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Silence settled between us, painful and bloated with regret—his and mine.
“I’m sorry. I…can we at least be friends? Can we talk from time to time?” he requested. “I’d like to keep up with how you’re doing.”
“As long as it’s not friends with benefits. Yes,” I said.
“I’ll respect your boundaries. I just…I miss you. So…I can drop by to visit sometimes? Maybe bring you lunch or dinner?”
I gave him a smile, a genuine one. “Sure. I’d like that.”
A moment later, I was walking him out my inner apartment door and down the stairs where we stood on the landing staring at each other until he spoke.
“I love you. Thanks for seeing me, Lil.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
With a soft kiss to my forehead, he left, and I locked the outer door behind him, turning to stare at the door in the small entryway that led to my office in the back of the boutique. It was after six in the evening, the winter sky was dark, and the shop was closed. Sometimes, I liked sitting in my office at night. My store was a peaceful place for me.
The doorbell rang, making me jump. Rolling my eyes, I hoped Marlon hadn’t decided to try talking me out of some pussy because I didn’t feel like refusing something I actually wanted to do.
As I unlocked the door, I said, “What? You left your keys or something?”
The smirk I wore instantly evaporated when I came face to face with a man who was most certainly not Marlon. He was, however, a man I recognized—dark skin, chiseled features, piercing eyes. This time, he wore a black suit, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie.
My mouth dropped open, but no words escaped it as my brain seemed to seize and glitch. His gaze never left my face as his lips formed something just short of a smile and he dipped his head a bit.
“May I come in?” the man from my dream asked.
I felt my body sway first, and then the small space began to spin. The last thing I recall was his voice, deep and rumbling as he said, “Shit!”
Then…everything faded to black.
5
Iwoke up on my sofa, my mouth cottony, my stomach complaining. My home was dark, still, quiet.
Another fucking dream.
I needed help or this dream shit was going to drive me completely nuts or physically end me.
Like, damn!
“You’re awake.” The words were followed by the overhead light popping on, and there he stood in the doorway that connected the living room to the bedroom. He’d discarded his suit jacket, the stark white shirt still in place but with more buttons undone to reveal his chest.
My mouth opened, closed, opened, and closed again like a saloon door.
“You hungry?” he asked as if he couldn’t tell I was swiftly unraveling right before his eyes. “You…passed out before we could have dinner.”
In response, I frowned. I fainted? So, this was real? A killer was standing in my living room looking like a got damn walking orgasm? Seriously?
No fucking way.
The mere thought of it all was so absurd that I almost started laughing. Instead, I just stared up at this man.
“Do you like Nigerian food?” he inquired.
I did, but I wasn’t going to tell him that, and if I did attempt to respond verbally, I was certain I’d only be able to scream.
“I brought jollof rice, okra soup, pepper soup, fufu, and fried plantains,” he said.
