We disconnected, and I moved to the kitchen. He’d be coming in soon. I could feel it the way some women felt storms coming, a shift in the air, that familiar pull that meant he was close. The loud part of me screamedGirl, claim your man, wanted to stop pretending and say something. Because even though he could be as cold as December mornings, he wasn’t always like that with me.
I’d seen his smile, rare and sharp, aimed my way like sunlight breaking through clouds. I’d caught those moments when his guard slipped, when he wasn’t just the boss but a man who laughed at my jokes and remembered how I liked my coffee and asked if I was good before he asked about anything else.
I wondered if he replayed our moments the way I did—our kiss, the way he’d zipped up my dress for me. After that night, I’d stopped lying to myself about what I wanted. The question was whether I had the courage to go after it.
The numbers on the private elevator blinked, letting me know he’d made it home and was on the way up. I straightened, adjusting the waistband of my hot pink Matte Collectionleggings set. I’d just finished a workout, hair braided back, skin still glowing with that post-exercise flush.
I wasn’t going to change or put on a show. If we were going to have this conversation, he was getting the real me—sweaty, irritated, and done with his disappearing act.
I poured his coffee the way he liked it: cream, but no sugar. The muscle memory was so deep that my hands moved before my mind caught up. I told myself it was a habit, not care. That it didn’t matter if he never came home. That this marriage was always a game of chicken, waiting to see who would blink first, who would break.
The elevator dinged. My shoulders tensed.
I didn’t turn around. I felt him before I saw him, his energy filling the space. Then he walked in, and Lesley Grimson wasn’t just a man entering a penthouse—he wastheman. A gray Nike sweatsuit, Jordan 1s, and a gold chain catching the morning light. His skin was smooth like honey. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and those unreadable eyes. His time away hadn’t been easy, and it showed.
“Morning, Coco,” he said, voice rough. His cologne hit me as he reached for the coffee cup I’d set out.
“Morning.” I stayed even, though my pulse was doing double-time.
“You eat?” I asked. I was upset with him, but I still wanted to take care of him.
Dumb ass.
“Nah.” He took a slow sip, eyes closing briefly like that first taste was salvation. “I heard you. When I come in, you want to feed me. Do your thing.”
I opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, bell peppers, and thick-cut bacon. Skillet on the stove, oil heating. Doing this small thing filled a space in me I hadn’t realized was empty. When he camein from running the streets, I wanted to be the first good thing he saw.
He didn’t mention the envelope on the counter. I didn’t either. Silence was our first language, the one we spoke best. Before he’d arrived, I had a speech prepared, but now that he was here, I didn’t know what to do. So I managed by asking awkward questions.
“You sleep where you were, or you saving that for here?”
“Co, ask me what you really want to ask.” His voice was low, that gravel-dragged with that southern drawl that was unmistakable. “But don’t bullshit me and fuck up our first morning together.”
“Not you wanting to talk about communication all of a sudden.”
“Colecion.”
That was Lesley. A straight shooter who didn’t deal in fantasy unless he was controlling the illusion. I admired that about him sometimes. Before him, I’d never met a man like this and never wanted to. My whole life had been about survival—low visibility, safety, quiet. Men like him were too loud, too dangerous. But here I was, stirring eggs with a spatula, trying to hide my smile.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
I kept my eyes on the food. “I’m cooking.”
“The food ain’t going nowhere. Look at me.”
“Fine.” I turned to face him, spatula in hand. “Were you with someone else? Because if you were, say that. Don’t play me like I’m some dummy sitting in your penthouse waiting while you run the streets and women.”
His smirk appeared instantly, lethal. Like I was cute for asking, stupid for needing the answer.
“Only woman making me breakfast is you,” he said, stretching his long frame into the chair at the island, droppinghis phone on the counter with a thud. “Respectfully, a bitch don’t have access to me like that. Not then, not now.”
I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension he carried in his shoulders.
“Love, I’ve been out of town trying to make sure I don’t see the inside of a jail cell. I ain’t been with nobody. You in a bad mood today, I see.”
“How the hell would you know about my moods? You haven’t been home in two weeks. No call or nothing. That’s foul. You’re wishy washy, and I don’t like that about you.”
