“She deserves some time off, putting up with two bossy people like you and your dad,” I joke and climb the winding staircase.
“We’re bossy? Who basically re-wrote the rules of Taboo when her team was losing?”
“Oh, my God. We beat you guys fair and square.” I shake my head as I enter Kenan’s bedroom. “Bunch of sore losers.”
“You guys had Banner,” Simone scoffs. “She should count as two players.”
“Yeah, well you had her husband. She and Jared are like barracudas.” I shudder. “Can you imagine if they played on the same team?”
“We’d never let that happen,” Simone says with a straight face.
A slim, dark-haired woman comes into view on Simone’s screen, standing in the doorway of her room. “Simone,” she says. “It is time.”
“Yes, Madam Petrov.” Simone flashes her a grin before looking back to the phone. “Gotta go.”
“Okay. Thanks for calling.” I sink onto Kenan’s California king and smile. “And I like the hair, by the way.”
Simone touches the braids streaming over her shoulder. “Keeps it neat for dance.” She gives that same little secretive quirk of her lips. “Enjoy your anniversary.”
Once we’ve disconnected, I note the time on my phone.
“Ugh,” I mutter. “Still need to get dressed.”
I dart off the bed and race over to the closet, pausing to reverently stroke the dress I’m wearing tonight. The full organza skirt bells out from a cinched waist and will stop just above my knees when I put it on. The sheer cap-sleeves will spill over my shoulders and dust the top of my arms. I spent days embroidering lotus flowers on the bodice and hem, making it uniquely mine. And, of course, it’s cotton candy pink.
I’ve waited a long time to wear the dress I made for my FIT final, and I always envisioned showing it off somewhere like a premier or a fashion show—somewhere public. Everyone would ask who I was wearing, and I would proudly say I made it myself. But tonight, I wear the dress for an audience of one.
Kenan’s not supposed to return from the Player’s Association executive board meeting for another hour and a half. Plenty of time to get ready. We could have gone out to celebrate, but we haven’t seen each other in two weeks. Neither of us want public scrutiny and speculation, or to field autograph-seekers all night. There was always some of that in New York, but here in the city where Kenan actually plays ball, it happens constantly.
And I want him all to myself.
After showering, I put on my dress and slip in wireless earbuds so I can listen to Billie Holiday while I put on makeup and tame my hair into a curly updo. Kenan’s taste in music is rubbing off on me. I love Billie’s voice, but wish the lady who sang the blues had found more pink clouds in her life to chase the blues away. This song, “You Go To My Head,” is perfect for a night celebrating the genesis of my relationship with Kenan. The lyrics tease my memories of Hook Shot and our first kiss on the Hudson, to which Lady Liberty, the Brooklyn Bridge, and a roomful of my closest friends bore witness.
The song tells the story of a woman entranced by her lover. He spins through her thoughts like bubbles in a glass of champagne. He’s a sip of sparkling Burgundy brew. He intoxicates her soul with his eyes. Each of Billie’s slurred metaphors lures me deeper into the past—back to that first night. Kissing Kenan changed everything. It tilted and shook my world like it was a snow globe, redistributing the stars. I hum along, remembering how my throat was still burning from the tequila when my mouth burned from his kisses.
I look into the mirror, poised to apply a matte red lipstick. My eyes collide with Kenan’s in the reflection, and I almost drop the tube. He leans against the doorjamb, his hands pushed into the dark, well-tailored slacks tapered to the length of his powerful legs. The movement strains the crisp white cotton of his tie-less, collared shirt across his broad chest.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, a little breathless at the handsome picture he makes.
“I live here,” he replies, one corner of his decadently full lips canting up with his amusement.
I turn around and prop my bottom on the marble bathroom counter to face him. “You’re early.” I bite into the irrepressible smile seeing him for the first time in fourteen days elicits.
“I’m eager.” He steps closer and clamps huge hands around my hips, pulling me up and into the tower of his hard body. “I’ve missed my girlfriend.”
Barefoot, my head doesn’t quite reach his shoulder, so I strain up on my toes to whisper in his ear, “Is she coming?”
Kenan pulls back to peer down at me, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust and love. His hands explore under my dress, and he strokes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh with a callus-roughened hand.
“Oh, she’s definitely coming,” he says huskily. “I’m gonna make sure of that.”
“Don’t you start.” My laugh is breathy, my body aroused.
“After two weeks away,” he says, bending to suck my neck, “do you have any idea how fast this could be over? We can fuck, eat, whatever you want to do. In that order.”
I ignore the rush of liquid heat that starts in my belly and slides lower. “You were the one who wanted to celebrate this non-iversary,” I remind him. “And we’re going to do it right. I cooked dinner. We need to eat.”
His fingers climb higher to tease the edge of my panties. “That’s what I want to do.” He brushes a finger over my damp heat through the silk, desire simmering in the dark eyes that consume me. “Eat.”