Page 78 of The Wright Man

"Maleek..."

Her voice was need wrapped in hesitation.

I let her go.

I pulled back slowly, palms trailing up the slope of her spine until I reached her shoulders. I pressed my lips to her temple, right where her hairline met skin, and felt her inhale like she was holding something in. A promise I didn't say out loud.

"I'll text you," I said, voice low and rough.

She nodded, eyes a little glassy. "I'll text back."

I watched her turn, watched those hips sway with intention as she stepped into the shop and got swallowed up by the chaos inside.

I kept watching, even after the door closed behind her. Even after I should've walked away.

Chapter Twelve

Angelica

By the time I walked through the front door, it was damn near 10 p.m., and my soul was limping.

The Popeyes bag was hot against my wrist, the paper grease-stained from the fries and my last shred of patience. I juggled it and my keys as I nudged the door open with my hip, shouldering it closed behind me with a heavy click. The sunflowers were tucked under my arm, their golden heads bobbing with each step like they were proud of me. I decided to take that personally.

I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off my slides with a groan, and immediately reached up to let my braids down from the bun I'd tied them into hours ago. The release was euphoric—scalp tingling, neck cooling, headache easing like magic.

It was only 9pm, but it felt like I'd lived three lives since noon.

Lunch with Maleek had been the calm before the storm. I'd barely gotten through the door before the shop turned into a circus.

A rush of walk-ins flooded the front desk like they had no home training. One of my regulars with chronic lateness syndrome caught an attitude because her appointment—scheduled for thirty minutes earlier—had been reassigned.

Ma'am, you were fifteen minutes past the grace period. That's the policy.

But logic wasn't on her side. She got loud, real loud, and Alicia had to physically step between her and a walk-in who was ready to throw hands. If she'd pulled her shears out her pouch, I was fully prepared to jump in with a shampoo bottle and pray for forgiveness later.

Then came my last client of the night, bless her delusional little heart, who pulled up with a wish pic so clearly AI-generated it damn near had a watermark from Skynet. "Can you make me look like this?"

The woman in the photo had digitally inserted baby hairs floating in zero gravity.

And after all that, I still had to clean. Sweep. Mop. Wipe. Answer five emails. Send three invoices. File product order forms. Double check the bridal party schedule for next weekend.

I hadn't eaten since the sandwich Maleek ordered for me hours ago.

But I'd gotten through it. Barely.

I set the Popeyes bag on the counter and went straight for the wine glasses. Poured myself a heavy-handed pour of red and exhaled for what felt like the first time in hours. The silence of the house was its own kind of blessing. No clients. No edge control. No questions.

Just me. And my chicken.

The sunflowers went into a mason jar. I trimmed their stems with the little shears I kept in the junk drawer and arranged them without overthinking it. They looked too pretty to be sitting in this kitchen, like sunshine in a jar.

I carried my wine and my box of food to the couch, slid out of my jeans with a dramatic sigh, and curled up under the throw blanket like I was sinking into a safe house.

The TV flicked on with a click of the remote. I queued up A Black Lady Sketch Show, because I needed to laugh and cry and not think for twenty-four blessed minutes.

The smell of grease, salt, and Cajun fries gave me just enough life to keep from collapsing face-first into the upholstery. I balanced the bag on my lap, phone in one hand, honey packet in the other.

My phone buzzed in my bra. I fished it out with a tired smile already forming. The group chat had been lit all day.