The heat from the stage lights turned cold on my skin.
Behind her, Keith’s smirk stretched wider. Crabapple Shippings CEO — Jamal Ricks, if memory serves — crossed his arms, satisfaction flickering across his face like he’d been waiting years for this. He had. He’d been trying to hitch his name to mine since we were both shipping products from studio apartments.
Before I could open my mouth, before the words absolutely not or next question could form, Ahmir stepped forward. The man from my kitchen — the one who held my sons at the grill and wiped barbecue sauce from my wrist with his thumb — disappeared. Mr. Wolfe stepped into the lights. His entire energy shifted, still, controlled, predatory. Eyes gone flat, jaw locked. The air itself seemed to straighten its posture.
He didn’t look a
