Zobo and Amarula

I'm sitting on the kitchen counter, my legs dangling above the porcelain tiles, swinging back and forth.

There's a cold Zobo drink in my hands, looking and tasting absolutely delicious in a fancy glass cup with a silver-colored straw.

The view in front of me is splendid and I'm enjoying myself as I watch a shirtless Jabari cook some South African dish, the sweet aroma filling the room.

Well, 'watch' is the subtle word I've decided to use instead of mindlessly oogle.

It's not like I haven't seen many male bare chests before, that's if you count watching Amadi dancing around the house in different angles, as many shirtless males.

But Jabari, Jabari's different.

I watch as he stops whatever he's doing and turns to me, a grin tugging on his lips when he notices I've been shamelessly checking him out.

It takes everything in me to not start blabbering the nonsense I do whenever I get nervous so I bite my bottom lip, willing everything in me to shut up and not make matters worse.

But I did. Because his gaze shifted to my lips and stayed there.

Butterflies.

When he looks back up to meet my eyes, his hazel eyes are now fifty shades darker.

Butterflies.

* * *
The story of Jabari and Jaita.
Innocent and exposed
Quiet and noisy
Dark-humored and quirky
Zobo and Amarula

Please do not copy my story and or any part from the storyline. Thanks. 🙂