Giovanni Dowlen didn’t wait for permission. What started as a custom car shop has become the foundation for a television series generating buzz across the country. Customs by Giovanni isn’t just about cars, it’s about what happens when someone refuses to let their zip code define their ceiling.
His business partner and co-founder, Rolani Pracher, handles the custom paint side of the operation—though if his tardiness today is any indication, he handles punctuality about as well as I handle tequila. Which is to say: poorly.
Kennedi snorted at her own joke, then immediately deleted the last two sentences. She’d save the shade for her group chat.
“You working already?” Blake leaned over, champagne glass in hand. “Girl, we haven’t even left the ground.”
“Just getting thoughts down before I forget.” Kennedi grinned, fingers still flying across the keys. She was tightening her questions, shifting angles in her head; it was her process. “This profile needs to be perfect.”
“It will be. You always deliver.” Blake clinked her glass against Kennedi’s. “Now close that laptop and celebrate a little. We’re going to Cali!”
Kennedi laughed and saved the document. Blake was right. She’d figure out the rest later. Right now, she was on a private jet with her girls, about to cover the biggest story of her career, and not because of its notoriety but because it was all on her. It was personal.
The work could wait. The champagne couldn’t.
“David fuckin’ Ruffin has arrived. Fire this bitch up, it’s time to get the party popping.”
Her head snapped up. The voice cut through the cabin—smooth, deep, cocky as hell.
“This nigga here,” Giovanni groaned, already standing. “About time, bruh.”
The energy in the jet shifted. The men stood, and everybody perked up like they’d been waiting for this man. Kennedi rolled her eyes and fumbled with her phone, attempting to appear busy.
Late.
Loud.
Arrogant.
She already didn’t like him. But his cologne was sucking the air out of the plane, or was it just her?
Then a heavy Louis Vuitton duffle dropped beside her seat with a thud.
She smirked without looking up. “I hope you don’t?—"
Her words stalled.
The man standing over her was not what she expected. Six-foot-something, mahogany skin, gold chains against his chest and a beard thick enough to start problems. She actually gripped the armrest.
“Yo, sorry I was late,” he said, dapping Giovanni. “Had to handle some shit. Y’all know I don't even play like that.”
“You good, bruh.”
After the dap, his gaze dropped to her. Beautiful hazel eyes. Everything else blurred — champagne, chatter, laughter, gone. Her heartbeat climbed into her throat.
“Kennedi, this is my boy and business partner, Ro, the one I told you about. And Ro, this is Kennedi Walters. She’s covering the premiere.”
She held out her hand, aiming for professional composure. Until the perfect gentleman softly helped her from her seat.
A grin appeared on her face until she mumbled, “Hi, Kennedi, with an I.”
She didn’t know why she said that stupid shit; she was nervous.
“Sup, Rolani, also with an I. But everybody calls me Ro.”
His voice was deeper than she expected, a rasp curling at the edges from a deep southern drawl. And that crooked grin of his made her let out a breath. This was not good.
“Kennedi might come on permanently,” Giovanni went on, oblivious to the love connection happening right before his eyes. “She’s got her own platform. Through Ken’s Lens.”
