“Chile, you glowing, and I haven’t even put on your makeup yet.”
I meet Takira’s eyes in the mirror and suppress a grin.
“I do drink a lot of water,” I tell her, sipping from my ever-handy bottle. “That helps.”
“Hmmmm. I got your water right here. You been mighty quiet about that trip to Santa Barbara.”
Even though we’re alone in my trailer, I’m a little uncomfortable discussing our trip while I’m on set. Seeing Camille’s publicist obviously irritated Canon and underscored the need for discretion.
“In my defense,” I say, “you got back long after I was asleep and we were both nodding off in the back seat when the driver picked us up this morning, so we haven’t really talked.”
“True. That was a nice few days off, but I’m ready to get back at it. Hard to believe we only have two months left, and then we can go home.”
I fiddle with a pile of hairpins in my lap. Two months before I put thousands of miles between Canon and me.
“You just did one of them woe-is-me sighs when I mentioned going home,” Takira says, brushing my hair and prepping for the Dessi wig. “What’s that all about?”
“No. I just . . . I don’t have my next thing lined up yet. My agent has a new Broadway production she’d like me to audition for, but that would be committing to a show. And I might want to be more flexible.” I hazard a glance up at her in the mirror. “Maybe even stay out here in LA for a few months to see what happens.”
Takira lets her hands drop from my hair and puts them on her hips. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That Canon. He inserted his dick directly into your heart, didn’t he?”
I scrunch my expression. “Maybe a little bit?”
We both crack up laughing, and, leaning one hip against the vanity, she swivels my chair around to face her. “We got a few minutes to spare. Tell me how good it was.”
“It was like Drake’s the-best-you-ever-had sex. It was like Idris-on-a-cracker sex. It was like . . . if-your-favorite-vibrator-was-a-great-listener-and-sparkling-conversationalist-and-cooked-you-dinner-and-made-you-feel-like-the-only-girl-in-the-world . . . sex.”
“Shut your mouth.” Takira’s eyes stretch wide. “Our grumpy director.”
“Gets really ungrumpy, yeah, but shhhhh. We’re keeping it quiet until after the movie wraps.”
Takira turns my chair back around and starts brushing my hair again. “Just be careful with that heart of yours. Remember the last time you were gonna make a career decision with a man in mind?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”
“It’s in my BFF job description to remind you.” Her face softens, sympathy in her eyes. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well over Christmas with your sister.”
“It’s alright.” I force a smile. “I didn’t expect all my problems with Terry to be solved just like that, but I also didn’t expect it to be this hard. I guess we’ve waited too long and let it get too bad. I’m not sure what it’ll take to repair things.”
“Well, you know I’m here for you.” She pats my shoulder and winks. “Whatever you need.”
Takira and I tell each other everything, and I’m sure I’ll be ready to talk more freely about Canon soon. It’s not just our self-imposed muzzle order that keeps me reticent. The time we spent together, the steps we took forward, was precious to me. I want to keep it as just ours for a while.
I’d thought it would be hard not having contact with Canon, getting back to the set and pretending we aren’t together while we’re working. I underestimated Canon’s near-obsessive focus.
And my own.
This is the role of a lifetime, and when I step on that set, I give it everything. Kenneth continues providing most of my notes, but on the rare occasion that Canon delivers feedback himself, it’s with the same firm thoughtfulness he shows every other actor. Even though I miss him, we both do our jobs with the same professionalism we demonstrated before we went away together. I’m living off our few text messages and phone calls, but not much contact so far.
I don’t know if I got soft or spoiled or what over the holiday break, but by the weekend our first week back, I’m done. I can barely move or keep my eyes open. When the car drops me off Saturday evening, everything aches. We adhere to a blended production schedule. French hours when possible, grind it out when necessary. We have five days of shooting and a day built in for rehearsals. That leaves Sunday as my only day off.
So I can’t wait for Sunday, and I have every intention of sleeping until noon.
For this reason, I ignore my phone when it rings at eight o’clock in the AM, and drift right back to sleep.
“Hey.”
I bat one hand at something tickling my nose.
“Neevah, wake up.”
Another tickle.
I crack one eye open and bring the object of my disruption into focus.
“Canon?” I croak, because you gotta croak at this ungodly hour.
“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Not ungodly.”
“Am I talking in my sleep?”
“You’re talking. I’m not sure if you’re asleep. Your eyes are open.”
“They are?”
“Do you see me?” he asks, amused indulgence in his voice.
I pull my pillow over my face. “Not now I don’t. How’d you get in?”
“The usual way. Unlawful entry.”
I poke my head out from under the pillow and stare at him.
“Takira let me in. You are in that deep sleep. I should let you rest.” He stands. “I’ll check in with you later.”
“Wait.” I sit up, the sight of him leaving jostling me from my near-catatonic state. “Why are you here? I thought we were . . . you know, not doing that.”
He crosses back over to sit on the bed again. “I thought we could be extra careful and stealthy on our day off.”
“Like, lay in bed and eat and make love for hours? ’Cause I’m very much down for that.”
His raspy laughter awakens all my below-the-belt parts and makes me shiver. “I had other plans, but if that’s what you want to do.”
He leans over, sinewy forearms on either side of my head, and dips to take my lips possessively. I open my mouth, tangle our tongues and then . . .
“Morning breath,” I mumble against his lips, pushing at his shoulders.
“Don’t care.” He kisses down my neck, nudges the strap of my nightgown aside to lick my collarbone.
“I do.” I laugh and shove him again. “I want to brush my teeth.” I reach up to touch my silk sleep-scarf. “And do my hair and wash my face. We can’t lose the mystery this early in our relationship.”
“Who needs mystery when I can have stale breath and a drooly pillow?”
“I do not drool!” I bop my pillow over his head.
“Okay. Okay.” He tosses the pillow to the floor, grabs my wrists and pins them over my head, pressing me into the mattress with the weight of his chest, of his hard, warm body. “Do you want to hear about my stealthy plans or not?”
“Will there be food?”
“Definitely.”
“Will there be hiking or any physical activity? Because I swear if I have to drag my body up anything today—”
“It’s restful and low-key. Promise.”
“Will there be kissing?”
His full lips twitch. “If you’re a good girl.”
“Good girls won’t suck your dick the way I can.”
Lust narrows his eyes and flares his pupils. “I think you’re onto something with that staying-in-bed plan.”
He looms over me again, his mouth descending. I giggle and push him away. Rolling off the bed and to my feet, I stride to the bathroom and look back at him stretched out, hands behind his head, watching me with embers in his eyes. His lazy smile blazes bright, even, and easy. Canon is so reserved, I didn’t expect humor to take to his face this effortlessly, but it does, crinkling his eyes at the corners and slashing grooves into his lean, bearded cheeks. My heart pinches because I recognize the gift of seeing him this open when he only shows the world so much.
“Do I have time for a quick shower?” I ask, my voice coming out husky, which I hope he takes for Barry White morning voice instead of the unexpected emotion it is.
He glances at his watch. “Very quick. Dress comfortably.”
He’s wearing dark jeans, Jordans and a long-sleeve I’m Gonna Git You Sucka T-shirt.
“I like that shirt,” I say, going to start my shower.
“This movie’s a classic. Do you need help with that shower?”
“No, lecher!” I yell, peeling off my short nightgown. “If you come in this bathroom when I’m naked, we’ll never get out of here for our secret date.”
“You’ve got a point.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m ready, clad in dark jeans and a statement sweatshirt of my own.
“Zora Neale Hurston, huh?” He nods to the sketch on my chest of one of my favorite authors. “I like.”
“I’m re-reading Their Eyes Were Watching God in all the spare time my boss leaves me.”
“You have spare time?” He frowns. “I must not be doing it right. I’m obviously not working you guys hard enough.”
“Tell that lie.” I chuckle wryly. “I keep a book in my bag since we have so much stop and go on set.”
“You finished Schitt’s Creek?”
“We’re saving the final season. I don’t know what I’ll do when it’s done, so I’m reading instead.”
Takira’s door is closed and when I poke my head in, she’s gone back to sleep. I lock the front door behind me, glancing around the quiet neighborhood to make sure no one is watching us. We make our way up the driveway to the black Land Rover parked on the street. Buried in my script, I didn’t think much about the car he drives when we went to Santa Barbara. Now, I take in the luxury as we climb in and buckle up.
“Nice ride,” I tell him, running my hands along the supple leather seats.
“Thanks.”
“Are you a car guy?”
He lifts one brow and glances over at me as we pull away from the curb. “You mean like do I have an underground garage with maybe ten sports cars? No.”
“Just this one?”
“One other, but it’s a classic. I don’t spend a lot of money on cars.”
“Clothes?”
“No. I mean, I like clothes, but I don’t spend an inordinate amount of money on them.”
“What then? What do you splurge on?”
“Honestly? Travel. As soon as I finish a project, I go somewhere I’ve never been or a place I love to go that has nothing to do with work.”
“I didn’t get to travel much growing up. My mother was afraid of flying.” I smile, thinking of how adamant Mama was about it. “Even that family reunion I told you about in New York. Greyhound bus.”
“Wow. So you haven’t been out of the country much.”
“Does a girls’ trip to Mexico count?”
“Barely. We could drive to Mexico right now.”
“After high school, I went straight to Rutgers. Then I did some regional theater, some touring, but it was all in the States.”
“Now that’s a shame. We gotta get you out.”
“Where would you take me?” I turn in my seat a little, angling to see his face.
“Hmmm.” He taps the steering wheel. “Paris first. Is that too cliché?”
“Won’t hear me complaining. Where to next?”
“Johannesburg. My father’s there, but we won’t hold that against it.” He flashes me a grin. “The City of Gold. It’s gorgeous. There’s several countries we need to hit in Africa.”
“And?”
“Maybe Santorini. One of the Greek islands. It’s stunning. The architecture is like an extension of the landscape. White houses, blue doors and windows. Like sky and the Aegean Sea. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I’d love to see that,” I say, my smile dissolving as I realize just how limited my view of the world has been until now.
“I’d love to take you.” He reaches over to hold my hand, pulls it to his lips. “What do you say? After Dessi wraps?”
“Where?” I ask, leaning my head into the seat, watching his rugged profile.
“Wherever you want to go, but first I have somewhere for us to go today, and we’re late.”
“Late? You and your plans.”
“You love them,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road.
I don’t answer, but I love everything about this puzzle of a man.
I’m surprised when we pull into the parking garage of The V hotel.
“We could have stayed in my bed if you were just gonna bring me to a hotel.”
“This is a date.” He parks, gets out, and comes around to open my door. “We haven’t really had those.”
I stare at him for a second, letting that sink in, before taking his hand and getting out. He pulls me close and leans down to kiss me briefly, sweetly.
“I don’t actually care what we’re doing here,” I murmur against his lips. “As long as we get to do more of this.”
He walks us over to an elevator, pulls out a key and turns it in the wall to summon the car.
“Fancy,” I say, stepping in with him. The elevator keeps going until we reach the top.
“The roof?” I ask, my smile broadening.
“We’ll have it all to ourselves.”
Evan said Open Air was best when it was empty. Guess I’m about to find out.
When we step onto the roof, the city sprawls at our feet, and a vibrant fresco sky spreads out above, smeared with purple and pink-streaked clouds like a watercolor painting. It’s LA, but it’s still January, and I cross my arms over my chest, huddling into the sweatshirt a little more.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Not really. It’s just brisk up here.”
“Hungry?” He leads me toward a table set for two with silver dome covers and champagne flutes. Tulips grace the middle of the display.
“Hungry, yes.” I sit in the chair he pulls out for me and lean forward to sniff the blooms. “This is all great, Canon.”
He lifts the silver domes to reveal crepes and eggs and fruit. Bacon for him, none for me. I’ll never take for granted how he takes care of the details.
“You sure nobody’s coming up here to bust in on us?” I ask, shaking the linen napkin out over my lap and taking up my fork. “Blow our cover?”
“Ari said we have the place to ourselves for another two hours.” Canon bites into his crepe. “The key I used unlocks the elevator. No one can come up here without one. The manager unlocks it around noon to prepare for opening.”
“Did Ari . . .” I hesitate, sip my champagne-lite mimosa, and then press on. “Does she know about us? I mean, that it’s me here with you this morning?”
“No, and it’s killing her. She’ll hound me for information all week. She knows I don’t do this, so she has questions.”
“Did you and Camille,” I start and falter. “Do this? I mean, did you bring her here?”
His chewing slows like he’s giving himself time to consider my question and its implications. What might lurk behind the innocuous query. “Never.”
I cover my sigh of relief with another sip of the mimosa.
“It would be fine if you did,” I say, taking a bite of my eggs. “I just wondered.”
“Neevah.” He waits until I stop busying myself with food and look at him. “Do you want to know what happened with Camille?”
“No, I—”
“Neevah.” He reaches across the table to brush his thumb along my jaw. “I don’t talk about this with anyone really, but I’ll tell you if you want to know.”
Do I? Want to hear about the first woman he broke his rules for? Hear how she seemed special enough to risk his career, his reputation? Was she worth it?
Resignedly, I gnaw at the corner of my mouth and nod.
His hand falls away and, resting his elbows on the table, he steeples his fingers at his chin.
“I’ll start by saying it wasn’t all her fault,” he says quietly. “She thought we were headed somewhere I realized too late I couldn’t go with her. I could have pretended, let things ride until the movie wrapped, but that wouldn’t have been fair to either of us. As soon as I found out she wasn’t who I thought she was, I knew I had to end it.”
“She wasn’t who you thought she was? What happened?”
“I first met Camille at a Vanity Fair party. I’d heard of her, of course, and she’d heard of me, of course. Hollywood isn’t that big of a town. Black Hollywood? Even smaller. She was beautiful obviously. Funny and warm and open. We spent the whole night in a corner talking, swapping horror stories about how phony things could get here. She seemed like me. Like she was tired of artifice—tired of the brittle beauty people and this city are sometimes wrapped in.”
“Wow,” I say, my voice faint, my fingers tight on my fork. “Sounds like a fairy tale start.”
He shrugs, his broad shoulders moving in a careless motion. “I didn’t pursue anything with her because I was deep-diving into interviews and research for a documentary, which took me all over the world. The offer to direct Primal came as a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. It wasn’t something I felt as much conviction around as I usually did my projects, but it was intriguing. I admit, when I heard Camille had already been attached to the project, it made it even more appealing.”
I grab the carafe holding the mimosa and fill my glass to the rim.
“It didn’t occur to me anything would actually happen between us while we were filming,” Canon says. “I’d never done that, never gone there with an actress I was directing. We were attracted to each other. Evan saw it, warned me not to do it. All my instincts behooved me, but for once, I thought why the hell not?”
A self-mocking smile ghosts his lips. “Maybe I was lonely, tired of being solo, horny. All of the above? Who knows, but it happened.”
“Indeed,” I murmur, gulping my drink.
“She made the first move. I might have eventually, but when we were going over the script in her trailer, she kissed me. I kissed her back, and that’s how it started. I can’t say I loved her, and I never told her I did, but I liked her a lot. And we were great in and out of bed.”
I choke on a grape, banging my chest and tearing up, wheezing to clear my air passage.
“You okay?” Canon asks, concern in his expression.
“Fine.” I take a long draw of my drink and wave my hand for him to continue. “Just went down the wrong way. Go on.”
“One night, I’d stayed over and was still in bed when I heard her on the phone with her agent.”
Did I truly ask for this? It’s torture hearing him talk about their intimacy, even in past tense, but I need to hear. I need to know, so I keep my face neutral while he goes on.
“She was lampooning another actress, another Black actress at that,” Canon says, shaking his head. “And demanding the other woman, one I knew personally, be uninvited to an event where Camille was presenting. For the next few minutes, I listened to her tear that woman apart and plot ways to slow her rise. Basically so she wouldn’t outshine Camille. She needed to be the ‘it’ girl and saw someone else’s success as a threat.”
His frown, the rigid set of his mouth and jaw, hint at what he thought of that.
“I don’t play that shit,” he confirms. “When I confronted her about it, at first she tried to deny it, but then turned it on me like I was crazy for questioning her motives. Over the next few weeks, it was like scales had dropped from my eyes and I saw other cracks in her facade. As beautiful as she was, there was no light inside, and I never touched her again.”
I should just be happy he says it stopped there, and I am, but the thought of Canon—my Canon—fucking that gorgeous woman . . . I swallow my jealousy and push out the necessary words. “So what happened next?”
“When I broke it off, she was furious. She claimed to love me.”
“Hmmmm.” I practically hurl grapes down my gullet, barely pausing to chew. “And then?”
“Well, it wasn’t love. It was pride. That was clear when she presented the studio with an ultimatum: her or me. They chose her. The rest is history, even though no one wants to let me live it down. I’ve never been in love, but I know that’s not it.”
He’s never been in love?
How is that possible? Only as I think about it, neither have I. Can I count Brandon, my high school sweetheart who cheated with my sister, as love? The hurt of their betrayal, that lingered, but my feelings for him? Gone before freshman year ended.
“And when she got you fired?” I ask, pushing my plate away. “You confronted her about it?”
“She called. We argued.” He turns the corners of his lips down. “And haven’t spoken since.”
“You can’t just turn off feelings.” I look down at my fingers, twisting in my lap. “Did it take you some time to get over her?”
He stands, crosses around to my side of the table and pulls me to my feet. The cool morning air charges, heating, circulating in the small space separating our bodies. He eliminates even that, setting his hands at my hips, pulling me flush to him.
“Hey.” With one finger, he lifts my chin, urging me to meet his eyes. I don’t want to. As transparent as I am to him, I know he’ll see all the ways I’m jealous. All the ways her very existence makes me question what we have. All the ways I’m insecure hearing how he wanted her.
All the parts of me that ask if he, even a little bit, still does?
“Can I tell you something?” he asks. Our bodies are so close, his words rumble into my chest, and for a moment, it feels like he’s knocking on my heart. He can come in. As much as I’ve fought it from the moment we met, he’s probably already inside.
“Yeah?” I ask, forcing my gaze to remain locked with his.
“I liked Camille a lot.”
“I know,” I say through the hot lump forming in my throat.
“Until she showed herself, and I could never unsee what was beneath that beautiful exterior.” He takes my hand, lays the palm flat to his breastbone. “But you, I’ve seen since the first night we met, and I can’t unsee your light. You have nothing to worry about, Neevah. You hear me?”
He cups my face, swipes his thumb across my lips until they open for him, inviting him to enter. With a deep sweep of his tongue, he does. We moan together, our hands in agreement, roaming over arms and faces and asses. He walks us backward to one of the VIP pods, and we step through the curtains into luxurious privacy. An oversized plum-colored couch dominates the space flanked by small tables on either side. The drawn curtains block the breeze, but allow in skeins of sunlight, revealing the desire in his eyes.
“Are we really doing this?” I whisper into our kiss, an illicit thrill zipping through my body at the thought of this intimacy with the whole city watching, yet oblivious.
Wordlessly, he tugs his belt loose, unsnaps his jeans, discarding them, his shirt and his briefs. He’s fully erect. Extended. Hard. Long.
Readyyyyy.
I’ll take that as a yes.
I tug the sweatshirt over my head, shuck off the jeans and shoes, standing only in a black sheer bra and panties. He deftly flicks open the front closure of my bra, and my breasts spill out like they’re eager for his touch. He doesn’t disappoint, cupping them, thumbing the nipples until they’re hard, budded. He slides his hand into my panties and his fingers find me. The stroking, back-and-forth slide across my clit is shockingly erotic. It’s only been a week since we made love in Santa Barbara, but my body is starving for this, and when he slides two fingers inside, my muscles clinch around him almost convulsively.
“Do you know how many times this week I thought about this pussy?” His breath mists my earlobe, inciting a shudder that skids down my nape and across my arms. With slow, deliberate, deep thrusts, he invades me. With each stroke, I go limper, my breath catching and releasing.
“Some days I couldn’t concentrate.” He pushes impatiently at the strip of lace ringing my hips, shoving the panties down to circle my ankles. “I walked around with a hard-on half the day.”
I chuckle against the strong column of his neck, reaching between us to grip him, pull him, relishing the harshness of his breath in response to my touch.
“I was so turned on Wednesday,” I tell him, capturing his eyes. “Watching you tug on your lips the way you do when you’re trying to figure something out.”
“I do?” he asks, absently, bending to take my nipple in his mouth.
“You do.” My head drops back and I whimper at the warmth, at the tender tug of his lips wrapped around the sensitive tip. “And it was so damn sexy I went in my trailer on break and touched myself.”
He goes statue-still, his hand tightening at my hip.
“I came so hard,” I rasp into his ear.
“Turn around.” It’s a guttural command.
He bends me over the arm of the couch, and my hands hit the cushion for support, to steady myself. At the sound of the condom tearing, my inner muscles contract, bracing for him. He spreads my cheeks and, slipping his whole hand between my legs, cups the trembling flesh. I’m unprepared for the swipe of his tongue. For the subtle abrasion of his beard scraping the inner skin of my thighs. For the sound of him eating me. I push back against his face, helpless, no shame. Digging my nails into the cushions, I widen my legs to give me more, to take more for myself. He grips my thighs, holding me steady for his devouring mouth until, with a sob that sails over the rooftop, over the city, I contract around his delving tongue. The orgasm hits hard, tightening the muscles in my thighs and calves. With staccato breaths, I bury my face in the couch, biting my lip to the point of pain.
“Canon,” I beg. “Stop teasing me and—”
He shoves in, and the words tumble back down my throat, recessing into the shock of this pleasure.
“Jesus.” Need shreds my voice to ribbons.
He coasts his hand up my back, gently cuffs my neck. Ass in the air, I rise up on my toes, begging for breath, petitioning for more dick. He gives it to me, pushing impossibly deeper.
“So damn good,” he grunts behind me.
I hope I never get over how perfect he feels inside me, like I was molded to his specifications. Shaped for his dimensions. I moan and reach my hand back to pull at one of my cheeks, widening the way for his cock. It feels like he goes where no dick has gone before, deeper, better. Somehow I feel each thrust in my heart. His every touch plays on my emotions, and tears sting my eyes. His hand tightens at my hip, and he slides the other hand up my arm, finds my hand on the couch and laces our fingers together. He sets a frenetic pace that sends the blood singing through my body again. The cushion absorbs my scream as I come, and I punish the soft cotton with clawing nails. With his voice strangled, his fingers fisted in my hair, he comes.
Collapsing against my back, a heavy, happy burden, his breath stilted and warm at my neck, he snakes one muscled arm around my middle, clutching me. After the urgent, feral coupling, it’s a cherishing hold. I cross my arm over his at my waist and tangle our fingers. It’s fragile and sweet, this moment, like flakes of sugar disintegrating on your tongue when you’ve barely had time to taste.
Leaving a kiss on my shoulder, he pulls out, and I miss him immediately. When he straightens, so do I, turning around to face him. Our still unsteady breaths brush our chests together, the tips of my breasts kissing his hard torso. He rubs a thumb along my areola, and I wonder if I could come again just from that touch and the look in his eyes.
He frowns at the redness surrounding the soft flesh.
“Beard burn,” I tell him, smiling at the way his brows knit in chagrin.
“Does it bother you? The beard, I mean.”
“And if it did?” I walk around him, bending to retrieve my underwear. “Would you cut it off?”
“If I didn’t,” he chuckles, tossing his condom into a small trash can and tying off the bag, “would you cut me off?”
“I think you already know the answer to that.” I slide my arms into my bra, snapping the closure between my breasts. “Besides, growing the beard—it’s your tradition.”
His jeans are back on, but not the T-shirt, leaving his powerful chest still bare when he approaches me, cups my face. “You could be my new tradition.”
The laughter dies on my lips, fades from his eyes, and we are trapped in a net of our own making. Thin as gossamer, it tightens around us, and I hold my breath, not wanting to disrupt these few seconds with even a heartbeat. Finally, I rise up on my bare toes to reach his cheek, leaving a kiss there.
“Keep the beard.” I rake my nails through it and step back to put on my sweatshirt.
Once we leave the cabana, the moment dissipates, but the feeling lingers—that breathless contentment warmed by affection. We gather our things, and I study the debris of our breakfast, recall our conversation about Camille. I’ll never like the fact that they were together. That’s normal, and I am severely normal, but when Canon looks at me, when he holds me, there are no ghosts. No traces of her except in his regret. I don’t know how long I get to have him, but as long as I do, he’s only mine.
“You ready?” He assesses the patio, empty, but soon to be filled with people and music and food and gaiety. “They’ll clean up when the staff comes in to get ready for tonight.”
I nod, reluctant to leave the open-air intimacy of our rooftop.
He takes my hand and walks me to the elevator. Once on the road, he navigates the thickening traffic with one hand on the wheel, one hand holding mine on the console between us. We don’t talk much, but he absently strokes the ink along my thumb. “In A Sentimental Mood” sighs through the speakers, Duke Ellington’s keys and John Coltrane’s collaborating notes filling the air. I can already sense Canon’s mind slipping away into shadowed corners, probably for a clandestine meeting with his mistress, Dessi Blue.
“So I assume you have plans for the rest of the day?” I ask.
“What?” He glances over at me, that vague look in his eyes. I had all of him on that rooftop, but a man like Canon? His art is a demanding taskmaster, and I don’t mind sharing.
“You have work to do?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “I need to set up shots for tomorrow. Meeting Kenneth in an hour.”
“Thank you for this morning,” I say when we pull up in front of my place. “I enjoyed our secret Sunday.”
I open the car door, knowing he’ll probably pull off before the door is even closed, but he surprises me. He touches my arm and leans over to kiss me. It starts like butterfly wings, just brushes of our lips, and deepens, passion rising and overtaking. I slide my hand up his neck, cup the hard ridge of his jaw. I could kiss him all day, but he pulls back after a few seconds. Kisses my cheeks and nose.
“So next Sunday?” he asks, tucking my hair behind my ear. “It’s a date?”
My big, cheesy grin holds nothing back because I don’t know how where Canon is concerned, and I drop a quick kiss on his lips.
“Next Sunday. It’s a date.”
