• Penelope •
“Who is it?” His voice carried from the kitchen. “
I didn’t answer. Not because I couldn’t, but because my brain was still buffering—trying to decide if it had actually loaded the scene in front of me correctly.
The woman on the porch just stared blankly at me, her n*****s still fighting to free themselves from her ridiculous outfit choices.
Had she by chance mistaken the house for Paris Fashion Week?
“Is Miguel home?” she asked again, her smile cutting straight through me—the kind of smile that politely tells you you’re irrelevant.
Before I could decide whether to shut the door or throw water at her, Miguel’s footsteps came down the hall.
When he appeared, now clothed but his hair was still damp from sweat—his whole demeanor shifted. It wasn't shock or anger. It was mo
