She pauses, turning from the list on the fridge to face me with a challenging smirk. “You don’t know what I like, Mr. Grimes.”

Her warmth invites me in, daring me to step closer.

“I have a knack for knowing what people want,” I say, watching her carefully. “And I take pleasure in fulfilling their needs.”

She inhales sharply. “Oh, really?”

There’s a challenge in her voice, but something else, too. Curiosity.

She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “Alright, then. Humor me. What kind of flavors make me moan in delight?”

Damn, she knows exactly how to push my buttons. I hold her gaze, moving in just enough to let my chest brush against her breasts, sending a ripple of pressure between us. I know she feels it. She can definitely see it as I subtly tuck in my thick bulge after watching her eyes widen.

“Mr. Grimes,” Kerry whispers, almost a caution.

“Spice,” I murmur. “Nothing too overwhelming. Just enough to add a little excitement.”

My thumb grazes her bottom lip, and I feel the sharp inhale she tries to suppress.

“You like comfort foods,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “But with a little unexpected heat. Like honey butter cornbread—sweet, warm, but with just enough cayenne to make your lips tingle.”

Her lips part slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I love cornbread. And I’ve never had it with Cayenne, but I think I love that, too.”

I want to kiss her.

But, unfortunately, our connection is abruptly interrupted by Ms. Tina’s cheerful intrusion.

“Mr. Grimes!” The voice slices through the moment.

Both Kerry and I jump back, painfully peeling away from one another.

Ms. Tina, my head housekeeper, stands in the doorway, grinning. “Giving our new guest a tour, I see,” She says, clearly amused.

I take a deep breath and step back, feeling the need to reestablish boundaries after our unexpected flirtation. “I’m sorry, that was…unprofessional.” I admit, offering Kerry a brief, apologetic smile.

We shake hands to seal our mutual commitment to professionalism, though our interlocked fingers suggest otherwise.

With renewed focus, I lead her through my sprawling estate, pointing out the playroom adorned with colorful murals and puzzles scattered across the floor and the classroom filled with two desks, boards, and educational supplies.

Finally, we venture to the heart of my home, the family library. Her eyes widen with admiration as she peruses the shelves. Her hands brush against the spines of novels by iconic Black authors she seemingly adores—Toni Morrison, James Baldwin, Phyllis Wheatley, and W.E.B. Du Bois. Each name she whispers adds another layer to her that I’d love to peel back.

“You love to read, I take it?” I ask, though the answer is written all over her face.

Kerry nods. “Now, this is my type of playroom.” She responds, her voice tinged with awe.