Hook Shot (Hoops 3)

I fiddle with the strap of my purse.

“I always thought the issue would be falling for a bad man, like my mother did, but falling for a good man could be worse.”

“How do you figure?”

“With those other guys, it was just sex. We knew what it was. They could have my body, but nothing else. Kenan won’t settle for that, and I don’t know if I’m ready to trust him, to trust anyone, with more. I never have.”

“Well, maybe you could—”

A knock at the door cuts into whatever sage advice Yari was about to hand down.

“Oh!” I touch my pockets. “I need to grab my phone and get myself together.”

“I’ll get the door.”

“Looking like that?” I ask dubiously.

“Why the hell not?” she asks over her shoulder as she leaves my bedroom. “He’s not my date.”

“It’s not a date!”

I find my phone and hurry to the living room before Yari says or does something outrageous, which is her default. By the time I get in there, Kenan is already overpowering our small couch.

Gladiator.

He does look like a warrior in repose. Massive. Powerful. Intimidating. Towering even when sitting down, his face set in austere lines while he listens to whatever crazy thing Yaris is saying. He’s dressed casually in shorts and a white polo shirt.

Damn. He should never be allowed to wear white. The contrast with his skin . . . it’s too much. It should be outlawed. I’m already mentally drafting my letter to Congress.

When he catches sight of me over Yari’s shoulder, his expression softens and he smiles. It’s a slow build, taking its time moving from the dark, deep-set eyes to his beautiful mouth. Have I ever thought of a man’s mouth as beautiful? Kenan’s is, a precise, wide bow at the top, and a full, sensuous curve at the bottom. I remember how those lips felt on mine. How his tongue dove into my mouth, aggressive, seeking. I remember how he tasted.

Yari glances back at me and grins.

“Well, I have some chilling to do,” she says. “You kids have fun getting blisters walking all over Brooklyn.”

Once Yari’s gone, Kenan and I stare at each other for a few seconds, a warm, wordless greeting.

“Blisters, huh?” He finally speaks. “You said we’d be exploring Brooklyn, but you didn’t say anything about blisters.”

I chuckle and step closer to inspect his black and silver tennis shoes that look like there should be a dashboard under the laces. “I think you’ll be fine. I like those kicks.”

“Thanks. Designed them myself.”

I peer closer and notice Gladiator sketched along the side. “Oh, it’s your shoe.”

“Well, they let me help.”

“And I see you’re wearing our watch,” I tell him, walking to the door.

“Yeah, trying it out, but JP did not let me help.”

“JP doesn’t let anyone help. Believe me.”

We start down the four flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator the owners recently added to the brownstone.

“He seems to have a soft spot for you, though,” Kenan says. “He lets you help?”

“Collaborate some, but my job is mostly details and grunt work, and the occasional opinion. JP trusts my instincts and my style.”