I leaned up between them in the truck, batting my lashes. "Sooo... I was thinking before we find a dress, I should get my nails and toes done." Pierre cut his eyes at me. "What dis look like, a damn spa day?"
"I am going to an important event, am I not ? What kind of woman shows up to a formal event with her nails busted?" Noles sighed like this was physically hurting him. "How long dis gon' take?"
"Not long," I promised, smiling sweetly. Pierre looked at me, then at Noles. "Man, fuck it. Let her get 'em done. If we say no, she just gon' complain the whole time."
I clapped my hands. "See? That's why I like y'all." They groaned in unison, and I laughed all the way into the nail shop. An hour later, I stepped out with my nails freshly done—simple black tips on short nails, toes to match. Pierre glanced at my hands, unimpressed. "All that time and you just got that?"
I flipped him off. "It's called elegance, hood rat." Noles snickered as Pierre sucked his teeth. "Man, come so we can go and find a dress before Juste start doin’ allat callin’." We made it to a small boutique . I had gone through a few dress options, and as much as I hated to admit it, Noles and Pierre weren't the worst at giving feedback.
They mostly talked amongst themselves while I tried on dresses, cracking jokes, ranking outfits like they were damn fashion critics. But I hadn't found anything I loved until I slipped into this one. A seamless, long black Kelly dress. The thin straps were diamond-studded, delicate but eye-catching. The material hugged my curves in appreciation, sculpting my waist, resting just right on my hips. I turned, eyeing myself in the mirror, running my hands down the fabric. Yeah. This was the one. I stepped out of the dressing room and did a little spin for my bodyguards. "Okay boys, what about this one?" Pierre damn near choked on his gum. "Whoa, no."
"That nigga is not gon' be feeling dat, Ms. Lady," Noles groaned, rubbing a hand down his face like he already saw the ass-whooping in his future. "Please pick somethin' else." I smirked. Oh, now I had to get it.
Pierre shook his head, eyes wide. "Chiana. That nigga gon' blow his top. For your sake and ours, please pick a different dress." I turned back to the mirror, tilting my head like I was deep in thought. Then I smiled. "Nah, I like this one. I have the perfect black YSL heels back at the house to match." They shared a look—one of those knowing looks—and groaned at the same time. But neither of them said anything else. I grinned. Victory.
Noles let out a long, defeated sigh. "Man, get the damn dress so we can go." Pierre just shook his head. I laughed, grabbing my phone. "Y'all are so dramatic." I could still hear them grumbling behind me as I walked to the register.
_
By the time we made it back to the house, I was done for the day. Shopping, dealing with Noles and Pierre's dramatics, Yeah, I needed a break. The second I stepped inside, I went straight upstairs to shower. The hot water relaxed my muscles, washing away the weight of the day, but it did nothing to wash away the tension I'd been feeling every time Juste got too close. The tension I shouldn't be feeling. I tried to shake it off as I stepped out, drying off before slipping into a cheetah print pajama set—loose shorts, a fitted tank, comfortable but still cute. I didn't think twice about it as I made my way back downstairs, already knowing what I needed. A drink.
I moved through the kitchen, scanning the cabinets for wine, but of course, this man didn't have a single damn bottle. I sighed, grabbing what I could find to make myself a margarita instead. The sound of keys jingling at the front door caught my attention, and I looked up just as Juste stepped inside. His eyes landed on me immediately, sweeping over my body before he set the bags on the marble table. "I brought you jambalaya from Lucy's," he said, like it was nothing, like it was normal.
I raised a brow but didn't question it. Instead, I walked over, opening the plate, inhaling the spicy scent of the food before sitting down. It smelled good as hell, and I was hungry. I dug into my plate, taking slow, satisfying bites as I sipped my margarita, barely noticing Juste had fixed himself a drink—something dark, probably whiskey. He was watching me. I felt it before I looked up, his gaze lingering, steady, curious. "You drinkin'?" he questioned, his voice smooth, slow, like he was studying me.
I glanced up from my plate, meeting his eyes. There was something there—something like intrigue, like he wanted to know me. "I prefer wine," I said, shrugging. "But you don't have any of that, soooo... I made due." I took another sip, then raised a brow. "Is that against the rules?"
Juste smirked, shaking his head slightly before taking a sip of his own drink. "That smart-ass mouth gon' fuck around and get you bent over." His voice was low, teasing, but with an edge. A chill ran through me, but I kept my expression neutral, tilting my head as I stirred my drink with my straw. "If you want wine," he continued, "I can get you wine."
I lifted a brow. "Oh, so now you take requests?" He chuckled, taking another sip, shaking his head. "You find somethin' to wear?" I smirked, nodding.
He nodded back, his gaze flicking over me before he leaned against the counter, relaxed, but still watching me too closely. "Good." He let the word settle before adding, "I'm stayin' home tomorrow. Wanna see what you got done so far, go over a few things before this party." I made a noncommittal sound, sipping from my drink, not missing the way his eyes stayed on me. Then I sat my cup down, fixing him with a look.
"Look, if I'ma do this," I started, tapping my nails against the counter, "and I don't have a choice—" I gave him a pointed look, "—then I need my own office. I cannot keep working out of that mess you have in there."
His lips twitched like he was fighting back another smirk. "Your own office?" he repeated, amused. I nodded, sipping my drink again. "Yup." He chuckled, shaking his head. "I hear you." But something about the way he said it—smooth, easy, like he was entertained—made me feel like he wasn't taking me seriously.
So I leaned forward, locking eyes with him, my tone even. "No, you listening." That smirk finally cracked, just a little. Then, without looking away, he lifted his glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and said, "Mmhmm." I rolled my eyes, pushing my plate back slightly.
_
The next morning, after breakfast, I expected to go back to his cluttered-ass office, where I had been forced to work since he pulled me into this mess. But instead, Juste led me down the hall, his pace slow, unhurried, like he already knew he was about to catch me off guard. I stepped inside the room, my feet pausing at the threshold as my eyes looked over the space. I blinked. Then blinked again. A whole damn office. A desk. My laptop. My paperwork, neatly stacked. The same setup I had in my office, down to the details—except it was in his house now. He had bought everything to resemble my space..
I turned, my eyes finally landing on him as he walked inside, hands in his pockets, his smirk as lazy as ever. He pulled out the chair next to mine, lowering himself into it like this was his idea of fun. "The office you asked for," he said smoothly, stretching his legs out, watching my reaction like I was a puzzle he was piecing together.
Juste St. Jean was showing me his hand. Plain as day. He listened. He paid attention. He had power. And he wasn't just throwing it around recklessly—he was using it to get what he wanted, piece by piece, move by move. I exhaled, running my fingers lightly over the desk before finally looking back at him. "Thank you," I said softly, my voice steady, but the words still felt foreign coming out of my mouth. His dark eyes lingered on mine, something flickering behind them—something unreadable, but heavy.
Then, with a small smirk, he threw his hands out like he was giving me the floor. "Aight, tell me about the numbers. What we lookin' like so far?" I exhaled, leaning back in my chair, crossing my legs as I studied him. "This shit is a mess, Juste. But I'm sure you knew that." He nodded, rubbing his chin, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I knew."
I watched the way his fingers dragged down his jaw, slow, thoughtful, like he was already figuring out his next move. Then his eyes flicked back to mine. "I'm about to make it worse." I frowned, sitting up a little. "What the hell does that mean?"
"This party tonight," he started, pausing just long enough for effect. "We closing a deal." I felt my stomach tighten. "How much of a damn deal?" My voice was sharp now, my hands pressing into the arms of the chair. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling like he was already preparing for my reaction. "Three million."
My entire body went still. Then my eyes narrowed, heat rising in my chest. "Three mil?! Are you fucking serious?" I damn near pushed up from my seat. "You're a fucking idiot, Juste." His dark eyes flashed, that warning look crossing his face, his jaw flexing. I didn't care. He had lost his damn mind. Three million dollars meant my job just got three times harder. The problem wasn't just growing—it was getting completely out of control. He tilted his head slightly, his tone dropping lower. "Come on now, baeeby," he said, voice smooth but firm. "Watch that mouth."
I folded my arms. "Or what?" His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk but was trying to keep his composure. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "Keep talkin' like dat, and you gon' find out," he murmured. The way he said it made something tighten in my stomach. But I wasn't about to back down.
I inhaled sharply, exhaling through my nose, willing myself to stay focused. "Where do we even start on fixing this?" he asked, watching me like he was enjoying how worked up I was getting. I dragged a hand down my face, my mind already running through possible solutions. "Shit... a chain of strip clubs," I muttered, shaking my head. "That's probably our best bet. But even then, that's just the surface."
