“Also, the skin is thinner, so there’s no need to peel it.” She wrapped her fist around the eggplant.

“Are you fucking with me?” Jamar asked, too keyed up to police his language.

Her brows dipped with her frown. “No. You can look it up. The thin skin makes it easier to cook with.”

“I’m not talking about cooking. I’m talking about you giving that eggplant a hand job in the middle of Whole Foods.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Shit, Taylor. I’m trying to be respectful here, but come on.”

She gaped at him in almost comical bewilderment, her eyes growing wide as her lips soundlessly parted.

Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Jamar affected a nonchalant shrug in an attempt to camouflage the awkwardness that suddenly hung over them like a thundercloud.

“I’m not the biggest fan of vegetables,” he said. “But when I see one being molested like that, I have to call it out.”

A laugh shot from her mouth. She quickly pressed her lips together, but her shoulders still shook.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was not my intention at all. I love vegetables. I would never knowingly violate them.”

“If you say so,” he returned. He flashed her a sly grin to make sure she knew he was joking. He was beyond relieved that he’d managed to defuse the weird tension he’d caused. “So, am I done picking out vegetables?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, I think we’re good here. Time to move to another section.” She tucked the basket’s handle in the crook of her elbow and gestured with her head for him to follow her. She looked back over her shoulder. “You get a B minus on veggies. Now let’s see how well you handle your meat.”

Jamar dropped his chin to his chest.

She was going to kill him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Taylor yanked on the bright purple metal door to Booze N’ Brush, the art studio housed in a converted warehouse on the city’s south side. Samiah had chosen it for this Friday’s girls’ night out. Taylor walked inside and spotted Samiah standing near the entrance.

“Hey, lady! Cute shoes,” Taylor greeted, pointing to her friend’s ballerina flats. They were bright red and covered with artful paint splotches.

“They go with tonight’s theme,” Samiah said, cocking her leg back like a 1950s pinup girl.

The door creaked open again, and London walked inside.

“So whose idea was it to come to this place?” she asked. Her bold yellow jumpsuit perfectly suited both London’s deep brown skin tone and her in-your-face personality. “We could have just had drinks and skipped the painting.”

“No!” Samiah and Taylor said in unison.

“Our mission is to find you a hobby, remember?” Samiah said. “Don’t knock it till you try it. You may discover a hidden talent.”