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Then I pull the deadbolt.
Slide the chain.
Twist the knob.
Open.
“Hey.” Kastle nods at me.
“Hey.”
We just stand there for a second, staring at each other.
He’s so stoic. So tall. So… perfect.
I wrap my fingers around my torso. I’m still in my African dance class outfit. The sports bra, the dashiki skirt, the sneakers. It’s proper attire for class—I sweat way too much to wear a T-shirt when I’m exercising—but right now? With Kastle looking at me like that?
I ease away from the door. Leave enough space for him to walk in. “I just got home. Didn’t have a chance to change.”
His eyes dart to my stomach. My bare shoulders. The bold, loud skirt. “You look nice.”
“Oh.” My brain backfires. Logs that compliment over and over. “I’m stinky.”
His lips twitch up. “You do kind of smell.”
“Hey!” I swat at him. Pure embarrassment shocks my body.
I’m stinky? Really?
I want to smack my mouth. Why on earth would I say that?
His smile tells me he finds it endearing, but I don’t want him to see me as the goofy girl. I want him to see me as a woman.
My breath catches in my throat as I meet his gaze. He’s the sexiest man on earth with his haunting black eyes, golden abs, and the kind of rugged jawline that would put a mountain top to shame.
I try to ignore the longing in my heart. It’s not healthy. One day, Kastle’s going to fall in love with some sophisticated model and that girl is going to watch me dead in the eyes and know I’m in love with my best friend.
“How was class?” He bends down and fixes my shoes. Slipping his fingers into the backs of my sneakers, Kastle straightens them and then taps them together so they’re facing the door.
“Good.”
“Any better at it?”
“No.” I shake my head. Watch him pick up my purse and hang it on the rack. “No, I still suck.”
Whoever said all black people have rhythm was… severely mistaken. Maybe getting adopted by two loving but rhythmically challenged Caucasians ripped the rhythm right out of me.
Or maybe I’m the exception to the ‘all black people can dance’ rule.
Either way, I’m two left feet trapped in a curvy, melanin-wrapped package.
“I’ll help you practice,” he offers.
“And put me to shame? No thank you. I’ll figure this out on my own.”
His lips move upward. That classic I’m not okay, but I’m trying to be smile.
He doesn’t usually wear that around me.
