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She absolutely would, which was why I made sure to take the keys.
Pops knocked on the window, and I bit my lip to keep from telling him he was wasting his time. I saw Atlas’s hesitation just before her scary ass cracked the window barely an inch. The opening was just enough for my father’s voice to reach her clearly but not enough for him to see inside.
“Hey, there,” his smooth-talking ass greeted.
For as long as I’d been alive, I’d never known a woman who could resist my father’s charm.
It used to drive my mother crazy until her accident. After, it became clear that in sickness or health, my father had eyes only for her—nothing and no one could change that.
It was wild how I looked exactly like his ass, but our personalities were polar opposites.
Michael Wray was what some would call a gentle giant—quiet, unassuming, respectful, and patient. The only thing we had in common besides our reflections was that he was a beast with his hands.
“Hi,” Atlas shyly replied. I couldn’t quite hear her, but I’d read her lips just fine.
“I don’t know what’s going on between you and my son, but I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be resolved inside and away from this hot sun.” Still, Atlas hesitated, and my father noticed. “You like pancakes? My wife made some that will make your mouth water and forget all about whatever my son did since I’m sure this misunderstanding is his doing. If you like, I can make him leave while the three of us get to know each other better.”
“I like pancakes,” Atlas admitted, but she still didn’t agree to come inside.
“Good. My son has never brought a girl home to his mother before, so she’s dying to meet you. Been cooking all morning. Nice girl like you, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”
I swear I could see Atlas blushing from here. “No.”
My father smiled gently. “Excellent. May I?” He stood and gestured toward the car door, which he only opened after earning Atlas’s slow nod.
It wasn’t until she climbed out of the car that I realized she’d found my Idlewild’s Finest hoodie in the back seat and had thrown it on. The sweatshirt was so big on her that the hem damn near fell to her knees, completely swallowing her curves and the bare skin she’d put on display to piss me off.
I watched her look around as she followed my father to the front door, taking in the immaculate front lawn and the house I’d grown up in. Her head tilted in contemplation when she noticed the paved ramp perpendicular to the stairs leading up to the small porch.
It had been the selling point for my parents when they bought this house after moving out of the hood.
His back to Atlas, my father gave me a warning look to behave before leaving us alone so he could help my mother in the kitchen.
“Aye, you better stop looking at my pops like that before my mom fucks you up,” I whispered, yanking my girl to me when I caught her drooling over my father.
Atlas’s mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped closed with a guilty squeal and audible click of her teeth. “Baby…he looks just like you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I dismissed.
I’d heard that shit all of my life. My father could pass for my twin, especially since he looked nowhere near his fifty-nine years and more like an older brother. I let my hands wander under my hoodie and helped myself to two handfuls of her ass, which was still hanging out of her shorts.
“Who told you that you that could wear my shit?” I teased as I kissed and sucked on her neck.
I’d probably never get my hoodie back now, but that was okay. I liked seeing her in my shit more than I’d ever admit aloud. Atlas and I had been together for six months, but I was still learning how to express emotions other than anger and lust. I wasn’t about to turn into some purse-holding sucker-for-love, but I had no problem whatsoever letting my girl know how precious she was to me.
“Stop, Owen,” Atlas whined as soon as I got a little frisky. My hands were shoved so far up her shorts now that my fingertips had burrowed under her thong, teasing her wet folds and spreading her arousal around. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
It was times like this that I was reminded of her age—more like punched in the dick with it.
“I’m a grown-ass man, Atlas.”
“Owen Rashaad, leave that girl alone, and ya’ll come get this food,” my mother called from the kitchen.
Atlas lifted a brow, looking smug now as she waited to see what I’d do.
“You got it,” I told Atlas as I let her go. “Thistime.”
I took her hand and led her into the dining room. The table my parents cappin’ asses never used—preferring to eat in front of the TV—was already set with platters of pancakes, eggs, bacon, sausage, and biscuits waiting in the middle. Steam still rose from each of the dishes.
