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Never Been One for Wine and Roses

08. Grilled Like a Flounder, Part One

Summary: Ororo’s THAT close to settling Emma’s hash when she tries to cash in on her prize, Ororo and Logan trade hang-ups, and it’s time to meet the parents. Not necessarily in that order.

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, it’s kept this story going when I thought I had run out of ideas. This is dedicated to all of my friends in my Yahoo groups that so frequently make me grin. Additional note: “Huhr” is how some folks pronounce “hair” when they’re joking around, we do that in my family, some of you might, too, who knows. In case you were wondering. Read on.

“That’s not enough. You always come out of here with two bags, you know Monica’s just gonna send your ass back in here for a third bag,” Kenyatta nagged, hands on her hips for about the umpteenth time that day.

“I’m not gonna have her do anything over the top like last time.”

“That’s what you said the last time, boo. I didn’t believe you then, and I don’t believe it now. Get you a third bag!” Ororo twisted her mouth into what Kenyatta had been calling her “Donald Duck mouth” since they were in junior high, shooting her a look that made Kenyatta double over snorting, pointing, and stomping her feet. “Girl, you a mess! You kill me when you do that!”

“Mmph. Up here fussin’ at me t’buy all this ‘huhr,’ I know how much ‘huhr’ I need, who you tellin’?” Ororo kept muttering as she pulled another plastic sleeve of 100% kanekalon synthetic hair in Silver White from the rack and marched her way over to the sales counter. *

“She said ‘HURRRHHH!” Ororo shot her another of her patented looks over her shoulder, sending Kenyatta into further snorts and giggles. She finally wiped her eyes and fanned herself.

“Hoooooo…better get you a doo rag and tie that mess up. You’re paying enough for it.” Kenyatta plucked one from a nearby display and tossed it into the small pile of goods that Ororo had collected. Ororo set down the bottle of braid oil and pondered some cheap barrettes before shaking her head.

“You mean you’re paying for it. You promised.”

“You know I’m good for it, ‘ho!”

“That’s ‘Ro to you, ‘ho.” The petite Korean woman rang up their purchases, cheerfully laying Ororo’s change on the counter and wishing them a nice afternoon, offering her assurances that Ororo’s hair was going to be pretty when she had it done. The two cousins bickered like Heckle and Jeckle the entire way down the block. Ororo stopped to buy each of them a blended mocha from Starbucks and added a shot of Torani Butter Pecan to hers. She used her straw to spoon up the whipped cream on their way into Monica’s boutique, and the smell of perming and waving solutions hit them in the face as they opened the door.

“We’re late,” Ororo observed, checking the clock. “See what nagging me does?”

“You know you needed more hair,” Kenyatta tsked, cutting her eyes on a neck roll. She sipped her mocha and sat herself down in one of the cool black leather chairs in the lobby. “Go ahead and sign us in. You know we always end up waiting anyway. Mrs. Jenkins is up there getting her finger waves redone, you know Monica’s gonna be a while.” She helped herself to a copy of Black Hair Trends magazine and shook her head at the photo of Whitney Houston on the cover. “How old is this thing, anyway?”

“Uh-uh-‘um.” Ororo answered around her straw and shrugged as she signed them in.

“Ororo, I know you haven’t been greasing those ends, they look dry and split from all the way over here!” Monica Rambeau called from her stylist chair. She held up her tiny hand mirror to the middle-aged woman with flamboyantly auburn hair done in painstaking rows of finger waves. “Tell me if it looks okay, Mrs. J.” The old women admired it from different angles and patted it with satisfaction before placing a large tip in Monica’s jar.

“You sound like my aunt Ruthie and my momma combined,” Ororo pouted, Donald Duck mouth back in place.

“Then grease those ends!” Kenyatta chuckled from behind her magazine.

“I wouldn’t be up there acting all smug hiding behind that book, Kenya, I see you coming in here two months after your last touch-up, you can’t tell me you don’t have some nappy new growth that needs my attention!” Misty Knight pointed at her with her rat-tail comb. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ t’you!”

“I love you, Misty!” Kenyatta hedged.

“Don’t try t’butter me up! I’m gonna snatch out those naps, just you wait!” She tossed her hair clips into the sterilizer. “And I love you too, girl. Say hi to Ruthie for me, I miss her something fierce. She tore up that ambrosia at the church picnic last weekend, and we didn’t get to talk.” Ororo and Kenyatta muttered at each other and compared magazines for the next few minutes, crowing “There’s your NEXT hairstyle!” over some of the uglier ones. Monica called Ororo over to her seat and patted it.

“Next victim!” She eyed the bag of hair supplies and mumbled “All right, give it up,” extending her hand face up and waggling her dagger-manicured fingers for Ororo to pass it over. She took it and peered inside. “Halleleujah! Three bags of hair, oh, my God, someone alert the media! ‘Ro got me enough hair on the first go!”

“See! SEE!” Ororo was brandishing her fist at Kenyatta pointing her finger from her perch in Misty’s chair. Misty snapped the drape sharply, fanning it out and wrapping it around Kenyatta, placing her purse on her counter. Kenyatta puckered her lips at Ororo, making kissy noises. “You love me!”

“Yeah, I love ya. Now shut yer yap, let me get my hair done for my man,” Ororo snapped, then clapped her mouth shut. She’d done it now…

“Your MAN? Lay it on me, when did you get ya seff a man?!?” Monica draped Ororo and fastened the neck strip in place, running her fingers through Ororo’s wavy locks. “Is he keeping you handcuffed? And is that why you haven’t had the chance to grease this mess?” Ororo chuckled.

“Why do I take this abuse?” she muttered.

“Cuz I make this look GOOD,” Monica intoned, doing her best Will Smith impersonation from Men in Black. “And it will, once I trim up these ends real fast.”

“Here that, Kenya, you’re paying for my trim, too,” Ororo warned gleefully. “Hot dog!”

“I’m almost done paying you back!”

“Today’ll just about make you break even.”

“Right. Back to what I was saying a minute ago, what about this man of yours?” Monica led Ororo to the shampoo sink. “Is he fine?” (foooiiiinnn?)

“Honey, hush. Yes. Yes. Yes.” Words were failing her, but Monica wanted her to dish.

“Where’d you meet him?”

“He fixed her car,” Kenyatta filled in, since Misty was listening in as she washed her hair and slathered on a generous handful of conditioner.

“Hot dog! Good with tools! What else?” Monica’s hands scrubbed Ororo’s scalp and aimed the sprayer at the foaming suds, brushing it away from her eyes.

“His family lives twenty minutes out of town. His daddy, anyway. He went to that ball I had to help put together for work last month,” she qualified. Monica nodded as though a light went on.

“You mean the one that you slaved away on all by your lonesome,” Kenyatta corrected her, craning her head up from the edge of the sink. “Don’t sugarcoat it. That director at your job is a heifer.”

“Don’t announce it to the whole world,” Ororo muttered. Monica grinned down at her as she massaged in the conditioner.

“Is he nice? Does he treat you right?”

“Mmmmmmm-hmmmmm,” Ororo sighed, enjoying the pampering and the exchange of gossip.

“What’s he look like?”

“Compact.”

“She means short,” Kenyatta bellowed over the rush of flowing water.

“Shit, everyone’s shorter than you, girl,” Monica assured her, leaning Ororo up to pat her hair dry and wrap the still-dripping mass in a towel. She led her by her bundled hair to a hair dryer station against the wall and automatically handed her a copy of People.

“He’s built,” Ororo added. “Lotsa muscles. Real broad in the chest. Thighs like a pair of drumsticks, and a stomach you could bounce a quarter off of.”

“How’s the booty?” Monica cut to the chase.

“Bounce a quarter off that, too,” Ororo winked. Monica held her hand up for a high five, and Ororo leaned out from the dryer to give it to her.

“What else?” Misty was enjoying herself as she wrapped the cap over Kenyatta’s hair and lowered her dryer head.

“He’s got a little cleft in his chin, it’s damn cute. He’s cute. Good old fashioned thick hair, I think he’s got some Italian in him…” Ororo loved his hair.

“Hold up…Italian?” Monica’s brows shot up and her mouth dropped open.

“Maybe even some Native American,” Ororo mused, oblivious to Monica’s surprise. “I think he said his parents were Canadian?”

“Sooooo…is he a brother, or…?”

“Uh-uh,” Ororo snapped back to the chat at hand. “He’s White.”

“Hunh.” The dryer whirred as Monica turned back to her counter and arranged her hair clips and combs.

“You got awfully quiet, girl,” Ororo pointed out.

“Naw. No. No big deal.” Monica recovered herself. “Has your momma met him yet?”

Ororo let her magazine fall shut on her lap. “Nope.”

“Ahhhh.”

“Don’t act like she ain’t gonna flip, either, cuz. You know how she feels about her baby girl finding a ‘good, solid, strong Black man’ with marriage on his mind.”

“I know how Auntie Ruth feels about YOU finding one, too. Let’s not forget that!” Misty smirked as she began parting Kenyatta’s dried hair into sections.

“I’ve got me a brother,” Kenyatta argued, shooting her best ‘fuck off’ look across the room.

“You left out the ‘solid, strong, and marriage-minded’ part.”

“Your cousin’s got a point,” Misty chimed in.

“I know I’m on the other end of the comb right now, Misty, but I swear, don’t MAKE me snatch you baldheaded!” Kenyatta pouted. “Leon loves me.”

“He also loves your car, your mobile phone, your housekeys, your refrigerator, and your cable with 250 channels that he hasn’t helped you pay once in the two years you’ve been going out. Need I say more?”

“No!” Kenyatta settled into a snit. “You needn’t,” she muttered. Ororo sighed, rubbing the bridge of her hose.

“Sorry, girl.”

“S’okay.” Kenyatta submitted to Misty’s narrow brush as she dipped it into the relaxer crème and painted the hair above her temples, taking care around her ears. The edges of her cheeks glistened with a protective coat of Vaseline in the sunshine flooding the shop. Ororo tipped her head forward and looked up through her lashes, watching reruns of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air at an awkward angle. She let out an explosive cackle.

“I love Carlton in this episode,” Ororo giggled. She watched Alfonso Ribiero dancing similar to Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club with his sweater looped around his neck.

“Me, too,” Monica chuckled, wrapping a lock of the synthetic hair around Ororo’s own to cover and stabilize it as she began the first row of braids. Monica’s fingers flew like lightning through each section, turning them into needle-precise braids. Ororo bit the inside of her bottom lip against the sting, knowing that sleeping on it that night was gonna ache like a bitch. But it was worth it. She was getting the works.

She couldn’t wait to see Logan’s face.

“So he’s not Black,” Monica said reviewing the juicy tidbit.

“Nope.”

“But he’s nice, good-looking, treats you well, and acts like he’s in it for the long haul?” Monica’s voice was hopeful as she kept fishing.

“Well…it’s that last part I’m still working on.”

“A-HA!” Kenyatta pounced.

“I’m WORKING ON IT,” Ororo snarled. “Hmmph.”

“What’s his deal?” Monica began to sweat from the heat of the tiny shop as other stylists flipped on the dryers for their clients faint curls of steam rose up from flattening irons heating in their ceramic hearths.

“I don’t know. Still trying to figure that one out,” she admitted. And she was.

Ororo contemplated the past few weeks as Monica parted off the next row of hair in a tidy layer. Up until that day she picked up her car, Ororo could confidently tell anyone that her daily routine included most of the following:

Waking up.
Going to work. Solving problems.
Calling her mother. Solving problems.
Visiting the shelters. Solving problems.
Eating lunch at her desk.
Getting coffee with Anna.
Going home.
Doing a load of laundry to replenish her supply of clean panties.
Swallowing some dinner.
Watching Jeopardy. Winning an imaginary million dollars.
Saying her prayers.
Going to bed. Alone.

That routine never varied until he’s leaned inside her window and said “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before, Ororo.” Then she began to think about him on the way to the printer, the break room microwave, and the coffee maker. Those liquid brown eyes crinkled at her when she was in the middle of a memo, and she’d drift off in the middle of conferences with Scott over the quarterly budgets, urging him to ask “What is WITH you today?” Scott didn’t have much of a margin to poke fun anymore. Jean from Inner Circle had been showing up in the Alternatives front lobby more often, and Scott could be heard muttering to anyone standing randomly by the water cooler, “She’s hot. I’m in Accounting. She likes ME. Did I mention she’s HOT?” Ororo enjoyed the way that the shoe fit once it moved to the other foot: Scott was whipped. “That’s just pitiful,” she tsked as she poured them both coffee one morning.

“Hopeless,” he grinned, toasting her.

Logan, Logan, Logan. Where could she begin?

The flowers were the tip of the iceberg. It wasn’t like he showered her with them, although every now and again he would bring some for her table. It was just…he just thought about those little things that amounted to a lot. When he came over that first night for dinner, she felt his hello kiss all the way to her soul. YES! her soul cried, You’re home! Instead of more flowers, he brought over a jug of raspberry lemonade to go with dinner and a DVD that they watched after Jeopardy was over. Ororo cuddled up to him under her quilt on the couch as they took Renaissance Painters for $200, Alex.

Logan loaded the dishes into the washer as Ororo rinsed them and put away the food. Logan got a better look at her bedroom this time. A photo of her father as a young man, holding a preschool-aged Ororo on his lap took the place of honor on her nightstand. He was still staring at it when Ororo beckoned to him, “Coming to bed?” He answered her with a mute nod as she began helping him out of his clothes. Logan loomed over her in the dark, murmuring into her hair, “I can’t stop thinking about you, ‘Ro.” The day’s worries and any doubts that she had about whether they had a ‘relationship’ instead of a ‘fling’ evaporated under his touch. Ororo lay wrapped snugly in his arms and hoped she wouldn’t have to wake up from this fantastic dream.

Like all dreams, though, the landscape sometimes shifted and blurred, and the direction changed before you could tell it to stop. Logan was still attentive, and they had a good time together, but every now and again, he got that funny little pensive look that something was bothering him, and Ororo felt that familiar chill of “not wanting to pry.” That feeling was always the advent of something she’d rather not want to know.

What she did know, and what frightened her, scared the pants off of her, was that she loved him. Her mother had looked at her funny when she was watering the begonias and planting the fall iris hybrid iris bulbs on the side of the house as Ororo stood there with a thunderstruck look on her face.

“What’s the matter, baby? You getting too much sun?” Her mother reached over and fanned some cool air on her cheeks with her gloves.

“Uh-uh. M’fine, Momma.” The hose was limp in her hand as she ran a hand over her eyes, her heart and thoughts racing a mile a minute. I love him. Damn, I love Logan.

That revelation still echoed in her heads as Monica’s fingers tugged on her hair and tipped her head back an inch or two. “I love him,” she muttered out loud.

“That was my first guess as soon as you started talking about him, baby girl.” Monica reached for the remote and turned up the volume on the set as Misty flipped through a nearby rack of DVDs to plug into the console, grinning as she pulled out Tyler Perry’s “I Can Do Bad All By Myself.” Monica stared at Ororo in the mirror over the vanity. “And all I have to say is, it’s about time. This isn’t you pouring out everything about what’s wrong with your relationship for a change and reminding me why men are dogs.”

“Woof, woof,” Kenyatta interjected. She and Misty tapped knuckles in a salute.

“This,” Monica emphasized, “is my homegirl glowing and looking like ya won the lottery. ‘Course, you’ll be looking like a million bucks when I’m done, too! All I can say is, go get that man.”

“Amen,” Misty hooted from across the way as she ran the raked the rat-tail comb through Kenyatta’s roots.

“Your momma will come around. Once she meets him, she’ll come around.”

Shit. Once she meets him…?

“Thanksgiving’s comin’ up, cuz. Man, I can’t wait t’see what happens then!” She cackled at the screen, and Ororo chewed her lip.


Three hours later:

Logan and Nate were in the middle of hammering out the dent in the fender of a classic Camaro before they could add a coat of primer to it for its new paint job when Logan heard the sound of the entry chime on his outside door.

“Wanna get that?” Nate asked him, wiping the sweat from his forehead onto his filthy sleeve.

“Might as well.” Logan strode into the shop and peered around the aisles, looking for whoever had…oh, shit.

The buxom blonde with the man-eating smile was back, right here on his front doorstep. She beamed her pearly whites at him as she turned away from the rack of novelty key chains on his counter with disinterest. “Small world. Good afternoon, James.”

“Hi.” Logan reached for a small plastic tub of pop-up wet naps and yanked out a few, wiping off his hands before chucking the rags into an upright trash can. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“It’s Emma,” she reminded him. She licked her lips, glossed in pale pink lipstick, and eyed him thoughtfully. Logan could almost see the wheels turning in her head what he could do for her. “And I wanted to stop by and cash in my prize. I’m dropping off my car to be…serviced.” Her eyes roved over him, pausing on the tempting sprinkle of dark hairs peeking above his undershirt. Shamelessly her index finger traced the embroidered name patch on his uniform. “Logan,” she breathed. “I thought your name was James.” Her tone was mildly accusing.

“It is. Some folks call me Logan,” he clarified easily, but her touch against his chest, even clothed, burned him. Chafing. Uncomfortable.

“It’s…charming,” she assured him, even though he didn’t give a damn. Emma reached into her Donna Karan purse, genuine unlike Kenyatta’s favorite knock-off, and handed him the voucher for the promised tune-up. “My car’s out back.”

“That’s fine.” He took it, noticing she held onto the slip a little too long. Her smiled widened a moment, her eyes flashing a silent “Oops.” That expression was replaced by one of shock – he thought it could be called that – as Emma dropped a tube of lipstick that protruded precariously from a pocket in her bag.

“Goodness, look at me, dropping things…let me just get that.” In a move that Logan had only seen in a strip bar, her knees bent smoothly as she stooped, nearly skimming his pants leg on the way down as she plucked the cosmetic cylinder off the speckled tile floor. Her creamy, swelling cleavage was in plain view from the prim, slightly sheer white blouse due to the top two buttons of it being undone. Logan raised his brow and averted his eyes. Behind him, Nate stepped out of the garage and cleared his throat, couching an impressed “Holy shit” in a fake cough into his hand.

Ororo picked precisely that moment to come strolling into the shop, bringing the fall breeze inside with her. All she saw was Emma’s ass rolling its way back up like a cobra’s head rising from a jar, Logan’s look of embarrassment, and Nate getting an eyeful from behind him. The breeze stirred Emma’s fine blonde hair as she stood back up, blowing it out, and she tucked it artfully back behind her ear.

Oh no, you didn’t!

Nate saw Ororo first. “Logan?”

“Eh?”

“Look.” Nate’s hand tapped his shoulder firmly, and Logan peered around Emma for a better view at who was at his front door. Emma’s gaze followed his as she turned around, treating Nate to a decent view of the other side. Logan and Emma missed his appreciative grin. Logan stepped around Emma and approached Ororo with nearly stumbling feet.

“Are you busy?” Ororo’s eyes were icy, her expression unreadable. “Am I interrupting you from anything?”

“Not a damn thing, darlin’,” he replied, sweeping his eyes over her from head to toe. “But if you wanna try, I’m fine with it.” His hand drifted up of its own accord to her braids, sifting them through his fingers. Amber and garnet red beads winked up at him and twinkled in the sunlight. The top layer of braids was woven in an intricate, eye-catching pattern of angles that reminded him of the border of a Grecian urn. The braids were swept back from her face and clipped up at the crown with a simple teakwood barrette. Ororo’s dress was a simple halter-necked, gradient blend shift with an A-line hem that reached just above the knee, the vibrant shade of brick red giving way to a soft camel beige. Logan’s mouth was still dry as he struggled for words, but Emma relieved him of the need. His callused fingertips lightly grazed her cheek as he examined her hair. A curl of the tension at seeing Emma displaying herself like that uncoiled itself as she read the desire in his face.

For her.

“He was just going to fix my car,” Emma pointed out. “He’ll be occupied for a while.”

“Actually, Nate was gonna fix yer car,” Logan tossed back, never taking his eyes off of Ororo. “That voucher’s good for services rendered in this shop.”

“There’s nothing on it saying the owner’s gotta do the repair,” Nate deadpanned. “Logan, I don’t recall that you’ve taken a lunch yet.”

Screw that. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he announced.

“I was just stopping by,” Ororo reasoned, but she felt a small twinge of satisfaction at the petulant tilt of Emma’s mouth. She almost detected some envy there, as well, if she wasn’t mistaken…life was good.

“And yer takin’ me with ya.” Throwing his usual reserve to the wind, Logan cupped the back of her neck and tilted her face toward his, kissing her hungrily, not letting her up for air until she responded with a strangled little moan. Her hand was shaking as she released the collar of his coveralls.

“Okay.” Any hint of argument dissolved, and no one missed the blissed-out look on her face as her eyes followed him back to his desk. He collected a few items from his desk drawer and locked it up before meeting Ororo at the door, snaking his arm around her waist.

“Just leave yer keys with Nate, he’ll call ya a cab,” Logan tossed back.

“Er…bye, Emma,” Ororo waved weakly, still enjoying the lingering feel of his lips. Emma’s narrowed eyes and exasperated huff followed her out the door.

Ororo managed to walk across the lot to where her car was parked, impressed at how quickly Logan managed to drag her there in spite of the disparity between their sizes. “Take it easy,” she laughed. “Someone’ll think you’re kidnapping me.”

“Who says I ain’t?” The wind rushed out of her lungs as he backed her against the door of her Impala and closed in on her mouth, crushing her to him for a thorough ravishing. “Do you have any idea how good you look, ‘Ro?” he growled against her throat, leaving a path of fire along her jaw as he nibbled her. “God, I wanna eat you up!”

Bon appetite! Ororo’s tiny cry was ragged and full of yearning as her lips found his again. “Do you like it?” she asked, even though she didn’t’ have to.

“Mmmmmph. Mmmmmm. Mmmmmmm.” That answered that question. She felt a tiny slick of dampness between her legs as he nudged himself between them, and that was when Ororo heard the catcalls coming from the garage next door.

“Logan…we’re outside. Broad daylight.” The breeze tickled her legs, and cars whizzed past on the busy street. His mouth was like molten honey. She didn’t heed her own warning, since her hands were groping him and clinging to him for dear life.

“My place.” Problem solved. “You off?”

“Yup.” Ororo had so much unused time off in her vacation bank she could plan a world tour.

“Then for the next twenty-four hours, yer mine!” Something greedy inside her wanted to ask for a lifetime.

Logan nearly cut off two people at two different intersections on the way home, but he didn’t care. Heather and Mac Hudson were just pulling into their driveway as Logan hit the parking brake, and their daughter waved to him, giving him her best gap-toothed grin. He slammed his car door shut and jiggled the key to his front door to the locks.

“Hi, Mistew How-ette!”

“Hey, punkin’, how’s tricks?”

“I kin ride my bike wi’ out da twaining wheels,” she bragged, grasping her hands behind her back and swinging her body from side to side. Heather grinned at him.

“Alert the media,” she chuckled. Logan grinned back.

“Mistew How-ette?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna bwing home some widdew goo-els fo’ me ta pway wif?” Mac and Heather were a one-income family and were taking their time on planning additions to their little family.

“I don’t think he has any little girls tucked into his pocket today, Sara,” Mac suggested, cocking an eyebrow at Logan as if to say “Sorry, buddy, can’t blame her for asking.”

“Nope,” Logan agreed solemnly, tweaking her nose to make her giggle. “But…what’s that in your ear?” He reached behind it and pulled out a quarter. Sara squealed in delight and clapped her hands.

“What do we say, Sara?” Heather coached.

“Thank yewwwww!” Pudgy little hands clasped his face, tugging him closer for a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Before Logan could tell her she was welcome, he heard the engine of Ororo’s car parking across the street.

“Who’s THAT?” Mac asked as the striking woman got out of her red car.

“A big girl for me to play with,” Logan winked. Heather shooed Sara inside after a hasty introduction was made, and Mac winked back at Logan before he closed his front door shut behind him.

“You didn’t…get to see…the whole…mmph…place the last time ya were here (smooch),” he mumbled over her lips. Ororo kicked off her sandals, letting them land with a thump on the hardwood floor as her fingers worked on the snaps laddering up his coveralls, unfastening them with unusual speed.

“MMmmmm. (smooch) Nope.”

“I’m dirty,” he pointed out, and groaned as his earlobe was caught between her teeth.

“Mm-hmm. Especially these, gotta do something about that, oh, here we go.” She shoved the sleeves down his arms and let them fall to a heap around his ankles, leaving him in his undershirt and boxers.

“That works. (kiss)”

“Uh-huh. Mmmmmm.” She tugged the hem of his undershirt over his head before he broke away long enough to drag her upstairs by the hand.

The thought occurred to him as he ran water in the tub, testing the temperature. “Can you get those wet?” He nodded to her braids, still flummoxed at how good she looked.

“Not today.”

“We’ll have to work around that. It’ll be easier, though, once we get you out of this sweet little get-up first.” He untied the sash around her neck and let it drop soundlessly to the floor. Thankfully she had already kicked it several feet away from the tub before they descended into the bathtub brimming full of bubbles, or it would have ended up drenched. She straddled his lap and scrubbed him, drawing lazy circles over his flesh with the bar of soap. If memory served, and if that look in his eye was any indication, this was about the time for him to say –

“I think ya missed a spot.” Beneath the warm water, his fingers probed her, stoking her to a fever pitch, and she moaned, biting his lip. Logan yanked the chain on the plug with his toes – now there’s a talent, Ororo observed – and stood, pulling her to her feet. Soapy water sluiced off of them, and her flesh was slippery beneath his touch as they stepped down carefully from the tub and made their way to his room. She fell backward onto the bed, taking him with her. Logan’s eyes were ablaze with his hunger for her.

“No phone tag. No meetings. No one telling me yer out of the office,” he groaned, enveloping her. She squirmed and rubbed against him, wanting him inside. Wanting him that badly was torture. Sweet, exquisite torture. “Yer all mine.”

“Logan…” His jaw was cradled in her palms as she stared deeply into his eyes, feathering her thumb along the corner of his mouth. He nibbled it and nodded.

“Mine,” he emphasized, claiming her mouth, and Ororo edged that much closer to the brink. He took her with such sweet intensity that it brought tears to her eyes.

His. He said I’m his… “Logan!”

“That’s it,” he encouraged, stroking her. Filling her. Bringing her to completion.

“Logan…”

“C’mon, darlin’,” he urged, drawing closer to his own fulfillment. He didn’t know what he was asking…did he?

“Love you.” The sensations spiraled in her womb. Her lips betrayed her, and she tried to bite back the damning words. “Love. You. Love you. Love you.” The words tumbled out with every thrust, which Logan couldn’t stop if his life depended on it. He was too far gone, she was squeezing him and holding him, offering everything that he wanted. Their eyes met for one fierce second…

“Ro…?”

“Love you,” she whispered, and his eyes dilated with the enormity of it, but he didn’t pause, never indicating that he’d absorbed her intent.

“Mine,” he repeated, and he picked up the pace, shoving them both over the precipice. He buried his face in her shoulder and bit it, holding back the last piece of himself that she craved. They lay together in a jumbled daze as Ororo stroked his back. His cheek rubbed absently against her soft breast as he fingered the errant cornrows, twiddling it and admiring its texture. Logan only looked up when he felt her hand leave his back to reach up, causing her torso to shift beneath him, and his eyes traveled to her face. He frowned when he noticed the remnant of a tear streak on her face that she’d wiped away. He cleaned the salty trail with his lips, kissing the corner of her eye. She shut her eyes against the sight of his concern until he pleaded with her.

“Don’t. Look at me.” She shook her head, and he kissed her eyelids tenderly. “Please, ‘Ro. Look at me.” She sighed at the stroke of his fingers against her cheeks. Finally she obeyed and met his gaze.

“I want you.” A kiss caressed her cheek. “I can’t get enough of you.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “And it scares me how much you’ve gotten under my skin.”

“Scares you, huh?” Another tear trickled out from the corner of her other eye, and Logan gently brushed it away. He studied her face, still amazed at the change the braids made to her face, heightening her beauty. He felt something in her withdrawing from him, even as her eyes held him, questioning him.

“More than you know,” he admitted. A butterfly kiss landed on the tip of her nose. “I tell myself sometimes that I’ve gotta be crazy. I don’t normally ask out any woman after fixing her alternator, or otherwise, I’d be dead broke. And tired.” Her lips twitched, but she remained quiet. “And I don’t normally kiss on the first date like that, where I don’t give a damn about coming up for air when a woman tastes as good as you do, or feels as right as you do. You have a way of making me do things that don’t make sense at first, but I’m starting to enjoy that. A lot.” His tongue lapped at her lip, urging her to open for him. She sighed into his kiss, and Logan knew he was making himself understood as she arched up, pressing her softness against him, making him hard again. “To give myself the benefit of the doubt, I don’t think I’m crazy, not yet. To give you the benefit of the doubt, darlin’, I was already half in love with you when you whacked your head against the wall and gave me a great view of your sweet little tail. I’ve grown pretty attached to it.” She grinned at him, even though her eyes were swimming.

“Listen to you,” she chided him, nipping his chin.

“That’s what I’m trying ta say. Listen to me. Or just let me show you. I love you, Ororo Munroe.” She fought for her composure, but just let it go when he kissed her again. “I love you, darlin’, so much. Things happened pretty fast, but I’m not gonna drag my feet to try to stop it. Doesn’t mean I haven't been hurt before,” he cautioned her.

She nodded emphatically. “I know about hurt. And I didn’t just want to throw all this at you out of the blue, but I couldn’t…”

“Couldn’t help it,” he finished for her. “Neither can I. Which brings us back to what I mentioned a second ago.” She whimpered at the feel of his teeth grazing her pulse. “Showing you that I’m not just full of hot air. I love you.”

“I love you.”

“Good. Then promise me something.” His hands plucked at her and kneaded her, and she would have promised him anything at that point.

“What, sweetie?”

“That you’ll come to dinner at my dad’s house for Thanksgiving?”


A week later:

“You must be outta yer mind, cuz.” Kenyatta flipped up her ends with her big gold curling iron as she met Ororo’s reflection in the mirror. “The same holiday you’re gonna meet his family, you’re bringing him to meet your momma? How are you gonna be in two places at the same time, let alone drop the bombshell that he’s not Black?”

“Who’s dropping a bomb? He’s walking in through the front door, as easy as you please,” Ororo flounced, folding her arms over her chest.

“’Kay,” Kenyatta muttered, clicking off the wand and reaching for her lipstick. “Now, the real question is, are his folks gonna be answering the door expecting apple pie but ending up with sweet potato? Has he told them about YOU?”

Ororo opened her mouth, then shut it again.

“Well, there ya go!”

“Hmmph.” Ororo muttered all the way back to her kitchen, “Sweet potato. Hmmph. Who’s she tellin’?”

Kenyatta followed her out. “Can Leon and I get a ride with you when you head out to Auntie’s for dinner?”

“Only if you behave,” Ororo cut her eyes at her, one more time out of many. “No short jokes. No making him feel uncomfortable like you’ve never met a White man in person before. No eye-rolling, wisecracks, or whispering shit behind my back, a’ight?”

“I got yer back.”

“Leon, too.”

“Are you kidding? Leon’ll be grateful he’s not the one getting grilled like a flounder this year.”