Page 70 of The Wright Man

He shrugged. "I'll wait."

And with that, he walked to the lobby like he owned the air in it, dropped into one of the chairs, and casually rested the sunflowers in his lap.

The salon was in shambles.

I turned back to my client, pretending like I hadn't just been punched in the chest. My hands kept moving, but my brain was somewhere else—replaying his voice, his eyes, the way that t-shirt left nothing to the imagination.

"Umm... Angie," Alicia hissed, sliding into my peripheral like she was ducking from gunfire.

I didn't even glance up. "Not now, Lish."

"'Not now,' my ass," she whisper-yelled, eyes locked on the front like she was spotting Beyoncé at TSA. "Girl. Who. The HELL. Is that?"

I kept braiding, calm as a monk. "Nobody."

She scoffed so loud I heard it over the blow dryer. "No, ma'am. My babydaddy is nobody. That man? That man is very much somebody. Walking in here all slow, calling you Angel and bringing you flowers and shit. Jesus be a temp fade and a beard balm."

"Alicia—"

"Does Mr. Walking Orgasm have a brother? Cousin? Spiritual twin? His arms look like they give good hugs and backshots that make you see God."

"Lish."

She leaned in closer, eyes gleaming. "Don't play with me, G. You tellin' me you not gon' pull that man into your office, lock the door, and make at least two bad but highly satisfying choices?"

I turned and looked at her like she farted in church. "Alicia. I. Am. Married."

She blinked. "To. A. Dickhead."

I stared at her, deadpan. "Don't you have a client?"

She backed off, hands raised in mock surrender. "Fine. But when y'all make the baby, just name her Alicia. That's all I ask."

By the time I finished my client's edges and got her under the dryer, Maleek was still sitting exactly where he'd been, relaxed and unmoved. He nodded at one of the stylists who complimented his bouquet, but his eyes never left me.

I wiped my hands on a towel and walked toward him, trying to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

"Hey." I breathed, still not used to sharing space with him again.

He stood, towering and warm and devastating as always. His gaze dipped briefly to the towel in my hand, then back to my face with something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Instead of answering right away, he extended the bouquet toward me—sunflowers, fresh and bright, still slightly cool from the store fridge, with a little blue ribbon tying them together. My favorite. Not three dozen of them. No card. Just sunflowers, straight and simple, held out like an offering.

"For you," he said.

That was it.

No speech. No half-assed apology stuffed inside a generic envelope. No need to perform.

Just... thoughtfulness.

My throat tightened as I took them. "My favorites. You remembered," I murmured, fingers brushing his as I grabbed the stems.

He nodded once, like it was nothing, even though it felt like everything.

"Thank you," I said around the lump in my throat. I cleared it before I spoke again. "You ready?"

"Been ready," he said after a beat.