Her eyes lit up as she talked, hands moving as she painted the picture. “I’m talking about a place where a bride can come for her dress fitting, taste menu options, see her flowers being arranged, and have her engagement photos taken all in the same afternoon. Where families can plan quinceañeras or anniversaries without coordinating with fifteen different vendors.”
I could see the vision she was describing. I could picture her moving through a space like that, commanding every detail, making people’s dreams come true with that precision she brought to everything else.
“You really see that, huh?” I asked, squeezing her hand.
“I don’t just see it,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m going to build it. One day.”
I nodded slowly, letting the words settle.
“Then one day just turned into soon,” I said finally.
She looked at me, confusion flickering for a second before she caught the seriousness in my tone. “Be for real. I need land, lots of land and money, lots of money.”
I leaned in closer at the next red light, kissing her hand before putting it back on my thigh where I wanted it. “Goodthing ya nigga got money and lots of it. I heard you. I believe in you. And when you're ready, I’ll make sure you get whatever you need to bring it to life.”
Her breath hitched, lips parting, but before she could answer, the horn behind us blared again. She rolled her eyes and laughed, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe me.
She went back to describing and telling me what all she needed. Her voice carried, soft but steady, and all I could think was how right it felt to be here. No boardrooms, no warehouses, no bullshit, just me and her, moving through the city like this was what we’d been supposed to be doing all along.
I glanced at her, sunglasses catching the light, ponytail swinging like it had its own rhythm, and let a slow smile pull at my mouth.
“Day one,” I said.
She turned to me, brow arched. “Day one of what?”
“Of me acting like the husband I should’ve been from the jump,” I told her.
Her lips curved, that smile that always knocked me off balance. “We’ll see, Lesley.”
“Nah,” I shook my head, confidence rolling off me as I pressed the gas. “You will.”
Last night kept replaying in my mind like a song I couldn’t turn off. I thought I’d wake up this morning with that weird aftertaste in the air—awkwardness, second-guessing, maybe even regret. But it wasn’t like that. What I felt instead was steady. Settled in a way I wasn’t used to. Like some restless part of me finally stopped pacing.
The way he’d watched me while I got dressed, the way he casually asked if I’d eaten, even him insisting on spending the day with me—none of it felt forced. It felt easy. Too easy, almost.
I’d spent so long protecting myself from needing anybody that I’d forgotten what it was like towantto be close. But watching him drive, seeing him actually interested in my work, feeling his eyes on me, I started to get it. This was why people fought so hard to hold onto love once they found it.
“You don’t have to come in,” I said, already reaching for my tote bag. “This is just me checking measurements and making sure the vendor didn’t mess up the setup.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he said, cutting the engine off. The action reminded me that he was giving me his whole day. “I want to.”
I stared at him. Lesley had never expressed interest in what I did during my workdays. Never asked about my clients, never wanted to see the venues or understand the details that kept me up at night. And now he wanted to watch me argue with vendors about tablecloth lengths?
“You want to look at centerpieces and argue about lighting?” I asked.
“I want to watch you work,” he corrected, and his voice dropped the way it did in bed. Heat pooled between my thighs. “There's a difference.”
The mansion was everything old money could buy: marble floors that sang under expensive heels, crystal chandeliers that threw rainbows across cream-colored walls, rooms so grand they made you feel small. I’d been in places like this dozens of times, but having Lesley with me changed the experience. Made me more aware of how I moved through the space, how I commanded attention without asking for it.
“The head table needs to be moved six inches to the left,” I told the venue coordinator, a nervous white woman who kept glancing at Lesley, unsure if he was security or something more dangerous. “And these centerpieces are too tall. The bride specifically said she wanted her guests to be able to see each other across the table.”
“Of course, Ms. Outlaw,” she stammered, making notes on her clipboard like her life depended on getting every word right.
“Mrs. Grimson,” he said, breaking his silence.
“Oh yes. Mrs. Grimson.”
Mrs. Grimson. I’d worked hard to build a reputation, separate from his name and power, before I became his wife. So I wasn’t sure how I felt. In this world, I wasn’t Mrs. Lesley Grimson, wife of a man who moved weight through the city. I was Colecion Outlaw, owner of Icy Co, the event planner who could take your vision and make it flawless.
