“You always look great, so I guess he’s smart for that.”
His words warm me. I don’t tell him, but keep walking toward our first destination.
“You didn’t drive, right?” I ask. “I will not be held responsible if that tank of yours gets stolen while we’re gone.”
“No, I took Uber Black.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that.” I grin up at him as he walks beside me. “Rich people’s Uber.”
“If you say so.” He chuckles and glances around my neighborhood. “This is nice.”
“Yeah, they say Brooklyn’s the new Manhattan. I didn’t know the old Manhattan. I’m a transplant, so it’s always been like this to me. Ri and I love Bushwick.”
“It’s a cool-ass vibe for sure.”
“Oh, just wait.” I rub my hands together. “We’ll go to Williamsburg. We can go to Prospect Park. Maybe we should see the carousel. It’s so historic. We can take the train and—”
“You mentioned food?” he cuts in.
We laugh together and I shake my head.
“I take it you’re hungry?”
“Yeah, my regimen requires me to eat a lot and all day,” he says.
“I got you. There’s this place called Sally Roots on Wycoff Ave. We’ll be there soon. Their brunch is off the chain.”
“Healthy options?”
“Some, yes, but you are eating ice cream today.”
“It’s not a cheat day for me,” he says with a grin.
“Oh, yes, it is. You can afford one day off.” I poke his stomach, but my finger goes nowhere. It doesn’t sink, but presses into steely abdominal muscle. “Shit, you can afford a week off, a month.”
He grabs my finger and curls his around mine, smiling down at me and not letting go. “I haven’t taken a month off in a long time. It’s a way of life for me. I can’t imagine being that undisciplined for that long.”
“Not even in the off-season?” I hope I sound normal, but he has moved from holding my finger to stroking that sensitive strip of skin between my thumb and index finger, and I’m straight up breathless.
“What off-season?” His laugh comes short and quick. “At my age, I can’t afford to let up. And no old man jokes, PYT.” He grins and then frowns. “Shit, I’m sorry, Lotus. I got you practically running and out of breath.”
“It’s okay.” I pull my hand away and slow my steps, both things helping to steady my heartbeat some. “You walk a little slower, and I’ll walk a little faster. We’ll meet in the middle.”
I’m grateful when we reach the restaurant. Despite my talk of walking all day, it is Brooklyn in July. And it’s hot as a mofo. Sally Roots is blessedly cool, with an island vibe that transports us from the urban jungle to a tropical paradise in a matter of steps. Island knickknacks and antiques are crammed on the shelves of the bar, and the walls, painted blue like the Caribbean Ocean that inspired the menu, cool the space like a breeze.
We forego the crowded dining room and ask the server if we can sit in the backyard, which is shaded by umbrellas and overhanging trees.
“This is nice,” Kenan says, looking around the near-empty space. “Laid-back. I like it.”
“Me, too. Ri and I love their brunch on the weekends.” I look at the menu through his eyes. “So anything here work for your super-strict diet?”
“It’s not super strict. It’s strategic and not a diet.” He narrows his eyes on the menu. “I like to limit sugars, especially during the season and playoffs because it slows down recovery after games. I can indulge a little since it’s summer.” He catches my eyes over the menu. “Since it’s you.”
I look back to the menu right away. I can’t do this all day—have a fluttering heart and stuttering pulse every time he turns those intense eyes on me.
“So what are we having?” the young man who’s serving us asks after bringing Kenan water and me a mimosa.
“Ladies first,” Kenan says, still studying the menu.