Chapter 2: The Casserole Apology and a Bold Invitation
The casserole dish was still warm against Kymani's palms when she pushed through the sheriff's station door, and the smell of melted cheese and seasoned ground beef hit her nose like a memory of every Sunday dinner her grandmother had ever made.
The front desk was empty. Just a radio crackling static and a coffee maker that looked old enough to vote, gurgling in the corner like it was dying. The bulletin board behind the counter sagged under a year's worth of wanted posters and a faded flyer advertising a cornhole tournament with a five-hundred-dollar prize, and Kymani found herself staring at it while she waited, wondering who in this podunk town thought cornhole was a sport.
She heard him before she saw him. Boots on linoleum, heavy and deliberate, and then Ritchie Stevens came around the corner with a file folder in his hand and a look on his face like he'd just seen a ghost.
He stopped dead.
"Kymani."
"Officer." She set the casserole on the counter between them and crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back on her heels like she owned the place. "Brought you something."
He stared at the foil-covered dish. Then at her. Then back at the dish. His jaw worked like he was trying to find words, and Kymani felt a little flutter in her chest that she immediately squashed.
"I—what is that?"
"It's a casserole, nigga. What's it look like?"
"I mean—" He set the folder down and ran a hand through his hair, and she noticed the way his biceps flexed under his uniform shirt. God, he was fine. It made her angry. "Why?"
"Apology." She shrugged like it was nothing. "For the other day. My grandma made it. She said you sounded like a nice young man on the phone."
His face went red. Actually red. From his collar to his ears, and Kymani had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
"She—she said that?"
"Mmhmm." Kymani leaned her elbow on the counter, propping her chin in her hand. "Said you were real polite. Real professional. Asked if you was single."
"I—" He swallowed hard. "What did you tell her?"
"That I didn't know." She tilted her head. "Are you?"
The silence stretched long enough to be uncomfortable. Ritchie looked at the casserole like it might explode, and Kymani watched his throat bob as he swallowed again.
"Thank you," he said finally, and his voice came out rough. "For the casserole. You didn't have to."
"I know."
"And I—" He paused. Started over. "I appreciate it. Really. But you shouldn't have—"
"Come on, now." She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You gonna stand there and tell me you ain't hungry? Smells good, right? Grandma Wendy don't play when it comes to her cooking."
He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Kymani felt like she'd won something.
"It does smell good," he admitted.
"Damn right." She pushed the dish toward him. "Take it home. Heat it up. Think of me."
His eyes snapped to hers, and there it was again—that flicker of something dark and hungry that she'd seen in the security office three days ago. It was gone in a second, buried under layers of small-town politeness, but Kymani saw it.
She always saw it.
"Anyway," she said, pulling her hand back and straightening up. "I ain't just here for the casserole."
Ritchie's brow furrowed. "You're not?"
"Nope." She popped the 'p' and let the word hang in the air between them. "I got a question for you."
He looked wary. "What kind of question?"
"The kind you answer with yes or no." She crossed her arms again, and she watched his eyes drop to her chest for half a second before snapping back up. She was wearing a plain white tank top and jeans, nothing fancy, but she knew what she looked like. "You free Friday night?"
The color drained from his face. Then rushed back. He looked like a man who'd just been asked to defuse a bomb.
"What?"
"Friday night." She said it slow, like she was talking to a child. "You. Me. Dinner. You know what a date is, right?"
"I—" He blinked. "You're asking me out?"
"Nigga, I just did." She rolled her eyes. "Try to keep up."
"But—" He shook his head, and his hands came up like he was trying to physically push the idea away. "You—I arrested you. Three days ago. I strip-searched you."
"So?" She shrugged. "Water under the bridge."
"Water under the—" He laughed, short and disbelieving. "Kymani, that's not how this works."
"How what works?" She leaned forward, planting both palms on the counter. "You live here, I live here. I'm new in town, you're the only person I know who ain't related to me or old as dirt. Seems like I should make some friends."
"Friends."
"Yeah. Friends." She smirked. "What, you got something against friends?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran his hand through his hair again, and she noticed the way his fingers trembled just a little.
"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "You don't even know me."
"I know you got a big dick and a good heart." She said it flat, matter-of-fact, and watched him turn the color of a ripe tomato. "That's more than most niggas got going for 'em."
"Jesus Christ." He looked around the empty station like someone might be listening. "You can't just—"
"Can't just what? Tell the truth?" She grinned. "Come on, officer. It's just dinner. I'll even pay."
His head snapped toward her so fast she thought he might've pulled something.
"No."
The word came out hard. Firm. And something in his voice shifted—something she hadn't heard before. Not the stammering, blushing boy she'd been teasing. Something older. Something with teeth.
Kymani's breath caught.
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean no." He stepped closer to the counter, and his eyes—those summer-sky blue eyes—locked onto hers and didn't let go. "No good man lets a beautiful woman pay for dinner."
The air went thick. Kymani felt her heart hammer against her ribs, and her mouth went dry, and for the first time since she'd walked through that door, she didn't have a single smart-ass thing to say.
"A beautiful woman, huh?" She got the words out somehow, even though her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
"You heard me." He was still looking at her. Still had that hard edge in his voice, the one she'd only gotten a taste of when he told her to drop her panties and she said no and he just looked at her until she did it anyway.
She felt her nipples harden against her tank top. Thank God she'd worn a bra.
"So what you're saying is," she said, slow, careful, "if a woman asks you out, you gotta pay."
"I'm saying if a man's got any self-respect, he takes care of it." He straightened up, and the corner of his mouth twitched again—but it wasn't a smile this time. It was something closer to a challenge. "You ask me out, I'm paying. That's how it works."
"Oh, so we're negotiating now?"
"Seems like it."
Kymani stared at him. Her heart was doing something stupid in her chest, and her palms were sweaty, and she wanted to climb over this counter and kiss him so bad it hurt.
But she didn't. She was better than that.
"Fine," she said, and she made sure her voice came out steady. "Friday. Seven o'clock. You pick the place. And you pay."
"Deal."
"Good." She pushed off the counter and turned toward the door. Then she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. "One more thing."
"What?"
"You gonna keep the casserole?"
He looked down at the dish like he'd forgotten it was there. "Yeah. I'll—yeah. I'll take it home."
"Good." She smiled, and this time it was real, not the smirk she usually wore like armor. "Tell Grandma Wendy you liked it. She'll wanna know."
"I will."
"And Ritchie?"
His eyes met hers. "Yeah?"
"Don't be late." She winked. "I got a feeling you're worth the wait."
She was out the door before he could answer, but she heard him exhale—a long, shaky breath that made her grin all the way to her car.
The parking lot was almost empty. Just her beat-up Honda and a couple of sheriff's department cruisers, and the sky was that washed-out gray that meant winter wasn't done yet. Kymani got in, cranked the engine, and sat there with her hands on the wheel while her heart slowly stopped trying to escape her chest.
"Girl, what is you doing?" she muttered to herself. "That man arrested your ass."
But she couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at her. Not like a criminal. Not like a problem to be solved. Like she was something worth looking at.
It had been a long time since anyone looked at her like that.
She pulled out of the lot and headed home, and the whole way there she kept replaying the conversation in her head. The way his voice had gone hard when he said no good man lets a beautiful woman pay. The way his eyes had gone dark and hungry, just for a second. The way he'd said her name like it meant something.
"Stupid," she told herself. "You're being stupid."
But she was smiling.
And she didn't stop smiling until she pulled into Grandma Wendy's driveway and saw the porch light on, and her grandmother standing in the doorway with a dish towel in her hands and a knowing look on her face.
"How'd it go?" Wendy asked.
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
Kymani climbed the porch steps and kissed her grandmother's cheek. "He said yes."
Wendy's smile was warm enough to melt the last of the snow. "I knew he would. That boy sounded sweet on the phone."
"Grandma, you talked to him for like two minutes."
"Two minutes is all I need." Wendy held the door open. "Come inside. I made cornbread."
Kymani walked into the warm house, and the smell of cornbread and something simmering on the stove wrapped around her like a blanket. She didn't deserve this. Any of it. Not the grandmother who loved her despite everything, not the second chance she'd been given, and definitely not the handsome young officer who'd looked at her like she was worth something.
But she wanted it anyway.
She wanted all of it.
And for the first time in a long time, she thought maybe—just maybe—she could have it.
Friday couldn't come fast enough.