Chapter 17
NIA
Ronan held the door for me, and his eyes did that slow-burn appreciation thing that made my skin heat up.
I’d picked this burgundy wrap dress knowing damn well what it did for my curves.
The way his gaze lingered on me still sent a flutter through my stomach like I was a schoolgirl on her first date instead of a grown woman who’d spent the last two hours debating which earrings would complement the dress and my hair just right.
“You going to stare all night, or are we going inside?” I teased, enjoying the way his eyes snapped back up to meet mine, that slight caught-in-the-act smile making an appearance.
He placed his hand at the small of my back as we stepped inside, the warmth of his palm radiating through the thin fabric of my dress. “Can’t I do both?”
Spiced rum hit me first, and a smoky scent that reminded me of my granddaddy’s Sunday cigars.
Savannah’s Soul was everything a Black-owned jazz club should be: intimate without feeling cramped, classy without being pretentious.
Photos of jazz legends lined the dark wood walls, and the tables faced a small stage where a live band played something slow and familiar, making my shoulders immediately relax.
Ronan leaned close to my ear. “You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
If anyone else had said it, it might have sounded like a line, but Ronan’s words carried genuine appreciation. I glanced up at him, taking in how fine he looked in that charcoal gray suit that fit him like someone had poured it onto his frame.
I straightened his already-perfect tie just for an excuse to touch him. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
The host approached, a sister with beautiful red locs piled artfully on top of her head, smiling like she could read exactly what was happening between us. “Welcome to Savannah’s Soul. Just the two of you tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ronan answered, his hand never leaving the small of my back.
She led us through the dimly lit space, weaving between tables where other couples sat close, heads bent toward each other, fingers intertwined over white tablecloths. The saxophone notes rose and fell in conversation with piano keys, the bass keeping time like a steady heartbeat.
She gestured to a corner table partially secluded by an ornate wooden screen but with a perfect view of the stage. “Here we are. Vincent will be your server tonight. Enjoy your evening.”
I slid into the plush velvet seat, and Ronan sat across from me. The table was small and intimate.
“What?” Ronan asked, that half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he caught me staring.
“I was thinking about how different this is from the first time I saw you.”
The band transitioned to a rendition of “Summertime” that made my heart ache with its beauty. The trumpet player closed his eyes as he coaxed notes that seemed to hang suspended in the air above us.
“And now?” I asked, almost afraid to break the moment, but needing to hear him say it.
“Now I see all of you. The brilliant professor, the fearless activist, the woman who called me on my shit in a holding cell, . . . the Nia who feels like home.”
“Wow, that’s so sweet.” I put my hand over my heart. We’d taken the hardest path to get here, moving from adversaries to reluctant allies, to lovers kept apart by life and our own mistakes. Yet somehow, against all odds, we found our way to this table, to this moment, choosing each other openly.
“It’s the truth.”
Our server arrived, a young brother with glasses and short locs, who smiled professionally but with that extra warmth reserved for folks who looked like him. “Good evening. Welcome to Savannah’s Soul. Can I start you both with something to drink?”
Ronan looked at me first, a small gesture that spoke volumes, not taking charge, not assuming, but offering me the first choice.
“Bourbon, neat. Whatever’s local,” I replied.
“Make that two,” Ronan added.
As the server nodded and left, the band started a new song, bluesy and full of longing, matching the energy between us. The saxophone player stepped forward, his instrument shining under the lights as he played a solo that seemed to say everything I couldn’t.
“I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
Ronan’s fingers tightened around mine. “Took us long enough.”
The bourbon arrived in heavy crystal tumblers. Ronan lifted his glass, waiting for me to do the same.
“To taking the scenic route,” he said.
I clinked my glass against his. “To getting where we needed to be.”
Across the table, Ronan loosened his tie.
There was something intimate about watching him relax, like being granted access to a private showing of who he was when the world wasn’t watching.
The band shifted to a stronger beat. The bassist took center stage, and I swayed slightly in my seat, the music working its way into my bloodstream alongside the bourbon.
“What are you thinking about ordering?” Ronan asked, scanning the menu.
I shrugged, enjoying the fluid movement of my shoulders under the silky dress. “Everything looks good. You ever had their collard green egg rolls?”
“Can’t say that I have. Are they worth trying?”
I tapped the menu. “Absolutely. And the sweet potato biscuits, but I’m definitely getting the blackened catfish. This has been my spot ever since Talia told me about this place.”
Ronan closed his menu with decisive confidence. “Then I’m in your hands, Dr. Price.”
Vincent returned, notebook poised. “Ready to order?”
“We’ll start with the collard green egg rolls and sweet potato biscuits, and I’ll have the blackened catfish,” I said, setting my menu aside.
“Make that two, with the spicy sauce, not mild. For both of us.” His eyes flicked to me, checking for confirmation.
I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. “Man remembered I like it hot.”
“I remember everything you like,” Ronan replied after Vincent left, his voice dropping to a lower register that seemed reserved for moments when it was just us.
“Everything?”
“Enough to know that you prefer bourbon over vodka, spicy to mild, and that you have a sweet tooth that won’t quit. That’s why I’m going to order the peach cobbler for dessert and watch you try not to steal more than your half.”
I laughed. “You think you know me so well?”
“I’m getting there. Every day, a little more.”
Our conversation flowed easily as we avoided any heavy topics. Instead, we argued about the best BBQ spots in Alabama.
“You can’t be serious right now; Dreamland is the only correct answer.” I protested when he claimed some spot in Montgomery had the best ribs in the state.
“Dreamland is for tourists, too commercial now. Lost its soul.”
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock outrage. “The disrespect! Next, you’ll be telling me you put sugar in your cornbread.”
“Never that. I’m not a complete heathen.” He held up his hands in surrender.
Our appetizers arrived, saving him from more BBQ debates. The egg rolls were just as I remembered—crispy on the outside, filled with seasoned collards, smoked turkey, and a bit of heat that made your lips tingle. I watched Ronan take his first bite, his eyes widening as the flavors hit him.
“Damn, that’s something else.”
I reached for a sweet potato biscuit. “Told you. Try these with the honey butter.”
Ronan did as instructed; his expression shifted to pure pleasure. Watching him enjoy food I’d recommended felt strangely intimate, like sharing a piece of myself beyond words or physical touch.
I dipped my biscuit in the honey butter. “What was your honest first impression of me? And don’t try to sweet-talk your way out of this. I want the truth.”
Ronan sipped his bourbon. “Honestly? I thought you were brilliant and terrifying.”
Laughter rippled through me at the thought. “Terrifying? Wait, you were the one with a gun, and I scared you?”
“More than any armed suspect ever did. You were ready to dismantle me with all those statistics. Had my whole department sweating.”
“Unfortunately, that was my goal, but what about in the holding cell?”
“When I saw the way you comforted that scared student, I knew I was in trouble.”
“Trouble, huh?”
“The best kind. What was your first impression of me?” Ronan asked.
“That you were a sellout for a badge and a title,” I admitted.
“Damn, but it’s a fair assessment based on what you knew.”
Our main courses arrived: two plates of perfectly blackened catfish over dirty rice, the spicy sauce drizzled artfully around the edges.
We were quiet; the food was too good to waste time talking.
Ronan made sounds of appreciation with his first bite that hit me low in my belly, reminding me of other sounds I’d heard him make in more private settings.
When Vincent cleared our empty plates, he returned almost immediately with a generous slice of peach cobbler topped with vanilla ice cream slowly melting into the warm fruit.
“Compliments of the chef.” He placed the dessert in the center of the table and withdrew, leaving us with the tempting creation between us.
Ronan gestured toward the cobbler. “Ladies first.”
I reached for a spoon.
“Sweet enough for you?” I asked as he finally took my first bite of the cobbler.
He licked the spoon clean. “Yeah, but I might need something sweeter before the night’s through.”
I pulled my lip between my teeth. “Is that right?”
Ronan signaled for the check. The band transitioned into a slow melody, the opening notes flowing like honey. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and I knew what was coming before he even opened his lips to speak. My body was already answering yes before the question formed.
Ronan stood and extended his hand, palm up. “Dance with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.” I placed my hand in his, allowing him to guide me.
We moved toward the small dance floor where a few other couples were already swaying together, lost in their own private worlds. Etta’s rich voice filled the restaurant.