Cocoa butter.
She always wore it when we were kids. Her mother practically bathed them in it. Hell, more than once Mrs. Allen said I was ashy and randomly slathered it on me. Detecting the familiar scent beneath the light citrus makes me feel like somewhere under all this sophistication, she’s still the girl I knew.
I stand when she reaches the table, opening my arms like it’s natural, like I get to hold her every day, when it’s actually been so long. Her hesitation is a millisecond before she smiles and steps into the hug.
She feels…womanly. Her breasts, soft and full, give against my chest, a seductive press. She’s wearing flats and doesn’t quite reach my chin, and her soft curls brush my jaw. Of their own accord, my hands slide down her back, trace the deep cinch of her waist and settle at the rounded curve of her hips. We both stiffen and our eyes hold, our breath seemingly suspended between us at the contact.
What the hell are my hands thinking?
I step back immediately, hands in the air. I never touch Mona or the other female teachers at YLA that way. I would never presume, but maybe it’s our history, how close Kimba and I once were, how badly I want to know her again, that tricked me into a familiarity I haven’t earned.
“I’m so sorry. I—”
“It’s okay,” she cuts in with a quick smile. “It’s good to see you, too.”
I laugh in a way that only mocks myself and gesture for her to sit down.
“Let me guess,” she says, her smile wide and white against glowing coppery skin. “Mona’s running late.”
“Got it in one. She’s on her way. She and Alicia hit every flea market within a ten-mile radius on Saturdays in search of their next great treasure.”
“You can find some amazing stuff in flea markets.”
“Somehow, I’m having trouble picturing you there,” I say dryly.
“Don’t be fooled. You can take the girl out of the A, but you can’t take the A out of the girl. I could roll down to College Park right now and rip through a flea market.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“I said I could.” She winks and takes a dainty sip of the water Cherise left on the table. “I’ll leave the flea markets to Mona.”
We laugh, and I turn my attention to Cherise, headed for us with her notepad.
“Y’all ready to order?” she drawls, much more businesslike, but still friendly, now that Kimba has joined me.
“We’re waiting on one more,” I tell her. “But do you still have those fried pickles? I didn’t see them on the menu.”
“Yep.” She gives me a teasing grin. “You must be a regular.”
“Regular enough. We bring our students here sometimes. The school isn’t far.”
“Which school?” She tilts her head and frowns.
“Young Leaders Academy of Atlanta.”
“Oh my God!” Her face lights up. “My cousin Tribbie goes there.”
“I know Tribbie. Seventh grade. She’s in the chorus. Alto. Beautiful voice.”
“And can’t pay her to sing at church on Sundays.” Cherise laughs. “My auntie says it’s been so good for her. She also said you don’t charge and it’s a private school. How y’all manage that?”
“Fundraising.” I shrug. ”Generous donors from the community. Grants.”
“Well, she loves it. Her grades are better and she—” Cherise shoots Kimba a self-conscious glance. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She clears her throat and says, “I’ll get those pickles right out. Did you want something other than water, ma’am?”
“Water’s fine for now,” Kimba replies with a smile, watching me speculatively when Cherise leaves. “Sounds like you’re doing good work. Not that I doubted it. Daddy wouldn’t have selected you if you weren’t.”
“Running into him was such a fluke, but sometimes what we call a fluke is fate, at least I like to think so.”