Page 45 of Cuffed By Your Love
“It looks like you dressing beautifully but comfortably,” he said, voice dropping into a slow slide that made my breath snag. “Because tonight, I’m putting you in your element. Creating. Think you can trust me to lead?”
That word—trust—bloomed and ached in the same breath. I’d stacked brick after brick around my heart, swearing nobodywould get in without ID, references, and a background check. But with him? The walls felt… negotiable.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
He paused like he wanted to sit with that. “Good. I’ll call when I’m outside.”
When the line went quiet, I stood there holding a towel to my chest like a life jacket, grinning at absolutely nothing.
The closet suddenly felt like an exam. I ran my fingers across hangers like I could read answers in cotton. Black dress? Too serious. Floral skirt? Too flirty. My hands hoveredover outfits until I landed on a yellow, flowy tank top that kissed my skin with sunshine, white denim shorts, and yellow open-toe sandals. Fresh French mani and pedi gleamed like glass. My hair, pinned half up, half down, secured with the hand-painted yellow butterfly clip I’d made on a rainy Sunday, reminded me I could build pretty things out of quiet. A whisper of lemon-jasmine oil behind my ears. Lip gloss, not lipstick. I looked like myself, just brighter.
When hisOn my waytext came through, my stomach flipped like a gymnast. I pressed a hand to my chest and laughed softly at myself. I was grown as hell and still acting like a teenager before prom.
My belly did tight little cartwheels.Girl, pull it together.I checked the mirror one last time, smoothed my top, and whispered to my reflection, “Relax, and don’t overthink.”
The knock made my pulse hop.
I opened the door and almost laughed because he really did look like my future dressed casually. Crisp polo, forearms rolled into temptation, and that clean skin-and-cedar thing he wore like a second signature. His eyes dragged down and up slowly, respectful but unflinching.
“Damn,” he said simply. “Directions followed to the letter. Beautiful and comfortable. But you”—his mouth tilted—“you’re always gorgeous as fuck to me.”
I tucked a loc behind my ear so I’d have something to do besides combust. “Hi.”
He stepped in just enough to glance around. His gaze snagged on my canary throw pillows, the framed print with yellow brushstrokes, the lemon-colored stainless steel water bottle sitting loyal on the console table. He smirked, nodding like a detective who just cracked a case. “Favorite color’s yellow. You wore it the first night I met you, it’s all over your space, and that little sunshine canteen goes everywhere you do.”
I blinked, impressed and a little exposed. “Detective eye never clocks out, huh?”
“Not with you.” His voice softened. “Come on, gorgeous.”
He walked me out like he was escorting prize cargo, opened the truck door like a gentleman, then palmed my waist, firm and careful, while I climbed in. He leaned close to buckle my seat belt, and my breath stalled.
“Pretty cargo gets protected at all times.” He murmured the words warm against my cheek.
I sat very still, trying to remember how lungs worked.
The engine purred to life, and Coco Jones slid through the speakers like velvet and honey. I made a sound that wasn’t words, and it already had me embarrassed. “Oh my God. ‘Here We Go (Uh-Oh)’? You didn’t.”
He gave me a look that said,Of course, I did.“Sing, then.”
I did. Quiet at first, then full, like my voice remembered how to be brave. He didn’t talk over me. Didn’t joke. Just drove with one hand and used his other to carelessly rest it on my lap, the mirror catching his grin, eyes soft the whole time. It felt like being applauded without clapping.
When the song faded, I exhaled. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something to keep.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, he said, “Because you are.”
The road unspooled in golden ribbons ahead of us. My smile wouldn’t behave even if I tried.
We pulled up in front of a black-brick facade crowned with a gold script sign: Melanin Mixery.
And then a second line caught the light as we walked under it:Mix Bold. Smell Black. Stay Legendary.
Inside, the world slowed. Espresso-brown and obsidian walls, silhouettes of Black kings and queens outlined in gold leaf, glinting like living jewelry. Edison bulbs crisscrossed overhead in warm constellations. The playlist wrapped around us, Lauryn to Sade to a splash of Afrobeats, bass low enough to feel it in the ribs. The air was sandalwood, shea, citrus, and something sweet, like a hug you could inhale.
A hostess with a velvet voice and waist-length locs greeted us with two warm towels misted in lavender and shea. “Cleanse before you create,” she said, smiling like a benediction.
