Laying my head on his chest, the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat lulled me into a false sense of peace, only to be thrust back to reality when I heard him ask, “So is now a good time to talk about my kid in your belly?”
“Oh my God,” I moaned as my mouth burst with orgasmic flavor. I couldn’t remember what the hell he called this dish, but I wanted to bathe in its yummy goodness. I had never tasted anything so vibrant in my entire life. “This is so good.”
Leaning against the headboard, he nodded, taking a big bite out of his sandwich as I wondered if he was going to eat the other half.
“Don’ even think of touchin’ my muffuletta, woman. Good men have died for less.”
“But I’m still hungry.” I pouted.
Narrowing his eyes, he smirked. “There is jambalaya in the kitchen that Juju made. Go help yourself.”
“You’re really not going to share the other half with me?”
“Nope.” He smirked, licking his lips. “Don’ want cha gettin’ fat on me.”
I had to have heard him wrong.
Did he just call me fat?
“Excuse me?” I said, my voice sharp enough to slice through the tension.
He blinked, clearly taken aback, before attempting to chuckle it off. “I didn’t mean it like that, sugar. Just sayin’ I like you the way you are.”
“Oh, so the way I am is too much for another half of a sandwich?” I got off the bed, the soft sheets tangling around my legs as I stood. My appetite evaporated as indignation surged.
“Aw, come on now, don’ be gettin’ all riled up.” He shifted, his smirk fading just a fraction. “It was a joke.”
“Jokes are supposed to be funny, Wade,” I snapped, crossing my arms. “That wasn’t funny.”
He sighed, running a hand over his face. “Alright, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve said it. You want the other half, take it.”
My eyes narrowed. “I don’t want your pity sandwich.” I turned on my heel, heading towards the door. “I’ll get the jambalaya.”
“Dev.”
Turning to face him, I growled, “What?”
“Gonna have to kill my brothers if you walk out like that, and I really don’ wanna do that.”
“Huh?” I muttered, then looked down at my lack of attire.
Huffing, I grabbed the sheet on the floor and wrapped it around me once more as he tilted his head, his grin creeping back in a way that made me want to throw the sheet at him. “You know, if you’re aiming for jambalaya dressed like that, you’re gonna cause a scene.”
I ignored him, clutching the makeshift toga tighter. “I’m not here to entertain.”
“Coulda’ fooled me,” he murmured, low enough to almost escape hearing but sharp enough to hit its mark.
Pausing just shy of the doorframe, I spun back around. “Maybe I will make a scene. Maybe I’ll walk down there, flaunt this sheet, and eat my jambalaya in peace. Maybe everyone’ll say, ‘Oh look, there goes Dev, living her best life!’”
“You say that, but I know you won’t.”
“And why’s that?”
His face turned serious, the playful edge softening into something almost thoughtful. “Because you don’t want to give them the satisfaction. You’re too sharp for that.”
I hesitated, my grip on the sheet loosening slightly. “What satisfaction?”
“The satisfaction of thinking you let me get under your skin,” he simply said, sitting back against the bedframe.
