As I stepped out of the car, adjusting my suit jacket, I ran through lines in my head.
I actually groaned out loud, raking a hand through my hair. Me. Richard Numero. The man who could charm investors into signing away their companies and make senators bend without lifting a finger—reduced to fumbling apologies on a stoop.
There was loud music coming from the living room—Kelly Rowland's Kisses Down Low blasting unapologetically through the speakers, the bass thrumming so hard it practically vibrated through the floorboards. I paused at the doorway, eyebrows raised. Interesting song choice. Very interesting. I let a slow grin tug at my lips. Nita didn't exactly strike me as the "sing-into-a-hairbrush" type. More like the "stab you with the hairbrush" type. The fact that this was her music of choice made me suddenly wonder what other surprises she kept hidden under that no-nonsense exterior.
I moved deeper into the house already knowing she was home alone. Her father was probably buried in work—man barely came up for air—and her mother had gone off with mine to torment wedding planners.
When I stepped into the kitchen, all my carefully rehearsed lines turned to smoke. The sight that greeted me…let's just say it wasn't one I'd prepared for. Nita stood there in hot denim shorts that looked one tug away from being illegal, paired with a tank top that clung in ways my imagination didn't need any help with. And there she was, holding a spatula like a microphone, head tipped back, absolutely belting into the imaginary crowd while her hips swayed to the beat. She shook her thing with zero shame, and for one glorious second, I forgot to breathe.
She didn't notice me right away—too caught up in her concert for one. My lips twitched, the corners of my mouth aching to laugh. Clearing my throat seemed the gentlemanly thing to do, though in hindsight, I should've just let myself enjoy the view until she noticed.
Her head whipped toward me. Eyes widened. And in that heartbeat, I saw the flash of horror pass over her face. She dropped the spatula into the sink, clattering against metal with a sharp clang. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, cheeks already tinged pink, clicking pause on her phone.
I leaned lazily against the doorway, folding my arms across my chest. "Enjoying the show," I drawled, letting my gaze linger far too long on her shorts just to rile her up. "Though I must say, front row tickets would've been nice."
She scoffed, exactly as I expected. She brushed past me on her way out of the kitchen, her steps brisk, her shoulder brushing mine but her whole body angled carefully away. "What do you want, Junior?"
There it was again. The damn nickname that scraped at my pride. The girl really didn't know how to listen. Didn't know—or maybe she just enjoyed pushing every single one of my buttons. "Would you please not call me that?" I snapped.
"What am I supposed to call you? Isn't that your name? Why do you suddenly want to chop my head off when I call you that?" Nita spun back around, crossing her arms and holding my gaze. Damn. The girl had spunk. The sight of her standing there—tiny shorts, tank top, chin tilted at a defiant angle—felt like the universe had dropped me into a private boxing ring where she was the reigning champion. And here I was, gloves off, already bleeding pride.
"It just…" How the hell was I supposed to explain this without sounding like an idiot? "I can't explain it. It's something I was called when I was younger, and—well—I just feel like it doesn't suit me anymore. My name is Richard. You can call me Richard." That should have been enough. But of course, it wasn't. Because the real reason sat like a stone in my chest: the way she said Junior was identical to how that girl I'd once crushed on used to call me. And every time Nita said it, it was like reopening an old wound. "Look," I added quickly, desperate to change the subject before she saw through me, "I came here to apologize."
Her eyebrows shot up so high they practically touched her hairline. "Somebody pinch me! Apologize? You?" Her laugh bubbled up, rich with disbelief. She even glanced around theatrically, as though waiting for lightning to strike.
I rolled my eyes, but the truth stung. "You're not making it easy though," I muttered, though my lips twitched against my will. It wasn't funny, but somehow her incredulity was. "I am capable of remorse, you know." I tried to sound indignant, but the protest lacked bite. The problem was, she already knew me too well. Knew my ego, my sharp tongue, my uncanny ability to bulldoze through life without looking back. And now, here I was, standing awkwardly in her house, trying to piece together an apology.
She chuckled and sauntered into the living room. With the casual grace that only Nita could pull off, she plopped onto the couch, curling her legs under her. "Go on, then. Apologize."
I followed, my heart tripping over itself. The whole scene felt domestic, intimate in a way that unsettled me. Sitting beside her, I suddenly became aware of the space between us—too wide, too small, depending on how badly I wanted to reach across it.
"I…" God, when had I ever struggled like this? I cleared my throat, staring at the floor for a second before forcing myself to meet her gaze. "I shouldn't have gotten you fired."
Her eyes widened, but I rushed ahead before she could interrupt. "But in my defence—" I lifted a finger—"you would need to quit sooner or later."
"That isn't an apology, that's justification."
"Nita, come on… I'm trying here," I said, throwing my hands up in surrender. "Okay, how about we make a deal."
Her brows shot up, amusement sparkling in her eyes as her lips curled into a mischievous grin. "You do seem to pull those out of your ass."