CHAPTER 5 #2
"Well... you better don't start getting no wild ideas about me, honey!
" Naomi said, a huge, mischievous grin breaking across her face as she headed toward the pantry.
"I am absolutely not up for grabs! I’m a respectable, church-going woman from the Bronx, Helisa!
I got a deacon waiting for me at the tabernacle! "
I let out a genuine, clear laugh that resonated off the stainless steel appliances. It felt good to laugh like that—unpolished and real. "Actually, Naomi... I don't mean to hurt your feelings or blow your confidence, but you are definitely not my type. You're far too loud before breakfast."
"Oh, thank God!" the older woman heaved a massive, dramatic sigh of relief, throwing her hands up toward the recessed lighting before walking over and tapping me playfully on my bare, sweaty shoulder with her wooden spoon.
"The stress I just felt in my chest! I thought my job description was about to change! "
"Stop it, Naomi," I said, dropping my voice into that smooth, sultry register, stepping back to playfully showcase my physique—the long, athletic lines of my torso, the definition in my obliques, the statuesque presence that usually made venture capitalists sweat during funding rounds. "You act like I’m all bad and shit. I’m an excellent catch.
Any woman would be lucky to have this view and this retirement plan. "
"Nah, you’re good, child. You’re beautiful," Naomi chuckled, her tone dropping into that rich, old-school wisdom as she reached into the basket on the counter for a couple of red onions.
She placed them on the heavy walnut chopping board, the knife gleaming under the lights.
"But I’m old school, Helisa. Through and through.
I like my men... well, I like 'em heavy and I like 'em functional. Nothing in this world feels better than being dicked down properly by a man that truly loves you. That’s just the gospel truth according to Naomi. "
I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of my water, thoroughly amused by her total lack of corporate filter.
"And truth be told," Naomi continued, her knife coming down with a steady, professional chop-chop-chop through the red onion skin, "the older you get, the hornier you become, honey!
An old lady like me has to get it on a regular basis just to keep the joints lubricated.
Don't let the gray hairs fool you. The factory is still open for business. "
"So..." I leaned in, a rare, playful smirk on my face as I teased her. "You’re out here getting your back broken properly at nights when you leave this penthouse, huh? The Bronx is wilder than I thought."
"Damn right I am!" Naomi laughed out loud, her chest heaving as she reached for a heavy cast-iron frying pan from the rack.
"And even though I like to be licked every now and then, honey, let me tell you something—nothing beats the real thing.
Nothing beats a man who knows what he's doing with his cock. "
"Speak for yourself," I muttered under my breath, looking down at the condensation on my water bottle.
"I am speaking for myself!" Naomi quipped back instantly, not missing a single beat as she threw a dollop of butter into the pan.
"But child, on a serious note... what the hell do you do when you get horny up in this big old empty house?
Because the walls can't hold that kind of frustration, and I know you ain't out here visiting the clubs. "
"A girl has her toys, Naomi," I revealed, the corporate mask completely slipping away in the warmth of her kitchen. "They keep me company at night... and they sure as hell won't break my heart, request alimony, or leak my private data to the press."
Naomi stopped chopping, turning her head to give me a look of pure, unadulterated judgment.
"You see? That is exactly the damn thing with you young people nowadays: always running away from anything that feels real because you scared of a little friction.
I could never play with them little plastic, battery-operated contraptions you young people got hidden in your nightstands.
No ma'am. I like to be knocked down good and pounded straight to sleep by a real human being.
Nothing in this world beats that feeling. "
She turned back to the stove, the butter beginning to sizzle and foam in the pan.
"You need to stop playing with them toys, Helisa, and find you a real nigga.
Or... in your case, since you want to be different, find you a real, down-to-earth, genuine chick that will love you for exactly who you are, and make crazy love to you until you forget your own net worth and your stock options. "
I stood there for a beat, the warmth of her words hitting me in a place I rarely let anyone touch. "Alright... I feel you on that last part, Naomi. The realness. It's hard to find in this zip code."
I walked over to the pantry, pulling out two cans of premium solid white albacore tuna, and set them down on the counter right next to her chopping board. "Got to get that protein up. Today is going to be an incredibly long day, and I need my energy focused."
Naomi scooped the chopped onions and diced sweet peppers into her hand, sliding them into the hot butter with a loud, aggressive sizzle that instantly filled the penthouse with the rich, savory aroma of a real kitchen.
"By the way," Naomi said, her voice cutting through the hiss of the pan as she picked up a can opener. "How was that new intern you were stressing over last week? The one from Harlem with the long resume?"
The question hit me like a low-voltage shock. My mind instantly flashed back to yesterday morning—the conference room on the fortieth floor, the smell of cocoa butter and outside air that had drifted in with her, and the way those incredibly thick, powerful legs had looked beneath her pencil skirt.
"What can I say..." I began, my voice drifting as I walked away from the island and stepped toward the massive floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading to my private terrace. "She was... surprising."
"Surprising?" Naomi raised an eyebrow, her knife pausing above the celery. "That is a very strange choice of words for an intern, Helisa. Usually you call 'em incompetent, lazy, or occasionally useful. Never 'surprising.' Did she break something?"
"No, nothing like that," I said, sliding the heavy glass door open and stepping out onto the concrete terrace.
I leaned against the stone balustrade, letting the cool breeze hit my bare skin, but my mind was stuck in the boardroom.
"She has this... this fire in her, Naomi. Oddly enough, she reminds me a lot of my younger self, back when I had to fight for every inch of space in those tech incubators down in Silicon Alley. And she’s a remarkably fast learner too. "
I paused, my eyes tracing the horizon where the sun was hitting the Chrysler Building, but what I was actually visualizing was the sharp, confident curve of her jaw, the deep intensity of her rich brown skin, and the way her box braids cascaded down her back like a waterfall.
"She looks like a model," I murmured, almost entirely to myself, the filter completely gone. "Like a thicker... younger, more grounded version of Tyra Banks, but with these long, flawless braids that hit her waist."
"Well," Naomi’s voice drifted out from the kitchen, packed with a heavy, knowing amusement that made me want to close the door. "That last part was very, your specific, child. It sounds to me like you fancy this little intern more than a manager should."
The word 'fancy' snapped me out of my trance like a bucket of ice water. I blinked, my corporate posture instantly returning as I turned around and walked back into the climate-controlled living room.
"Nah, nothing like that," I said quickly, waving my hand to dismiss the notion, though my cheeks felt slightly warm. "Absolutely not. She’s just different, Naomi. That’s all. Yet... she feels incredibly familiar. It’s a strange energy to have in an office environment."
"Mmm-hmm," Naomi hummed, a low, rhythmic sound as she began mixing the tuna with the warm, sautéed onions in a glass bowl.
"That is exactly what you need, girl. A younger, realer version of you to make you feel whole again.
Someone to pull you out of all this glass, steel, and lonely success.
Tell you what—I want to meet this girl. Bring her over sometime for dinner.
Responsibly, of course. Let's say tomorrow night. "
She paused, pointing her mixing spoon at me with a sudden, sharp intensity that broke no argument.
"And make sure you bring over that loudmouth secretary of yours, Ciara, too!
I got a real bone to pick with that little girl after she had the nerve to tell me Aunt May down the block cooks a better oxtail than me! The absolute audacity of youth!"
"Ciara said that?" I asked, my jaw dropping slightly in genuine surprise before a sharp laugh broke through. "Oh, she’s completely tripping. Aunt May can't come anywhere near your kitchen, Naomi. You are the absolute best in the game, hands down. I'd fire her for that if it wasn't a HR violation."
"That is exactly what I told the bitch!" Naomi remarked, her voice rising in righteous indignation as she dropped two slices of brioche bread into the toaster.
"But her mouth just keeps on babbling, running around the office giving Aunt May all this fake confidence!
She don't know nothing about real seasoning or how to tenderize meat!
You tell her I said her tastebuds are broken. "
"I’ll have to talk to her the minute I get to the office," I smiled, the image of Ciara’s dramatic office antics crossing my mind.
"She’s bugging. I’ve tasted Aunt May’s oxtail at the neighborhood block party last year, and it cannot beat yours...
especially when you add those specific Jamaican spices you import.
It’s not even in the same conversation."