Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
NAJI
“ Y ou sure you ready to go back?” Imanio asked, standing by the front door to see me off to work—arms crossed, dressed like a quiet storm in a tailored, light brown suit that framed his broad shoulders and tapered waist to perfection.
My husband looked good.
Imanio had that look… like one of those actors women would pause the TV for or claim as her ‘TV Husband’.
The nigga was just fine without even trying.
He smelled different that day too—which, honestly, wasn’t a surprise.
After being invited into his room that first night, I noticed the setup immediately.
There were no bottles cluttered on a dresser like some drugstore display; just a glass-encased shelf built into the wall beside his walk-in closet, recessed lighting casting a soft glow on a curated collection of high-end colognes.
Everything was spaced intentionally—labels facing outward, no fingerprints.
It didn’t take me long to realize where a quiet chunk of his money went and that he liked to smell good .
The cologne Imanio wore that day had a spice with hints of vanilla and amber—clean, smooth, grown-man sexy.
It smelled like the kind of cologne a person would lean into, not away from.
I was dressed too, though not as intimidating.
My uniform was simple but clean—a navy, staff-issued polo tucked into fitted black joggers, paired with non-slip sneakers laced tight.
My work badge was clipped neatly to my waistband, and a folded set of labeled feeding schedules peeked from the side pocket of my backpack, right where I always kept them.
I smiled, stepping closer.
“Imanio, we’ve… we’ve had this talk… at least five times this past weekend; two of those times you were shirtless and distracting.”
He gave me that look—the one where his eyes narrowed just slightly and head tilted like he was debating whether to argue or eat me alive.
“Exactly,” he said, voice low. “And you still think I’m supposed to just let you walk out the door like I ain’t had yo’ legs around my neck since Saturday night?”
I was spiraling in slow motion.
We spent all Saturday night and Sunday wrapped up in each other— literally and emotionally.
I slept in his arms, laughed in his lap, watched TV with him, and moaned into his mouth more times than I could count.
No physical sex had taken place, and honestly I was scared—not of him, but of the things he’d said.
Imanio didn’t just talk dirty; he talked direct and said things that made my stomach flip and my knees press together under the covers.
“Once I’m inside you, Naji… that’s it. No going back. I don’t do halfway. I’m not letting you walk normal or think straight for at least two days. You say yes to me, and I’m taking all of you—mind, body, soul, and every sound you try to hold back.”
He said that in a low voice, right up against my ear with a hand resting on my thigh like he was already halfway there.
And I believed him.
I started to see him too. Imanio was no longer the ruthless, grumpy, emotionless guy I met; he was more curious, open, and vulnerable, even.
He laughed a little more too, and I felt it in places I didn’t even know had nerves.
Not to be mistaken, Imanio hadn’t turned soft, but he was definitely breaking —in a good way… letting little cracks show.
“Question. You celebrate the Fourth?” he randomly asked.
“The fourth of July? N-No. I… don’t have family to celebrate it with for one. Most important, it’s not really a holiday for us. I mean… our ancestors were still picking cotton and dodging whips in 1776.”
His eyes met mine, and to my surprise, he nodded slowly.
“Facts.”
“I’d love to sit around and eat, b-but celebrating ‘independence’ when our ancestors weren’t even free? That’s l-like throwing a birthday party at somebody else’s funeral.”
That made him laugh. “Damn. You dramatic as hell, but accurate. I don’t celebrate it either. Same reason. I just—” he shrugged, “I show up for the ribs.”
“A-And the potato salad?” I giggled.
“As long as that shit don’t have onions and raisins in it.”
We both laughed at that. It felt… natural.
“So… you cook?” Imanio randomly asked.
I eyed him with a crooked brow. “I was raised by my grandma; of course I cook.”
“Yeah, but grandmas don’t usually BBQ. They do cornbread, greens, oxtails… not brisket and burgers. Then again, mine did both,” he said, proudly. “She grilled so good the neighbors used to ‘stop by’ with empty plates, talking bout they ‘just happened to be walking past.’”
I chuckled and nodded.
“Aight, so since we both really don’t celebrate the holiday, how about this—next weekend we throw something. Not for the Fourth, just for us,” he suggested.
“L-Like a cookout?”
“Yeah. Celebration of… existing. Us not killing each other by now.”
I grinned. “I like that. But it can’t be here. Y-your house is too quiet and clean.”
“ Our house,” he corrected, a sly expression tugging at his mouth. “And I wasn’t planning to have it here.”
“Oh?”
“I got another spot.”
I blinked. “You-You got another house?”
“I actually have two other ones… just not for this life.”
I frowned, my eye giving a sharp squeeze as a jerk rippled down my arm.
“W-What does that even mean?”
Then, louder—sharper—like it tore its way out of me before I could cage it:
“Don’t say riddles, say words!”
The moment it escaped, I flinched—shoulders jolting—as if I could snatch it back midair.
“Neither is a bachelor pad… if that’s what you were thinking,” he said, once my tic passed. “One is a crib I use for work—photoshoots, interviews, business-type shit. The other one? That’s my escape. Nobody knows about it but Chi, Dess… and now you. I go there when I need to think… clear my head.”
I nodded slowly, letting that settle. But an idea had already started blooming in my mind—one that felt bigger than us.
“You know,” I began, glancing at him, “instead of a cookout… what if we m-made it something real? Like a full-on back-to-school block party?”
He looked over at me with interest but didn’t speak yet, so I kept going.
“I mean it. Something in the neighborhood you grew up in. The end of July g-gives us time to plan, lock in vendors, get permits—whatever we need. You’ve helped so many people behind the scenes…
but this would be public. P-People would see you ain’t some ghost. That you still remember where you came from. ”
I paused for a second, a nervous flutter dancing in my fingers before I tucked my hands in my lap.
“And I think it’d be good for your i-image too… make them see who you really are.”
Imanio rubbed his chin, head slightly tilted in thought.
“Damn. That’s… actually dope. I’ll run it by my publicist first and see what she thinks. But yeah; you might be on to something.”
“You bring the people, I’ll bring the mac and cheese,” I said with a grin.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’on know if I trust you with that much responsibility already.”
I gasped, half-laughing. “I’ll have you k-k-know I make the best mac and cheese,” I spoke confidently.
Imanio smirked. “Let me and the people be the judge of that. I’ll put you down for it, but Naji… if you mess that up, we calling yo’ grandma’s ghost for an intervention. She gon’ show up in a cloud of cornbread dust, talkin’ ‘bout, ‘Not my recipe!’”
I laughed so hard I hiccupped, a quick tic jolting my shoulder. “Y-You’re silly,” I muttered, wiping a tear.
“I’m serious about that mac and cheese, Naji. Don’t play with us.”
We shared a laugh. Then he got serious.
“Aight. I know you gotta go. Shid, I do too. Your driver is here waiting in the car,” he informed me. “Hold up.”
Imanio pulled out his phone and tapped a contact.
“Yo,” he said into the receiver, “Come to the door. She’s ready,” then hung up without another word.
A few moments later, a tall man with dark brown skin, faded waves, and a calm but alert demeanor came walking up to the porch. He wore a sleek black jacket, black jeans, and a holster that he didn’t even try to hide.
“This is Reese,” Imanio introduced. “He’ll be taking you to and from work from now on.”
“Morning, ma’am,” Reese greeted, nodding politely.
My nerves twitched before my mouth could catch up.
“W-Who the hell is this oatmeal-colored tax refund lookin’ muthaf—ah! Sorry!”
Imanio stepped between us, his hand gently but firmly settling at the small of my back like he was re-centering me.
“I forgot to mention that she has Tourette’s,” he told Reese calmly. “Strangers make her a bit nervous. So don’t take anything personal.”
Reese raised a brow, then nodded. “Understood, boss.”
“You ain’t gotta speak unless she asks you something,” Imanio added.
“She gets overstimulated easily—too much noise or energy can trigger her tics. So no loud talking. No sudden moves. Don’t slam the doors.
Don’t blast the music. Don’t try to crack jokes.
Your job is to keep her comfortable and get her there and bring her back home safely.
That’s it. If she so much as looks uncomfortable when she returns, I’m holding you accountable. ”
Reese’s face didn’t move. “Got it, boss.”
Imanio gave him one final look. A silent warning passed between them.
“Let’s go,” he said to me.
Imanio walked me to the car, hand still pressed to my back, like I was glass he didn't trust the world to hold.
When we got to the passenger side, he opened the door for me. I started to step in, but he stopped me with a gentle touch under my chin.
“Make sure you call me on your break, text me throughout the day and when you get off. I don’t want to wonder.”
His eyes dropped to my hand—the new iPhone sitting pretty in my palm.
Imanio didn’t just reactivate my old one or slap a SIM card into the past. He gave me something new, clean, fast and secure. And in a weird way, I knew that was his love language. He didn’t give me what I had… he gave me what I deserved .
“I will,” I assured, meeting his eyes.