6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Mahogany, Masochism + Whac-A-Moles
Luca
Six months ago. Vegas.
We walk along the Strip, falling into a rhythm that feels deceptively familiar.
The conversation flows with an ease that shouldn't exist between strangers, and I find myself wondering if she’ll catch me in the act between my many stolen glances where my gaze lingers a beat too long.
Though, if I’m honest, they never feel long enough.
She’s radiant. The streetlights don’t just hit her, they seem to show off for her, catching the gold in her skin like they’re paying some kind of silent respect.
The women I usually end up with have a very specific, polished vibe.
They’re usually from the same circles—the kind of girls who aren't surprised by private schools or trust funds. They’re usually more into my stats or my bank account than anything else.
But Aspen doesn’t seem to give a damn about any of that.
She’s only interested in who I actually am, which is wild considering she doesn’t even know my last name yet.
There’s time for that, I guess. Plenty of time for a lot of things.
And her laugh. Fuck, that laugh. You feel it in your chest before you even hear it. It’s loud, real, and completely addictive.
She suddenly stops, spotting a retro arcade squeezed between two brightly-lit souvenir shops. “Oh my god,” she gasps, her eyes lighting up. “You’re coming with me. Right now.”
She doesn’t let me respond. I don’t have a chance to argue.
And before the safe word “Line” can fly out of my mouth, she’s dragging me inside like we’re sixteen year olds cutting class.
And as the petite fireball leads me into what I can only assume is not an untimely death, I finally get a proper look at her.
Her outfit isn’t what I would have imagined for my bride, yet it fits her perfectly.
A pearl-studded blazer is draped over her shoulders like a cape, layered over a white lace bodysuit that leans more toward the bedroom than the boardroom.
Matching high-waisted shorts with tiny pearls, catch the light with every step.
It’s a stunning ensemble. Sexy as hell. And entirely too absurd for a sweltering, vintage arcade.
I’ve stepped into a time machine.
I used to only see places like this in movies before I finally moved to the States.
I remember my uncle taking my siblings and me to Kings Island for the first time.
You couldn’t have told us we hadn't stumbled straight into heaven. It was a land of endless junk food with mountains of buttery popcorn, bags of candy, and those delicious monstrosities they call funnel cakes. We’d gorge ourselves until our faces were sticky and our stomachs protested, always ending the night with a glorious, sugar-induced bellyache.
As an adult, I never would have set foot in a place like this on my own.
Being the eldest—the one everyone looks to as either the great success or the family fuck-up—tends to turn you into a clinical perfectionist. It makes you a little too responsible, a little too stiff.
But one look at the woman beside me, and I realize I’d probably follow her anywhere.
She makes a beeline for the basketball shootout.
“Oh, you want some of this,” I tease, rolling up my sleeves.
“You’re going down, Chillmonger,” she says, grinning.
We start shooting. I’ve got a solid rhythm going—played a bit in school, never took it seriously. But she’s surprisingly good. Like…annoyingly good.
“You’ve done this before,” I accuse mid-shot.
“My older brother never let me win,” she shrugs. “So I learned how to play like a boy.”
“You’re not playing like a girl,” I say, watching her nail another shot with surgical precision. “You’re playing like someone who’s actively trying to humiliate me.”
“I’m playing like someone who doesn’t shrink herself to impress a man,” she counters, not even glancing my way as the ball swishes through the net.
I laugh, genuinely impressed, and toss up another shot. I miss.
She wins, smirking like a villain, breaking into this little victory dance that’s all hips and effortless laughter. I’m certain she’s doing it on purpose, just to make it impossible for me to pretend I’m not already completely obsessed with her.
“You want some cotton candy?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“That stuff’s terrible for your teeth,” I say, trying to sound rational. “And just all-around disgusting.”
She gasps like I’ve just hurt a puppy. “First of all, cotton candy being terrible for your teeth is a requirement. Second, who hurt you as a child? Because no sane person calls cotton candy disgusting.”
I shrug. “I’m the eldest of four. I guess I’m just used to looking out for people, telling them to drink water, brush their teeth, and avoid pink clouds of sugar masquerading as sustenance.”
“Looking out for people where you come from means killing their joy?”
“I’m Nigerian,” I say flatly. “We don’t believe in joy without guilt.”
She laughs. “I think I’ve heard about that philosophy once or twice.”
We both slow our strides as Michael Jackson moonwalks directly into our path. He’s spinning and singing…sort of…and I stop mid-step, unsure if I should move around him or clap.
We both start laughing. He keeps dancing.
“I think you have to tip him,” she says, leaning close, her voice low and playful. “So he’ll move.”
“You’re joking.”
She raises a brow. “Try it. Give him a five and see what happens.”
I pull out my money clip and flip through. “All I’ve got is a hundred.”
Without missing a beat, Michael Jackson spins, grabs it, yells, “Hee-hee! That’ll do!” and glides off like a smooth criminal.
I stare after him. Then look down at Aspen. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you two were hustling me.”
She grins. “Yeah. The ultimate hustle that starts with marriage.”
“And to think, we haven’t even talked about how many kids we’re going to have,” I joke.
“Two. Max. So don’t get any ideas from your football team of a family.”
I laugh. “You know me so well, honey. I have always wanted a big family. Exactly like the one I grew up in—two boys, two girls.”
That catches her off guard. “Seriously? Why?”
“Because I loved it. We grew up in a tight-knit home, and it made us close. Really close.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” is all she says.
I don’t know exactly what hits her in that moment—my voice, the memory, or just the simplicity of the truth—but she reaches out and grabs my hand. And when she laces her fingers through mine and we weave through the arcade crowd, I find myself hoping she won't let go.
“My dad’s an oil engineer,” I continue. “Real serious, very buttoned-up. He moved us to London when I was a kid.”
“From Nigeria?”
I nod. “Lagos. Yes. I went to boarding school and learned to assimilate, but my parents always insisted we hold tight to our roots. We speak Igbo at the table. Still go to all the obnoxious parties. And to this day, we still get side-eyed if we don’t kneel when greeting our elders.”
Her expression softens. “Sounds kind of…regal.”
I smile. “It can be more chaotic than it sounds. But it taught me a lot. Loyalty. Honor. How to show up for people, even when it’s inconvenient.”
She shakes her head, then lets out a dry laugh. “Meanwhile my family is a full circus. Wild. Loud. Dysfunctional as hell.”
“I like wild,” I say, before I can help myself.
She glances at me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
“I’ve been known to flirt from time to time. Just trying to turn it up for my wife, is all.”
“Let me guess. Uptight Nigerians don’t flirt often, either?” she jokes.
“I’ve never really been accustomed to it. I’m more direct than cunning.”
We slow to a stop, standing at the edge of the go-kart track. Engines roar and kids laugh like the world hasn’t given them a single reason not to. Aspen stands beside me, her face tipped up just enough that the arcade lights catch the soft curve of her cheek.
I glance at her, curious. “Where’d you get the name Aspen? And don’t tell me it’s where you were conceived or something dreadfully unoriginal.”
She smiles, a little mischievous, and shakes her head. “It’s where my dad proposed to my mom. They go back every year for their anniversary.”
I blink. “Very romantic.”
“You sound shocked.”
I chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “I suppose I am. My father doesn’t have a romantic bone in his body and I’m cursed with the same fate.”
“Yeah, sure,” she says sarcastically.
“I’m serious. One year, for my mum’s birthday, he surprised her by paying off the mortgage in full.”
She gasps, hand flying to her chest. “You are lying.”
“Swear on my life. Goat stew went flying. There was yelling. My uncle had to step in before she murdered him.”
She laughs so loud, people glance over. “Your mom must’ve been livid.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. From that moment on, he’s been banned from buying gifts without consulting my sister first. She now curates all acts of sentiment in our household.”
Aspen shakes her head, still laughing. “If my dad tried that, my mother would end him.”
“Exactly. Like I said, I’m cursed with the same fate.
I think that’s part of the reason I’m so awkward when it comes to romance.
It wasn’t modeled in my home. We had respect, tradition, and duty.
But flowers, candlelight, and poetry?” I glance down at her, the humor fading into something more sincere.
“That’s not something I’m accustomed to. ”
She doesn’t tease me or mock the admission. Instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing against mine in a way that feels subtle yet reassuring.
“I don’t need poetry,” she murmurs. “Just real.”
And somehow, I believe her.
She’s quiet for a heartbeat, staring off into the light-streaked distance with an unreadable expression. Without looking at me, she asks, “So, you’re the type to just go in for the kill? No pretense?”
There’s a challenge vibrating in her voice.
It’s a dare dressed up as casual conversation.
She’s read me perfectly. That’s exactly the type of man I am.
I’m predatory by nature, and I’ve been hunting this specific moment since the second I heard her voice in the pods.
I knew then that I’d have to have her. I knew I’d have to make her mine.
I’m only indulging in this walk, taking my time with this beautiful creature, because I’m already certain that one night as her husband won't be enough.
So, I walk with her, praying the night drags on a little longer.
And because I’m not sure if I’ll ever get this chance again, or if she’ll call out the “safe word” the second I pull away, I decide to stop playing. I go in for the kill.
I turn toward her, my hands cupping her face, and claim her. The kiss is light at first—a silent, pulsing question waiting for the slightest hint of permission.
She doesn't just give it, she relinquishes it.
Her lips part under mine and I deepen the kiss, drawn in by the staggering softness of her mouth and the way she leans into me as if she’s been waiting for this all night.
Like me.
She tastes like mahogany and masochism. She’s a slow burn—warm, intoxicating, and just radiant enough to make you forget why you ever feared the flame in the first place.
“What was that for?” she breathes, and I smile against her lips.
“I’m not entirely sure. But it makes for a hell of a first date kiss story, doesn't it?”
Her smile widens, and in the neon-soaked haze of the arcade, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Best first date kiss I’ve ever had,” she whispers, our foreheads still touching.
Then, something flickers behind her eyes. A sudden pullback, a mental reset. It’s as if she’s trying to find her footing on shaky ground. “Why do you feel so real?” She asks.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
She exhales, that girlish grin returning with a hint of mischievousness underneath. “A round of go-kart races while we figure out what this is between us?”
I take her hand, anchoring her to me. “Lead the way, Ms. Mysterious. I’m rather enjoying getting to know my wife.”