He didn’t press. Just squeezed my thigh once before putting the car in park and killing the engine. “Crazy—you’re a whole killer and you grew up in this big ass house.”
I side-eyed him, biting back a snide remark as he climbed out.
I sat there for a second longer and took a deep breath.
Fontaine looked good as hell in his navy blue cashmere sweater, with charcoal gray slacks hugging the outline of his muscular legs. The peacoat and scarf pulled the look together, making him look like a true upstanding citizen. He grabbed the flowers and wine from the back seat.
“You think I’ve never met mothers before?” he’d saidearlier, after catching my expression when he came out dressed like that. “Plus, quiet as it's kept, you’re bougie as hell, Nairobi. You just carry it differently.”
He wasn’t wrong, but I’d never tell him that.
I rang the doorbell and fingered the keys in my pocket. My mother and I were making strides, but I still wasn’t at the point of just walking in yet.
Kenya opened the door, and her whole face lit up when she saw the flowers and wine.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, mama.”
“Nairobi,” she smiled and pulled me into a hug. I didn’t tense up the way I normally did, and I think we were both surprised by that.
She recovered first, turning to Fontaine with her hand out. “And you must be the boyfriend.”
“Fontaine.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Crawford.”
I looked at him.Now when did this man start kissing hands?
Mama stepped aside to let us in. The scent of something rich and savory—maybe a roast—drifted through the house, making my mouth water.
“You cooked?” I asked as we moved toward the dining room.
“Nai, please,” she scoffed. “I had it catered. You know I’m no good at cooking for a crowd.”
Fontaine snorted beside me, low enough that only I could hear it.
The dining was set beautifully of course—wouldn’t expect anything less from Kenya Crawford. The table was set with crisp white linens and the good china she only brought out for company she wanted to impress.
Mama put the flowers in a vase whileFontaine opened the wine, moving around her kitchen with an ease that caught me off guard. He poured her a glass first without being asked.
I brought the food to the table—a rack of lamb with roasted vegetables and creamy mashed potatoes—and we settled in. For the first few minutes, it was a polite quiet—just the sound of forks against plates, nobody wanting to be the first one to say the wrong thing.
“So, Fontaine. Where are you from originally?” Mama asked, breaking the silence.
“Decatur,” he said. “Born and raised.”
“Do you still have family there?”
“Yes, ma’am. My mother’s still out that way, as well as my sister and nephew.”
Mama smiled at that.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. He was relaxed in a way that I’d never been around my own mother. He wasn’t trying to be likable. He was simply being himself, but I found myself frowning at that.
I mostly listened to them talking. Every now and then one of them pulled me back into the conversation and I’d answer and retreat again. I wasn’t trying to be cold—but outside of our few therapy sessions, I’d never really held a casual conversation with my mother before. And here Fontaine is, doing it like he’d known her forever. It was just so natural for him.
The conversation between them moved easily. Fontaine answered her questions without volunteering more than needed—where did we meet? Through mutual friends. What did he do for work?
“IT consulting,” he said, cutting into his lamb. “I run my own firm. We work primarily with mid-tier businesses throughout the state. I’ve been doing it for about six years now.”
She smiled and sat back slightly, pleased with his answer.
