Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Rolani was already at the shop when Kennedi pulled up in that little Audi. Right on time.
He watched her through the window as she sat in her car for a moment, probably psyching herself up.
“Bout time,” he muttered, sipping his coffee, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
She stepped out in a black dress. The V-neck drew his eyes where they had no business going at nine in the morning.
From his office window, he watched her walk toward the building like she was really about to flip the switch and treat him like her boss. That was cute. She could try.
Her office was across from his—that wasn’t a coincidence. When she stepped inside and spotted not one but two flower arrangements on her desk, she stopped.
The first one, from Monday, was still fresh—white roses and peonies with a card that read:
Happy first day of work, baby – Ro
The second one, delivered this morning, was larger. Vibrant orange roses and red lilies.
She grabbed the new card:
Welcome back. I hope you’re feeling better. Let’s get to work. – Ro
She looked up, found him watching from across the hall, and shook her head with a smile. He raised his coffee mug in a mock toast.
A moment later, she crossed the hall and slipped inside his office. Her perfume hit him first—floral, warm, familiar, the same scent that made his dick jump anytime he inhaled it.
He stood when she walked in, moving closer to see if she’d flinch or play him off like she had been. She didn’t.
“Morning,” he said, keeping his voice even.
“Thank you for my flowers,” she said, gesturing back toward her office. “They’re beautiful. You have good taste, Mr. Pracher,” she said, eyes steady. But he caught the quick flicker, her gaze dropping to his arms when he adjusted his watch.
“You should already know that. I’m on your bumper, ain’t I?”
“Should I feel special?”
He shrugged. “How are you feeling?”
“A million times better. Thanks again for taking care of me and giving me the day off.”
“Anytime.” His eyes tracked over her face, her neck, the way that dress fit her. “You ready for your first day ?”
She met his gaze, steady. “I’ve been ready, just had a little hiccup.”
She stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“We’ll see.”
“Is this coming from the man who was late to the plane and late to my shoot in LA?” She tilted her head.
He opened his mouth.
“I thought so. I’ll see you in five minutes, Mr. Pracher.”
She was already gone before he could respond.
She made it to the bathroom in the nick of time — Little LA had been sitting on her bladder since the drive over. She washed her hands, checked her reflection, and made sure nothing in her face gave her away.
Professional. Composed. Fine.
She crossed back into his doorway five minutes later.
“Shall we?” she asked, all business.
“We shall. What’s up first?”
“The interview with Hot 93.5,” Kennedi said as they walked out the door. “Riya’s hosting, and she’s… curious about you.”
He slowed a step, brows pulling together. “Curious? What that mean?” He looked at her hard. “I don’t fuck with surprises.”
“It means,” she said, giving him a sharp side-eye, “she wasn’t only asking about Customs or Idle Hands. She was asking about you. What you’re like, what you’re into. And I know the difference between prep questions and somebody fishing.”
“So she was flirting?” He glanced at Kennedi, reading her face.
Women wanting him wasn't new. He'd been fine and paid long enough to know what that looked like — Riya wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last. Tahlia had pulled the same moves, and look how that ended.
Last he heard, she'd found somebody else, already pregnant, moving fast. Women chasing the lifestyle always landed somewhere.
What was new was Kennedi giving a damn about it.
Kennedi folded her arms. “Mr. Pracher, yes, she was fishing, flirting... whatever. It wasn’t professional, that’s for sure.”
He studied her, lips twitching, holding back a laugh. Then the smirk came. “Mm. You sure this is about the job, Ken? You sound jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” she shot back as she slid into his Escalade, voice tight. “I think she should’ve kept it professional.”
He closed her door and took his time coming around. Through the glass, he caught the way her fingers tapped against her thigh like she was telling on herself. Jealousy sat on her pretty face, and he couldn’t look away.
“What?” she asked, watching him stare at her.
Sliding behind the wheel, he started the engine. “You the only one I’m worried about, Ken. You know that.”
Her eyes stayed glued to the window. “Do I?”
His grin curled as he pulled out the lot. “You do. You eat breakfast?”
“Yeah, I had granola and yogurt. I’m taking it slow.”
He gave her a look and turned into Bojangles without asking. “So you had a snack.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I didn’t exactly have time for a full breakfast. So, I’ll have some of whatever you’re getting.”
“There you go with that wishy washy shit,” he said, smirking. “One minute you don’t fuck with me, the next you sharing food like we married.”
He ordered his usual, Cajun Filet Biscuit, strawberry jelly, and Bo rounds.
He paid and handed her the bag. She dug straight for a Bo’Round, hit it with ketchup, and moaned softly when she bit in—eyes closing, head leaning back against the seat like she forgot where she was.
His grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles flexing.
She opened her eyes and caught him watching. Instead of being embarrassed, she licked the grease off her fingers one by one, slow and deliberate. He exhaled through his nose.
“Here,” she said innocently, holding out the last piece to him. When her fingers brushed his lips, he caught her thumb between his teeth and sucked. She froze.
“Stop playing with me and eat your breakfast,” he said, voice low. “Unless you want me to pull this truck over.”
A horn honked behind them, snapping the moment. He pulled forward, jaw set, music low, but his pulse was loud in his ears.
The rest of the drive, she tried to act like she was focused on her emails, but he felt her sneaking glances at his tattoos, the veins in his hands on the wheel, the chain against his chest. He didn’t mind it.
When they pulled up to the station, she flipped the switch back to business—hair smoothed, lipstick checked, every detail in place. Professional Kennedi was back.
“You look nervous,” she said, studying him.
“But do I look good?” His grin was sharp.
She rolled her eyes. “You know you do. Now come on.”
He followed her inside, walking close, close enough that people would assume they came together, but letting her keep that professional inch of space she thought she needed.
“You’ve done this before,” she observed, watching how comfortable he was with the receptionist, the way he navigated the hallways.
“A few times. Community stuff.” He held the door to the studio open for her. “I got this, baby.”
“Professional,” she reminded him under her breath.
“My bad. I got this, Ms. Walters.”
She shot him a look, but before she could say anything, he leaned down quickly and pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her purse shot up between them like a shield.
“Rolani!” she hissed, but her lips betrayed her as she fought a smile.
“What?” He spread his hands, feigning innocence. “I’m greeting my colleague. Very professional.”
“You’re always playing,” she muttered. “Watch me cut you off.”
He leaned close, holding the door wider for her. “And watch me bring this shit to your front door,” he whispered. She walked past him with her head held high, but he caught the small bite of her lip, the tell she didn’t know he’d memorized.
Inside, Rolani took his seat across from Riya, the host, but his focus wasn’t on her.
His gaze kept flicking to the glass where Kennedi sat in the viewing area, pen in hand, notebook open, face all business.
She might have thought she was hidden behind that professional mask, but he felt her eyes on him anyway.
Riya leaned toward the mic, her tone smooth and practiced. “We’re here with Rolani Pracher, co-founder of Customs by Giovanni and the creative genius behind some of the most jaw-dropping custom paint jobs in the South. Tell us how it all started.”
He leaned in. “It started in Giovanni’s daddy’s garage when we were kids. I spent just about every weekend at Gio’s house, and Saturdays meant one thing—we’d be under the hood of some car, learning whatever Mr. Dowlen wanted to teach us.”
Through the glass, he saw Kennedi’s pen moving fast, her head tilted slightly as she took it in. She was catching details she’d never heard before.
“So cars were always in your blood?” Riya asked, smiling.
Rolani shook his head. “Nah, cars were Gio’s first. For me, it was a way to stay outta trouble.
Then I fell in love with painting. Mr. Dowlen could do it all—mechanics, body work, restoration.
After we rebuilt the Camaro, he handed me a spray gun and told me to paint it.
That’s when it clicked. That’s when I knew. ”
“You’d found your calling?”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice low but certain. “Mixing colors, taking rust and bent-up metal and turning it into something that became a high for me. And I kept getting better. Ain’t nobody fucking with me now.”
“That’s beautiful,” Riya said, her voice almost purring. “And now you two have turned that teenage passion into an empire.”
Rolani nodded. “Yeah. But it all goes back to Mr. Dowlen. He used to say idle hands and minds are the devil’s playground. He believed in putting kids to work, teaching us skills that would never go away. He showed us that we could build, and that was far more important than tearing things up.”
“That’s powerful. And now you’re not just building cars, you’re building opportunities. What would you say to the young people listening right now who might be in the same kind of situation you were in back then?”