In His Arms. Yasmin Sullivan Y.

back. I’m lost without it, and I didn’t want to miss our first class, so I’m learning even more about the Metro.”

      “And you already know that pretty well.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “I take it you haven’t been in D.C. long. Did you come for school? How long have you been here?”

      “You know,” she said, “you don’t have to make small talk. I’d appreciate the ride home regardless.”

      “I want to know. You seem very nice, and it’s good to know someone in our class—just in case I need to get a homework assignment or something.”

      That wasn’t all that Rashad was thinking, but it was all that he could say without the risk of offending her. He couldn’t let on that he was taken with her smile and her laughter and... What was he doing? The woman was married.

      Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her peering at him, trying to determine whether he was actually interested or just chatting.

      “Okay,” she finally said. “I’ve been in the D.C. area for two years.”

      The laughter started low in Rashad’s throat and bubbled up to the surface, getting louder along the way until it finally broke free.

      She gave his shoulder a light swat, but she was laughing, as well.

      “I’m sorry. Two years, and you only know the Metro?”

      “Well, I didn’t have a car the whole time. And I have work and—”

      “You mean you haven’t gotten out very much.”

      “Okay, no. I haven’t.”

      Rashad wanted to say that he would make sure she got out more, but he didn’t know how to say that without implying what he really meant—that he wanted to take her out. He shook his head, pondering it.

      “Street maps, I told you. I have street maps.”

      Both chuckled again.

      “And I do know where we are now.”

      “That’s because we’re in Greenbelt now—we’re almost at your door.”

      “Well, yes.”

      She smiled, and he loved her smile.

      “What’s your address?”

      When she said the number and street, Rashad realized that they really were almost at her door. He got a rather let-down feeling. Strange.

      He drove through the maze of buildings in the apartment complex until he found hers; then he pulled up to the walk to let her out.

      “Again,” Michelle said, “I can’t thank you enough. Really.”

      “De nada. I’ll see you in class next week—homework in hand.”

      “Yes, you will. It was nice meeting you, and I’m glad to know someone else in the class. Let me grab my portfolio from the backseat so I can go get to my son.”

      “Sweet dreams.”

      He shouldn’t have said that; he should have simply said goodbye. But somehow this woman made him think of just that—sweet dreams. Now he had to figure out why.

      “Good night,” she said.

      On the way home, Rashad was aware of the quiet in the car, the absence of the energy that Michelle had brought to it. He pulled into his garage, turned off the engine and followed the walkway to his front door, still wondering what kind of spell had come over him.

      He picked up his mail from behind the mail slot in the door and turned on the living room light. He looked around the room with new eyes and saw that he would be pleased to have her in it. His Ralph Lauren leather living room set had a high shine, and the Amish wood pieces matched it perfectly. Nothing in the room was frilly or feminine, but that was to be expected.

      Unfortunately, nothing in the room was child-friendly, either. For the first time, he noticed the beveled edges of the glass coffee table, the sharp corners of the end tables and the points protruding from the wrought iron magazine rack. Ouch. There were also breakable things everywhere—the sculpture on one of the end tables, the glass he’d left on the coffee table that morning, the picture frames on the other end table.

      But how old was Michelle’s son? She barely seemed old enough to be married with a child, so he couldn’t be that old.

      Rashad whistled, and Shaka Zulu, his Yorkshire terrier, came bounding in from the kitchen.

      “Hey, fella. Were you eating this late? Why didn’t you come when I got home? You mad at me for being out so late?” He scratched the dog under the chin. “You’re a child-friendly little one, aren’t you? Okay, I’m talking to the dog now.” What was it about that woman?

      Actually, she seemed about his age, mid-twenties. Maybe early twenties. According to his brothers, that was more than old enough to be married with responsibilities, but Rashad put his brothers and their ribbing out of his mind.

      Shaka followed him upstairs to his bedroom, where Rashad began changing from the long day. He loved that art class, but Wednesdays would be hell from here on—at least for eight more weeks. It also meant that he couldn’t stay at work late on hump day anymore.

      Actually, he’d be glad to start leaving work on time if he could show Michelle some of the city. And there she was again—on his mind.

      Rashad had dated during and after college, but not seriously. He was used to meeting women, going out, having a good time. He wasn’t used to liking a woman so much immediately, especially one who was off the market anyway.

      And this one wasn’t really his type. It stumped him. But maybe that meant they were destined to be friends. He could live with that—or so he thought. But as he climbed into bed, he thought of Michelle’s ample curves and sighed.

      Chapter 3

      Michelle pulled her satchel from under her chair and starting dropping in her supplies.

      “I’m glad to see that you made it here all right,” Rashad said from the seat next to her.

      “Yes, I did. Thank you very much. Hey,” Michelle said to Rashad. They were both packing up after their second class at the Art League.

      “Yep?”

      “Is it okay if we exchange numbers? Only in case we ever have to miss a class or need a ride or something like that. I wouldn’t pester you.”

      “You could never pester me,” Rashad said. He wrote his numbers on Michelle’s page of notes. “That one’s my cell phone. This is my landline. Call me for anything. And this is my email. I check it all the time. Put yours here—if you’re sure it’s okay.” He held out his notes.

      “Yes, it’s fine. I trust you not to go crazy with my number, but if I catch you putting it on a restroom wall, we’ll fight.”

      He chuckled. “No, I wouldn’t.”

      Rashad turned back to his portfolio and opened to a page. “Look at this. With all the design classes I’ve taken, I’ve never learned this trick.”

      Michelle looked at the abstract of an apple running.

      “That’s wonderful. You’re already an artist.”

      “Not yet, love. Let’s just say I’m working in my field. Let’s see one of yours.”

      Michelle was hesitant but opened her portfolio to one of their assignments. It was a cubist form of a female nude against a brick wall.

      “Wow. You’re already an artist, too.”

      “Not yet, but I’m trying. I think this one will look good with color. I’m going to paint it over the weekend and see if I can link it to a women’s organization