My breath hitches and my heart pounds even harder, and his face drops a fraction and comes closer to mine. My lips tingle and I lean in eager to see if his lips were as soft and warm as I remember.
“Sin,” he breathes my name and puts a hand on the side of my neck and tugs me closer. Every single inch of me is leaning, anticipation building by the millisecond.
When he’s so close his breaths ruffle my lashes, I close my eyes and sigh, “Yes.”
The sound of the front door slamming coincides with the sudden retraction of his hand from my throat. “Shit,” we say simultaneously.
I scramble out of the car, my pulse racing. My alarm is tinged with disappointment that I won’t get to kiss him. “The line at self-checkout was crazy, but we got everything,” I explain as I approach my dad.
“Oh good.” My father comes down the short flight of steps. “Your mother is waiting in the kitchen. Kwame, could you join me in the study? I’m about to open the letter from your mom.”
“Of course, I’ll just take these in and be right there.”
“You go ahead.” I take the grocery bags from Kwame and hustle to the kitchen before he can protest.
“Took you long enough. The pie is getting cold.”
“Sorry, the line was long.” I open the freezer and lean my overheated face inside while my mother starts pulling bowls out.
“Adele!” My father’s voice pierces the domestic tranquility like a gun going off.
My mother and I lock eyes, alarm making them wide. “Lord have mercy,” she says breaking our stare. She abandons dessert and rushes out of the kitchen with me, propelled by panic, hot on her heels.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when I burst into the study a few paces behind her, out of breath.
My father is staring at a piece of paper and tears are running downhis face. He hands it to my mother wordlessly.
She takes it, scans the first few lines and then slaps a hand over her mouth.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?” I ask shaking his arm when he doesn’t reply.
He shakes his head. “Kwame isn’t our new landlord.”
I turn to Kwame. “Are you kicking them out? Raising the rent?” I move to stand an arm’s length away from where he’s seated, my panic morphing to outrage.
He takes a step back and raised his hands “No. Of course not. I would never.”
“Just tell me why you’re not their landlord and who is!” I say struggling to keep my voice from rising.
“We don’t have a new landlord. The house is ours,” my mother replies.
I freeze mid-rant, the lava of emotion that was boiling in my blood a second ago cools instantly. “Wait. What? She gave them the house?”
“Yes. She did. Oh my God,” my mother answers from behind me. She is holding the paper in one hand and my father’s arm with the other. “I can’t believe it. But it’s true.”
“Is this for real?” I ask Kwame, stunned but starting to realize the enormity of what is happening.
“Yes. If you keep reading, you’ll see that the rent you’ve paid since you lived here has been deposited in a mutual fund account for the entirety of your lease period. She has made you and your husband the beneficiaries of the account. The debit cards and withdrawal slips should arrive here any day.”
My mother screams and collapses in her chair. My father sits on the arm of it and presses a cheek to the top of her head.
I turn to Kwame. “Thank you,” I manage to croak.
“Thank my mother. She obviously cared for them a lot.”
My heart tugs at the way his eyes soften at the mention of his mother. “She was so nice to my parents. She was like their fairy godmother and now this?”
“Did you meet her?”
