Ducking my head, I tried to hide my laugh. “What can I get for you, deacon?”
“Yo’ mama brags about how good your pound cakes are. I said I’d better come on over here and get me some before you sell out of them.”
For some reason, I had this feeling we weren’t completely talking about my actual pound cakes.
I move over to the cake section of my table and hand him one of the pre-sliced pieces of cake.
“Well, you don’t have to take her word for it. Give it a try.”
The way his eyes raked down to my chest made me feel exposed. Deacon Randall was mannish.
He took the offered slice from me, peeling the plastic wrap back. He broke off a piece and placed it in his mouth. The moment he chewed, his eyes rolled back.
“Mmm mmhhh,” he moans. “Now dat’s some good cake. Let me get five more of those.”
I go gather his cake slices and place them in a bag.
“That will be $25. The first slice was on the house.”
Deacon Randall pulls a fifty off his roll of cash and hands it to me. “You go ‘head and keep that change.” He winks at me before taking his bag of cakes.
“Deacon Randall. We want some of your peanuts,” a lady shouts from across the parking lot. When I look past the deacon at the woman, she gives me the stank-face look, like I might be her competition or something.
Deacon Randall holds up a hand to the lady to suggest giving him a minute. When he turns back to me, that smile is planted on his face again.
“Maybe I’ll see you around, Sister Ella.” He gives me a head to toe glance, followed by another wink before he walks off.
I stare at his back, feeling a bit unsettled. Never expected to be hit on at my mama’s church function. I pull out my phone and immediately send out a text.
Me: I might’ve counted Deacon Randall out too soon. Not only did he tell me I looked fine andblessed, but he bought several slices of my pound cake and tipped me well.
Within seconds of sending the message, the dots appear on my screen, letting me know the recipient is texting me back.
Mitchie: Tell old man Deacon, don’t get his ass kicked. I’d hate to send him to meet his Lord and Savior earlier than he planned.
I toss my head back and laugh at Mitch’s text.
Me: LOL! You better leave the good deacon alone.
Mitchie: He better stay away from my woman.
The moment I read the text, my heart skipped a beat and my body grew hot. Mitch and I have been messing around for two full months now. That’s a full eight weeks of sneaking around and having mind-blowing sex.
Every day with that man is like a refreshing breath of air. Mitch, as a friend, is supportive, patient, and kind. Mitch as a lover is all those things and more. When I’m with him, it’s like I cut my brain off and just be. I’m not Ella, the mother of two, or the divorcee, or hell, the medical receptionist. When I’m with Mitchell, I feel like Ella, the fifteen-year-old with her entire life still ahead of her.
And it isn’t just the way he makes love to me, it’s everything that he is. He listens when I talk; he makes me feel as if my opinions and thoughts matter. Even if I’m wrong about something, he doesn’t scold me like some idiot. He will simply correct me and allow me to explain why I thought the wrong thing. With Mitch, I feel as if I can be myself. He accepts me asthe clumsy, nerdy woman who can talk for hours about a book I read or some new recipe I want to try. He just lets me be.
And lately, he’s been saying things like calling me his woman or talking about our future. And every single time he does it, I get this overwhelming feeling of fear. Because I know, no matter how happy we are, this cannot last.
Me: Your woman? I thought we were just having fun?
I bite down on my lip, waiting for his reply.
Mitchie: We are. That doesn’t change the fact that You. Belong. To. Me, Ella Marie.
The way my heart is beating overtime should be studied. I swear that man says some of the simplest things in the most profound way.
“Look at that.”
