“I ain’t gon’ front,” he said, his tone rough like the words were heavy in his chest. He gestured around them—the candlelight, the dinner, the private setup at the ranch. “This is a small fraction of the life I want to ensure you have. This is light work compared to what I see when I picture us. I want yoursmile so deep it doesn’t fade when life gets heavy. I want your safety to be so secure that it’s never a concern. I want to ensure that when you close your eyes next to me, you ain’t worried about shit ‘cause I got it handled.”
He leaned back, and the silence stretched, thick and tender, broken only by the sound of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves outside. Kennedi’s heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, emotions crowding her throat. All she could do was stare at him — at this man who wore his chains and his scars and still managed to hand her the softest, most unshakable thing she’d ever been given. He’d solidified his spot in her life and worked hard at it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The ranch had been perfect.The flight home was fine. But somewhere between the airport and their exit, the air shifted.
She noticed it the way she noticed most things about him now — not in what he did but in what he didn't. His hand found her thigh out of habit and didn't stay. The music he always played for RJ on the drive home stayed off. He answered when she spoke. Laughed when something was funny. But the man she'd fallen in love with was somewhere else underneath it.
They made it through the door by two in the afternoon, bags dropped in the entryway, shoes off, the particular tiredness of a good trip settling into their bones. Monroe’s backpack was on the couch, and her music was coming from upstairs, which meant Robin had already come and gone.
Rolani moved through the house the way he always did when he got home — checking the kitchen, flipping through the mail, making sure everything was where he’d left it. Kennedi watched him from the entryway and felt the distance in every ordinary movement.
She gave him ten minutes. Then she followed him into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with you?”
He stopped in the kitchen, back to her, hands braced on the counter.
“Nothing’s wrong with me. Jet lag or some shit probably.”
“Rolani.”
He turned around, his face was composed. “I’m good, Ken. Just tired.”
She crossed her arms before storming off to their bedroom and slamming the door. This was the part of relationships she didn’t like: arguments, disagreements, and lies. She grabbed her duffel bag, and she knew she was being dramatic, but she was here, scared and pregnant, and still honest with him. She was trying and showing up.
“Ken, what the fuck you doing? Where are you going?”
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into his chest. She had a death grip on the bag, and he slowly took it from her hand.
“Ken, I’m sorry I made you cry, but you ain’t leaving. A nigga having a moment aight?”
“You were fine this morning, and I thought we had an amazing trip. Is it because I’m fat now?”
“I’m still fine. Bae, be for real and stop crying, please.”
“You're not.” She tilted her head, trying to dry her eyes. Truthfully, she’d been so emotional, especially as they got closer to welcoming their son. “You’ve been somewhere else since breakfast, and I want to know where.”
He stepped back and sat down on the bed they’d spent late nights and early mornings in.
“You leaving Ken?”
“What are you talking about? Why would I leave and go where? I’m about to pop.”
She stopped pacing to look at him, and she knew immediately what this was about.
The silence answered before he did. He’d overheard the call she got a day ago. Heard enough to know what it was. Not enough to know what she’d said.
Her phone buzzed while he was in the shower. She looked at the unknown number, then at the open porch door, and stepped outside.
“Kennedi Walters.”
“Kennedi, it’s Diane Everhouse of Everhouse Media. I'll cut straight to it — we want you for the lead producer role on Continental. Twelve episodes, four countries, full creative control. We've been sitting on this offer for two weeks waiting for the right person, and your name keeps coming up. What's the number to make this a reality?”
She leaned against the railing, looking out at the open land, the horses moving slowly in the distance.
