Honey Flava

Trisha fixed the items in the display case/counter at Wong’s Happy Emporium, the graceful bend and sway of her body betraying years of dance and yoga. She straightened and looked around to see if anything else needed fixing. It was a slow day, and her cinnamon-colored eyes took in every inch of the small, empty store. She’d been working at the store for three days because she’d lost her job at Pitter-Patter Daycare the week before.

Her pretty, full mouth turned down in self-disgust. It had been the second job in six months. Lost in thought, she took her fingers through her short, curly Afro. For the most part, she loved her life. She lived in a great neighborhood with people with a rich culture and history that she didn’t think she’d find anywhere else. Sometimes she envied them because she had nothing even close to it, but she was grateful that her adoptive mother had chosen Chinatown to move to all those years ago.

She worked jobs that helped pay her bills and gave her the freedom she needed to work on her designs. The downside was that the money she made was almost always only enough to take care of essentials with little left for more. She didn’t mind that so much, except she was always needing supplies to make her jewelry.

She didn’t have any savings and had little in checking. Her mother had died three years before, leaving her some money. Trisha had spent it all trying to start a jewelry design business, which had eventually failed. Still, she didn’t regret it. At least she’d tried, and she’d try again someday.

She sighed, and for the umpteenth time her thoughts turned to Brett. She knew he was angry because she knew him, but she couldn’t help avoiding him. She was attracted to him and was even in love with him, but she’d learned to hold those feelings back because she knew nothing could come of them. As much as his parents cared for her, they wouldn’t approve of a relationship between them. They would want him to have a traditional wife. She chose to concentrate on their friendship instead. He was almost as much her best friend as Mary was. “And now I’ve even blown that,” she mumbled forlornly.

Brett stood in the doorway, staring at Rissy. He was not at all surprised to see her there. His eyes took in her small, lithe body, dark skin, and dream-filled eyes. As usual, the sexy, little dreamer’s mind was in the clouds.

“Let me guess: You lost your job at Pitter-Patter.”

Trisha jumped at the deep, smooth timbre of Brett’s voice. Her breath caught as she stared at him. He was gorgeous with his deep-set, dark eyes and black hair. Tall, thin, and muscular, he simply oozed sexuality. Every step he made, every breath he took, was a mating call to her hungry body, which became embarrassingly hypersensitive when he was around. She walked around the counter and into his arms. She hadn’t seen him in the two months since that night in the club and she’d missed him.

She said nothing as he lifted her and held her closely. She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and breathed him in. The sexy, wholly maleness of him made her weak, her nipples beading and her mound tightening greedily in anticipation. When it became difficult to resist wrapping her legs around his hips and dry-humping his dick into oblivion, she released him, signaling that he should put her down.

“Hi.” She stepped back. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” he said drily.

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Then why have you?”

“Because it would never work,” she said as she moved back toward the counter, the split of her sarong skirt flashing open to give a peek of her thigh. His intense stare made her feel jittery, and she resisted looking down at herself. She didn’t think anything had popped out of the scooped neck of her long-sleeved leotard.

“That’s what I used to think, too. Even though I’ve wanted you more than I’ve wanted to breathe, I didn’t believe it would work because you’ve got the Chinatown mind-set and I’m trying to move forward. But now that I’ve gotten a taste of you,” he said as he moved closer, “there’s no way in hell I’m not getting more.”

Trisha felt stalked and her eyes widened. She willed herself to stand her ground and tried to ignore the shiver his words sent down her spine. “I don’t have a ‘Chinatown mind-set,’ whatever that means.”

“You never leave,” he reminded her.

“I do,” she insisted. “I just haven’t moved out.”

“Why?”

“It’s what I know. I’m inspired here.”

“True artists find inspiration anywhere, and you’re a true artist. It’s like you’ve cloistered yourself here. I know the fact that you’re adopted bothers you because you don’t know who your family was—”

“Stop it.” Trisha wanted to scream. She hated not knowing and didn’t like to be reminded of it. She tried to move around him.

Brett blocked her. “You fulfill your need to have roots by staying in Chinatown. But you know that the clannish nature of Chinese

culture won’t really allow you to have roots here,” he finished angrily. It had always pissed him off that she was never fully accepted because she wasn’t Chinese.

“People here are very good to me,” she said stubbornly. “Chinatown means family.” She ignored the voice that reminded her that just because Chinatown was where she’d felt the most accepted didn’t mean that she’d truly been accepted.

“You have family—real family—in other parts of the city. Stop being scared of rejection and go find them.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then look up your mother’s sister who used to visit when we were kids. Maybe she could tell you about your biological family.”

“I haven’t seen Aunt Pearl in twenty years. Why do you care, anyway?” Trisha asked defensively. “Just because you hate Chinatown doesn’t mean I should.”

“I don’t hate Chinatown, and I care because I care about you. You’re stifling yourself here.”