Page 143 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“So, what have you got going on tonight?” he asks, his South African accent rolling out warm and bubbly.
I perk up, but not at him—at the thought of my actual plans. “Just taking down my hair, washing it, watching old episodes ofScandal.” It doesn’t escape me that I sound more excited about Shonda Rhimes reruns than about this man on the other end of the line.
He laughs. “Ah, the old ritual of Black women taking their hair down. You want some company? I can help—I’ve done it plenty of times for my mom and sisters.”
My heart stops. Company? In my apartment? With my hair half out and looking like a baby porcupine? Oh, no.
“That’s sweet,” I start carefully, trying to find the polite exit ramp, “but I prefer to take my hair down by myself. I’m paranoidabout someone cutting too high on the braid and snipping my hair.”
“I get it,” he says quickly, no offense taken.
“Will I see you tomorrow at the gala?”
I told him I’d be too busy working the room with Tatum to bring a plus one, and he bought it. A small part of me doesn’t want Grant to see me with him and I hate how guilty it makes me feel—Darren’s nice. Like…toonice.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. That’s why I’m taking my hair down. Marlow’s got a stylist coming to get us all glammed up.”
“Nice!” he says, cheerful as ever. “Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to say hello. And, hey, save a dance for me tomorrow, will you?”
I know…I’m the villain in this man’s story.
“Thanks, Coach…Darren. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I hang up, stare at the phone for a long beat, and sigh. Time to end this before he wastes his tenderness on a woman whose heart is already tangled up in someone else.
Just as the microwave goes off, signaling that my popcorn is ready, all the power in my apartment goes out.
It’s pitch black. My heart lurches, a hot rush of panic flooding my chest. I fumble for my phone, swiping up the flashlight. The beam is small, weak, but it’s enough to cut through the darkness.
I sweep it around the apartment, looking for…something. A fuse box? A switch? Do apartments like this even have one? I don’t know. I’ve lived here a while and never bothered to find out. I call Marlow, hoping she might know, but it goes straight to voicemail. She’s probably at Declan’s, tangled up in tattoos and trouble.
The beam of my flashlight shakes as I make my way to the door. I pull it open, glance down the hall. Every single light is on. The hum of electricity is steady. So it’s just me. Just my apartment.
Perfect.
I don’t want to do it. I shouldn’t do it. But I do it anyway. My thumb hovers over his name for less than a second before I press call.
He answers on the first ring. “Is everything ok?” His voice is rough, alert, and that makes me believe he’d come running no matter the reason.
Relief softens me. “Yes. No. My lights are out in my apartment. Can you come over to help me find the fuse box before I call an electrician?”
“Be right there.”
The line clicks dead, and my pulse jumps.
A few minutes later, there’s a knock at my door. And that’s when I realize I’ve already started taking out my braids. Which means my hair is half-done, sticking out in uneven tufts, looking like a damn brillo pad. Grant Mills is about to see me at my most… unvarnished. With a damn nappy head.
But when I open the door, he doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t mention my hair. Just strides in with a flashlight like he owns the place, heads straight for the closet in my bedroom, flips a couple of switches and—voila. Thelights blaze back on.
“Oh my goodness, you are a life saver!” I exhale, clutching my chest. “I thought I was going to have to take my hair down in the dark!”
His brow furrows. “Take your hair down? Like… your braids out?”
I giggle, suddenly shy. “Yes.”
His gaze lingers, curious. “I’ve always wondered how you got those in. And how you take them out.”
That’s when he notices. The popcorn on the counter. The wine bottle, already open. His eyes flick back to me. Tentative. Almost shy.
