Playing With Fire

CHAPTER I (1)

CHAPTER I
Solana

Smutty books are getting too smutty for my taste.

An example to support this theory? The couple in the newest romance novel I'm reading is having sex in a position I don't think should even exist.

The author belongs in prison. This book needs to go to book jail.

But I couldn't stop reading. How did they pull this off? Did she actually not have any leg spasms?

I was holding my kindle in a death grip, hating how hypnotized I was. It was only when I forced myself to lift my gaze off the screen when I remembered a dreadful reminder.

Work.

Still holding my kindle, I frowned as my eyes took in the black-wall exterior of the fancy, popular restaurant I worked most days. Lafiene. The writing was in cursive gold that lit up with white LEDs at night. It was also the place I worked at since I enrolled in my university, three years ago.

It sold Halal food, which was one of the reasons I applied there. My childhood best friend, Mera, loved my discount.

Grudgingly, I shoved my kindle into my shoulder bag. Not that I hated my job. I met Lori—another close friend—here, and my manager was pretty flexible when it came to my schedule. But I internally scolded myself at losing track of time. The bus ride from my house to here was twenty minutes, not including the walk to the bus stop. I've been reading the second I stepped out of the house.

And I didn't even get the chance to finish reading the smut.

With a sigh, I quickened my pace and reached for the vertical, gold handle door before pulling it open forcefully. Some of the tension fell off my shoulders when I felt the air conditioning whoosh over me.

Despite living in Kingsview all my life, I would never get used to the constant heat. Luckily, I lived in Northern Georgia, just a little less than two hours away from Atlanta, so the weather wasn't burning hot in the summer like it would be in the Southern cities.

Still, with it being the first week of September, it was a whopping thirty-degrees celcius.

I smiled and waved at a few co-workers and scurried into the employees lounge to throw my purse into a locker. I was already in my appropriate work clothes: a white button up and black pants. But I quickly got out my waist apron from my bag and tied it around me before turning to the floor length mirror on the opposite side of the benches.

A sigh got stuck in my throat as I took in my hair. In a way, I resented mom for keeping us in a hot state after dad died, because the humidity hated curly hair.

In technical terms, my chocolate brown hair held 3a curls, which looked almost golden in the sun. After years dealing with frizz and obnoxious girls with straight hair telling me to just brush it, I found a curl routine, and I would never go back.

Those same girls from elementary school now comment on my Instagram posts or slide into my DM's time to time, asking what's my secret. Or if I ever bump into them, they try to touch my hair.

Nobody touches my hair. I would cut someone if they did.

Now, I had well-defined, springy curls that somewhat had an S-shape. It ended just below my breasts when curled, and because my hair had medium thickness, it was pretty full.

But still gets so goddamn frizzy.

Technically, hair wash was on Sundays—because yes, they took a whole day. Washing, leave-in conditioner, gel, and my denman brush routine. All of this before diffusing until it's 80% dry.