21. Let the Woo Commence
LET THE WOO COMMENCE
SAUL
It’s Sunday afternoon and Tessa still hasn’t called.
So, I decide to text her.
Me: Good afternoon, beautiful.
She doesn’t respond. But I know she read my message.
I recheck my phone for the hundredth time an hour later and still there’s no response. The silence from her feels louder than anything else in my world right now. I shouldn’t be surprised. I hurt her. I walked away. But damn, waiting for her to make the next move is its own special kind of torture.
Patience has never been my strong suit, but for her? I’ll learn.
I refuse to push her too far, to demand too much too soon. If Tessa Baptiste returns to me, it won’t be because I cornered her into it. It’ll be because I earned her.
So, I make a plan.
If she won’t call me, I’ll draw her out.
I’ll remind her, every single day, of what it means to be mine.
But today is Sunday, which means I’m heading to the local community center to volunteer with some local young men.
I started working with them a week after I arrived in New Orleans.
I needed something—anything—to keep me from spiraling. Watching Tessa from a distance, knowing I couldn’t go to her yet, had nearly driven me mad. So, when I found a recreational rugby league through an app that focused on introducing African-American boys to the sport, I signed up without thinking twice.
At first, I kept to myself. I showed up, ran drills, worked the boys hard, and left. There was no small talk, no unnecessary conversations, just the game—the same way I had approached my entire life. I introduced myself as Marcus Mitchell; no one thought anything about it.
But the center director, Michael Appiah, a fellow Ghanaian didn’t let that stand for long.
He was one of the first people I met in New Orleans who knew who I was. Most Ghanaians know who I am, we tend to keep up with our superstars. Without saying a word, he understood that I wanted to keep my identity under wraps, and I appreciated that.
It also helps that he’s the deputy mayor of New Orleans. I figured having a cordial relationship with the city’s Chief Administrative Officer could come in handy.
Especially now that the police chief is on my ass.
When I started, Michael didn’t care that I used to be one of the best Rugby players in Europe or that I tried to build a small culinary empire in LA. My footwork on the pitch caught his attention, and the way I barked at the kids to get into formation made it seem as if I were still leading a professional squad.
“You’re a natural coach,” he told me after our first scrimmage, wiping sweat from his brow.
I grunted in response.
That was week one.
By week two, he was asking questions.
“Why the hell is a British-Ghanaian chef with a net worth I can’t even guess volunteering in a local recreation league?”
I ignored him.
By week three, he stopped asking. Instead, he just talked .
He told me about his past—how he grew up in Accra before moving to the States, fell in love with the sport back home, and fought like hell to keep playing when he moved to a country that barely recognized it. He told me about when he knew his wife was the one—the day she called him out for being a stubborn, closed-off bastard who couldn’t let people in.
That was the first time I laughed since coming back to New Orleans.
It’s been six weeks, and I’m still holding my cards close to my chest, but Michael? He’s not having it. Today he wants to talk.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, Saul Mensah,” he says as we watch the boys run passing drills. “Too damn tough.”
I shrug, keeping my eyes on the game.
Michael exhales sharply and leans on the fence beside me. “Look, I don’t know what you’re running from. I don’t care. But I know this—whatever it is, it’s bleeding into every part of your life. Including her.”
That gets my attention. I glance at him, my expression guarded.
He smirks. “Yeah, her. Do you think I don’t notice how you check your phone every ten minutes like you’re waiting for a miracle? The way your face twists up every time you mention something about your past? Man, I see you. And if you want her back, you need to stop being such a damn coward.”
I clench my jaw, resisting the urge to tell him to mind his business.
“You want my advice?” he continues. “Stop hiding. Be open. Give her everything. No secrets. ”
I don’t respond.
Because I can’t.
Patrick’s name swims to the surface of my mind, the memory of that night hitting me like a freight train. I’ve told Tessa most of the truth but not all of it. Not the part that would change the way she sees me forever.
I shove the thought away and focus back on the field. “You giving relationship advice now?”
Michael chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, just giving you a fighting chance.”
I smirk despite myself. “And here I thought you wanted to talk Rugby.”
Michael claps a hand on my shoulder. “Rugby’s about trust, Saul. You can’t win a match if you don’t trust your team. And you can’t win a woman back if you don’t trust her with the truth.”
His words follow me off the field, clinging to my skin like sweat.
When I climb into my car, I’m still thinking about them.
No secrets.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, shaking off the guilt that tries to crawl up my throat.
I can’t tell Tessa everything.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because if she knew—if she truly knew—she might never look at me the same way again.
Still, later that night, before I lay down, I text her.
Me: Good night, goddess.
Monday
I started simple. Since I didn’t know her favorite flowers, I sent my grandmother’s, praying she loved them.
A bouquet of wild peonies and white orchids, fresh and delicate, is delivered to Bad Mama Jamma’s before she even walks in the door. The petals are soft, the colors a perfect contrast—blush pink against pure white, with hints of deep green foliage peeking through. The scent, subtle yet intoxicating, lingers in the air like an unspoken promise. I don’t have to sign the card. She’ll know.
By noon, my phone buzzes.
Tessa: Thanks, Saul.
That’s it. Nothing else. No heart emoji, no exclamation mark, no hint of whether she’s smiling as she types it. But the fact that she texted at all? That’s something.
I grin and resist the urge to call her immediately, to ask if she liked them, if they made her think of me. Instead, I take my time crafting the perfect response—something light, easy. Something that doesn’t scream I’m waiting.
Me: Good morning, beautiful.
I hit send and lean back, waiting. Wondering if she’ll answer right away. Wondering if the flowers made her pause, even for a second, the way she makes me pause every damn time I think of her.
Tuesday
Today's gift is personal. Thoughtful. A piece of home.
I send her a carefully curated basket filled with the finest Ghanaian chocolates—smooth, rich, and made from cocoa beans grown in the sun-drenched fields of West Africa. Alongside them, jars of handmade jams from a family-owned shop in Accra, each one bursting with the flavors of mango, hibiscus, and spiced pineapple. These are the kinds my grandmother used to stock in her restaurant, the ones I grew up sneaking spoonfuls of when no one was looking.
I hope Tessa will appreciate them—not just for their taste, but for what they mean.
By midday, my phone vibrates with a new message.
Tessa: You think you’re slick, huh?
I chuckle, already picturing the way she must have tilted her head, her lips curving into that knowing smirk. She’s intrigued. That much, I can tell.
Me: Not slick. Just determined.
She doesn’t reply, but I don’t need her to. I can already see it: her fingers lingering over the screen, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips as she unwraps a piece of dark chocolate, savoring it slowly.
She’s thinking about me.
And that’s exactly the point.
Wednesday
Today, I get strategic. After scrolling through her Instagram—every caption, every like, every wistful comment—I find my answer.
Months ago, Tessa posted about a rare vintage cookbook, one she had been searching for but could never get her hands on. The pages, she wrote, held stories as much as recipes. A piece of history. Inspiration.
I tracked down a pristine copy, the kind collectors hoard, pages slightly yellowed but perfectly intact. Wrapped in silk, the weight of it feels significant—like something meant to be passed down, cherished. I have it delivered to her shop with a simple note:
For inspiration.
This time, her text comes faster.
Tessa: Stop it.
I can practically hear the exasperation in her voice, but I know her too well. She’s touched. She’s fighting a smile.
Me: Not a chance, goddess.
She doesn’t reply right away, but that’s fine. I imagine her turning the book over in her hands, running her fingers along the worn cover, flipping through pages filled with handwritten notes from cooks long gone.
She wanted this book.
And now, she has it.
Because she’s mine.
Thursday
She still hasn’t agreed to dinner, but I know I’m getting close. I feel it in the way she lingers just a little longer in our texts, in the way her responses come faster, sharper—teasing, but never dismissive. She’s waiting for me to flinch, to back off.
Not happening.
So, I up the stakes.
The Valentino dress is a risk—a deep crimson masterpiece that looks like it was stitched together with seduction and defiance. The matching Louboutin heels, sleek and impossibly high, and the Valentino clutch, small but commanding, complete the package.
It’s bold. It’s over the top. And it’s exactly what she deserves.
I make sure it arrives at Bad Mama Jamma’s before closing, the box wrapped in black satin with a single card tucked inside:
For a night worth remembering.
Silence.
Hours pass with nothing. No text, no reaction, no playful jab. For the first time in days, doubt creeps in. Maybe I miscalculated. Maybe I pushed too far.
Then, just before midnight, my phone lights up.
Tessa: Fine. One dinner. No promises.
I exhale, relief settling deep in my chest, but it’s more than that. It’s satisfaction. Anticipation. Because we both know—this isn’t just one dinner.
Me: I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear the dress.
She doesn’t respond.
But she will.