it. Then, I wash mine. The washer has stopped so I step to the laundry room and place the load in the dryer. When I walk back into the kitchen, he’s still eating. So, I pack the leftovers in a container then clean my pans and rice cooker. “Did you have plans tonight?” I ask.
“Plans?” he asks.
“The suit.”
“Oh yea. My boss’ anniversary dinner was tonight,” he says like it’s no big deal.
“And I made you miss it.”
“Nah. That nigga made me miss it but I’m straight. It’s just dinner.”
“Are you sure?” I ask because I feel bad. With my job hanging on by a thread, I would hate to put someone else in this predicament.
“I promise; it’s all good. It was a dinner not a mandatory staff meeting.”
Before forking more food, he flashes me that smile and damn it, I smile too, making me feel better. “What do you do?”
“I’m a distribution manager at a warehouse.”
“Like Amazon?”
“No. Pharmaceuticals,” he says.
I don’t push nor do I make any assumptions but I’ve dated a few men in pharmaceuticals and they were all street ones. He might be different but something tells me he’s not. His style, swag, and walk don’t scream the Big Pharm.
“That sounds interesting,” is all I say and he doesn’t say anything more either.
He finishes his food and when he does, I clean his plate then disinfect my counters. I fix him another bourbon but I stick with my water. It’s the safe thing to do, for me. His shirt isn’t dry and his chest and arms are still on full display. I’m no longer distracted by my cooking and he has my full-damn-attention, all of it. Every part of my body is keenly aware of how fine and sexy he is. Another drink would probably end with me jumping him. So, when he treks back into my living room and sits on my loveseat, I sit far away on the sofa.
“Where did you learn to cook? That was really good. Like, real shit, I haven’t had anything that good in a minute,” he says.
“The Food Network. I watched it all the time in high school. Then, in college, I got sick of the stuff included with the meal plan so I started cooking. I followed recipes at first then started tweaking them to my taste. I packed the rest for you since you only know how to make cheesesteaks.”
“You have to let me cook you one now after all of this.”
“Okay,” falls off my lips fast as hell and I have not one regret.
“Bet and soon.”
That smile is back again and so is mine. The dryer buzzes and I get up and walk to the laundry room. His shirt is ready. When I walk out with it, he’s standing.
“I heard the laundry buzzer. My time is up,” he says. “I don’t want to take over your entire night.”
I hand him the shirt and he puts it on. I button it for him and I feel him looking down at me as I do.I’m really doing the most with this man.
“Let me use the bathroom and I’ll be ready to take you back to your ride.”
“Use the restroom but I’ll call an iDrive. You have done enough. Unlock your car. My phone and jacket are in it.”
“I can take you,” I insists.
