“I see what you trying to do. You trying to finesse your way into a second serving of cobbler.”
“More like a guaranteed extra pan to myself,” Najee said, grinning as he leaned against the counter. “I feel like it’s the least I deserve after supervising balloons and battling tablecloths.”
Jackie rolled her eyes and reached for her mixing bowl.
“You put one flower arrangement on a table, sir.”
“Cap. I tied bows. I stacked chairs and I organized the party favors.”
“You stood around and looked pretty.”
“And blew up balloons.” Jackie laughed, shaking her head as she sliced peaches over the sink.
“Alright then, Mr. Helper. Make yourself useful. Grab the bourbon from that top cabinet.”
Najee walked over, opened the cabinet, and scanned the bottles.
“You keep top-shelf liquor for desserts?” She shrugged, wiping her hands on a towel.
“It’s called flavor. Grown-woman shit.”
“Say less.” He handed her the bottle, then leaned in a little, voice dropping low.
“What else you put in this famous cobbler of yours?”
Jackie poured the bourbon into a small saucepan, her smile turning sly.
“That’s G-14 classified.”
“Classified?”
“Mmhmm.” She turned back toward the stove, stirring the butter, sugar, and spice together with practiced ease. “Passed down through generations. Only shared with husbands and hospice patients.” “Oh, so I don’t qualify?” She glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised. “You trying to?”
Najee froze for half a second, smile dimming just enough to show he caught the weight behind her words. But Jackie was already back to whisking cinnamon into the pot like she hadn’t said anything at all. He stepped closer, quiet but deliberate, the scent of perfume and caramelized sugar curling together in the air. “I qualify to taste it though, right?” Jackie didn’t answer. She smirked instead, before turning around and holding up the spoon. Steam rose between them as she blew on it once, then lifted it toward his mouth. Their eyes met—slow and heavy. “Tell me what’s missing?” She asked softly.
He tasted it andpaused. The sweetness hit first, syrupy brown sugar, bourbon, and another spice he couldn’t name. But it wasn’t the flavor that made him go still. It washer.
The way she watched him, lips parted slightly, eyes steady and searching like she was waiting on more than a verdict. Najee blinked once, slow. “Nothing,” he said finally, voice low enough to feel more than hear. “It’s perfect as it is.” The air tightened, but neither of them moved. Steam drifted up between them, the scent of sugar and spice wrapping around the silence. Jackie’s breath hitched, so soft it almost didn’t exist. Najee’s gaze dropped to her mouth before he caught himself. The air felt different now.
He couldn’t name it, but he could feel it everywhere. Jackie broke eye contact first, as she turned back toward the stove, and pretended to check the oven. Even though he could see the faint curve of a smile she was trying to hide. His gaze didn’t move. He kept looking at her, steady and quiet. The room had narrowed to just the warmth of the stove, the smell of bourbon and butter,and a woman he was supposed to keep professional distance from… but couldn’t.
She slid the cobbler into the oven, setting the timer with a small tap before turning to wipe her hands. Najee leaned against the counter, watching her every move. He hadn’t meant to stare—but she made it hard not to. Her skin glowed under the kitchen light, a soft milk-chocolate brown that caught every bit of warmth in the room. Slim waist, wide hips, thick thighs… that curve of her ass when she bent to adjust the oven rack. It was all there, and it was doing things to him he had no business letting happen.
Jackie straightened and turned around just in time to catch him. Her lips curved slow.
“You good, Dr. Nigel?” He exhaled through a smirk.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just observing my patient’s multitasking skills.” Jackie reached for her phone on the counter, before scrolling through playlists. “I’m not your patient,nigga,” she said with a grin. “Your patient is upstairs, snoring like a grown ass bear in my bed. You just an ear to me.”
Najee’s mouth curved slow.An ear,huh? The way she said it—teasing, light, but soft at the edges—hit somewhere it shouldn’t’ have. “Just an ear,” he repeated, voice low enough to make her glance up again. Their eyes met and held. That quiet pull between them grew heavier, something warm and dangerous threading through the air. Jackie smirked. “Well, what else you wanna be? A mouth?”
The corner of Najee’s lip twitched, slow and steady. “Depends,” he said, taking a step closer, his tone deep enough to make it sound like a secret. “You offering conversation… or communion?”
Her smile faltered, just slightly. A breath caught somewhere between her ribs. “See?” she said, laughing it off, though her voice had softened. “That right there. That’s why you can’t be trusted.”
Najee’s gaze lingered a second longer than it should’ve. “Maybe,” he murmured, “or maybe you just don’t like being read so easily.” She rolled her eyes, turning toward her phone again. “Boy, please.” But he caught it. That flicker in her grin, the one that said she liked the chase more than she wanted to admit. The beat of“Beetlejuice”by Mariah the Scientist filled the air: soft, hypnotic and teasing.
Jackie started humming, then sang along, voice light and melodic.