Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Monday afternoon found me in a Saint Aurelia logistics meeting with the weekend still under my skin and several pieces of Andre Jones still scattered through my condo.
The flowers arrived Saturday morning, and after I kissed him all over his handsome face in thanks, he spent the rest of the day helping me unpack.
Mostly.
The discovery of his old AWU letterman jacket in the back of my closet interrupted productivity for reasons I was not prepared to discuss in a conference room full of coworkers.
Dre had gone completely still when he saw the purple wool and gold leather hanging behind coats I actually wore.
His name was still stitched across the chest, his number pressed into the sleeve, and after nearly eight years I had apparently done a better job protecting that jacket than I had some of my retirement statements.
“You kept my jacket.”
His voice had gone quiet.
“I kept a lot of things.”
That was all I managed before his eyes dropped to my mouth.
The fuller version eventually involved me wearing the jacket and almost nothing else while proving adulthood had improved several skills I first attempted in college.
He helped me unpack.
Mostly.
Before he left Saturday night, I opened the little bowl near the door and took out the spare key I had tossed there when I moved in.
Dre looked at my palm, then at me. “This mine?”
“It’s a key, Andre. You understand how they work.”
His mouth twitched. “You giving me a key to your place and trying to act like that ain’t something?”
“I’m giving you access.”
“That’s what I said.”
I rolled my eyes. “Give it back.”
His fist closed around it. “Hell no.”
I tried not to smile and failed, which only made him look more pleased with himself.
By Sunday, enough boxes had disappeared that my condo finally looked like somewhere I intended to stay. We watched the Forge lose at his place, and when Dre grew quiet in the second half, leaning forward with one hand rubbing his jaw while the running backs kept missing cuts he saw before the snap.
I did not repeat the speech I'd already given him.
I moved behind him instead and worked my thumbs into the tight muscles across his shoulders until some of the tension finally gave.
Dre went quiet under my hands, head bowed, letting me take care of something without turning it into a joke.
When he finally leaned back into me, I kissed his temple and left the football alone.
Now it was Monday, and diamonds required my attention.
“Say it again,” I told Cleo.
She stood at the head of the conference table in black slacks, a white button-down, red frames, and the expression of a woman carrying glamour, opportunity, and aggravation in the same hand.
“Marisol’s team moved the fitting,” she said. “Laila Hart needs the bracelet and pear drops in Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. Three-thirty Pacific at the latest.”
I stared at her.
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“That fitting was next month.”
“It was. Now Laila has a press preview before the Ellington campaign rollout. Private dinner, controlled portraits, a lot more eyes than the original fitting, and her team wants jewelry locked before wardrobe gets photographed.”
Nina's stylus stopped above her tablet.
Laila Hart was not simply a celebrity placement. Actress, producer, fragrance founder, newly divorced headline magnet, and one of those rare women who could make thousands of other women suddenly decide they needed whatever she wore before anybody released a price.
Next month, the opportunity had been major.
Tomorrow, it could shift the entire Saint Aurelia launch if we handled it correctly.
“The bracelet is here,” I said. “The pear drops are still at the New York atelier.”
Nina checked her notes. “The clasp correction is done, but the drops are approved for in-person release only. No courier or third-party handoff.”
I looked toward operations. “And the certified case?”
He cleared his throat. “The alternate case passed inspection, but the insurer hasn't updated the rider.”
Cleo closed her eyes.
I smiled because sometimes that was safer for everybody.
“When?”
“End of day tomorrow.”
“End of day tomorrow would be excellent if the jewelry did not need to be in Malibu tomorrow afternoon.”
He nodded as though we had discovered the problem together. “Correct.”
“Wonderful.”
Commercial courier was out. Commercial flights were possible, but getting me from Pittsburgh to New York for the drops and then across the country left almost no cushion for the kind of delay airlines treated as personality.
I sat back while my mind worked.
Luxury looked like velvet trays, champagne, perfect lighting, and a beautiful woman wearing something the rest of the world had not yet realized it wanted.
Beneath all that shine lived contracts, insurance riders, security, signatures, transport windows, and enough logistics to make desire look like math.
“What do we think?”
Nina answered first. “New York prepares the drops for personal release. No courier, no alternate handoff. Cleo gets whatever additional time Marisol can give us.”
“And operations stays on the insurer,” I said. “I want an actual answer, not an estimate. Time and signature.”
The meeting broke around action.
Cleo went to charm Marisol without letting Marisol feel charmed. Nina went to make the atelier respect and fear her in equal measure. Operations left to chase an insurer and possibly question every choice that had led him into luxury goods.
I returned to my office and opened flight combinations.
Pittsburgh to LaGuardia.
Pittsburgh to JFK.
Pittsburgh to Newark.
New York to LAX.
New York to Burbank.
Every option looked possible on paper and insulting in practice.
My phone lit beside my laptop.
Dre.
His contact photo appeared with his name, a picture he had taken himself while stretched across my couch looking far too pleased with life.
I answered before the second ring.
“Hey.”
“You sound like you're about to hurt somebody.”
“I’m at work.”
“So yes.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “How was your day?”
“Motor group meeting, restaurant problem, Pops texting me about mulch like I’m mayor of landscaping, and Marcus reminding me that turning down Apex did not magically make my calendar easier.”
“That sounds productive.”
“What’s wrong?”
I looked at the flights again. “How did you hear something was wrong?”
“Mani.”
Of course.
“Laila Hart.”
“She do something to you personally?”
“No.” A tired laugh slipped out. “Her team moved everything up. I need two Saint Aurelia pieces in Malibu by tomorrow afternoon, except one is still at the New York atelier and can only be released to me or approved security.”
“What time do you need to be in L.A.?”
“Three-thirty Pacific at the latest. Preferably earlier.”
“Where?”
“Solara House. Malibu.”
“What airport makes the most sense?”
“Dre, I am currently comparing commercial flights like a woman with airline miles and faith. Airport strategy is not where I am emotionally.”
“I can fix that part.”
My fingers stopped moving.
“Andre.”
“What?”
“I am not asking you for that.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you using that voice?”
“Because you told me the problem.”
“That does not mean you have to solve it.”
“I’m not solving your work problem. You already solved that.”
I went quiet.
“I’m moving the thing blocking you from doing what you're good at.”
My throat tightened.
“I can figure it out.”
“I know you can.”
“Imani Bennett does not require rescue.”
“I ain’t offer rescue. I offered transportation.”
I closed my eyes.
“That transportation is a private jet, isn't it?”
“Charter.”
“You said that like the distinction makes this normal.”
“I do not own a jet, Mani.”
“You rent them often enough for that sentence to lack humility.”
His laugh loosened some of the pressure sitting between my shoulders.
“Send me the atelier address and Solara House. Pittsburgh to Teterboro, then Van Nuys probably makes the most sense. Cars on both ends. Security too if your insurer needs it.”
I stared at the flight options until they began looking even more disrespectful than they had five minutes earlier.
“Dre.”
“Do you trust me to help without making you feel small?”
There it was.
The real question beneath everything I had been arguing about.
Dre's resources were enormous enough to make a logistical problem I had been wrestling with disappear after one phone call, and years ago that kind of imbalance might have terrified me. His world could open doors mine had to calculate, budget, and negotiate first.
But Dre wasn't trying to become the reason I succeeded.
He was offering to clear an obstacle and trusting me to do the work on the other side of it.
“Yes.”
His breathing shifted.
“Then let me help.”
I released mine slowly. “Okay.”
“Good. Pack for two nights.”
“Two?”
“You planning to fly across the country, handle all that, and come straight back like punishment builds character?”
“I have work.”
“You have a laptop.”
“I have meetings.”
“You have Zoom.”
“I have a condo full of boxes.”
“Those boxes been minding their business for weeks. They'll survive two more days.”
I laughed despite myself. “You are very comfortable rearranging my life.”
“I’m comfortable making sure you get where you need to be.”
I paused.
“And are you coming?”
“Hell yeah.”
My heart moved in a direction I did not have time to supervise.
“You have your own work.”
“I got a phone, laptop, managers, and several people who've been telling me to loosen my grip.”
“They said that?”
“Multiple times. Felt coordinated.”
“That usually means they're right.”
“Don't join their union.”
“I might.”
“Pack, Mani.”
“Bossy.”
“With you? Yeah.”
I ended the call smiling, which was ridiculous considering I still had diamonds to move, a stylist to soothe, an insurer to chase, and a man who had just made private aviation sound like ordering a larger Uber.
Within twenty minutes, his itinerary appeared.
Pittsburgh to Teterboro. Ground transfer to the atelier. Back into the air. Van Nuys. Car to Malibu.
Nina walked into my office while I was still staring at it and stopped mid-sentence.
“Oh.”
I looked up. “What?”
“You have the face.”
“What face?”
“The Andre Jones handled something face.”
“I do not have that face.”
“You absolutely do.”
“Please remember I sign off on your performance review.”
Her smile widened. “Yes, ma’am.”
By seven that evening, I stood inside a private terminal with the bracelet secured, one carry-on packed too quickly, and a Saint Aurelia garment bag over my arm.
Dre arrived in dark jeans, a black cashmere sweater, and a charcoal Loro Piana coat, moving through the terminal like the kind of money that had stopped introducing itself years ago. He knew which counters required his attention and which people were already paid to have answers.
He kissed my cheek when he reached me.
Not my mouth.
Somehow, that felt more intimate.
“You okay?”
“I am standing in a private terminal because you turned my logistical nightmare into an itinerary in under half an hour.”
“So yes?”
“So I am processing.”
His mouth curved. “Process on the plane.”
A man in a dark suit approached with paperwork.
Dre stepped beside me rather than ahead.
“This is Imani Bennett,” he said. “She’s the client lead for Saint Aurelia. Anything concerning the jewelry goes through her.”
The man's attention shifted to me immediately.
That simple sentence moved through me more deeply than the plane waiting outside.
Dre had enough money and authority to take over a room without ever intending harm. Men accustomed to both did it all the time, smoothing a path and accidentally becoming the only person anyone looked toward once the door opened.
He didn't.
He had opened the door and made certain everybody understood I was the reason we were walking through it.
I reviewed the insurance confirmation, signed the transport acknowledgment, confirmed the security names, and watched the staff handle the Saint Aurelia garment bag like it contained part of the federal reserve.
Dre stayed close.
Quiet unless I needed him.
The aircraft waited beneath the hangar lights with its steps lowered, and I stopped at the bottom long enough for him to notice.
“What?”
“I’m having a moment.”
“You scared to fly private?”
“No. I am irritated by how much I like this.”
His laugh followed me up the steps.
Once we were airborne, I opened my styling deck and Dre opened his laptop. The flight to New Jersey was short, and somewhere above Pennsylvania his hand found mine between the seats without either of us interrupting our work.
I looked down at our fingers.
Then at him.
He kept reading whatever was on his screen.
I smiled and went back to mine.
The plane was impressive.
His restraint was better.
In New York, I inspected the pear drops personally, checked the corrected clasp, signed the release, and watched security lock them beside the bracelet in the travel case.
On the ride back to Teterboro, Dre looked at me from across the back seat.
“You good at this.”
“I know.”
His smile came slowly. “That’s why I said it.”
I looked out the window before my face gave him too much satisfaction.
Hours later, Los Angeles appeared beneath us in scattered light.
By the time the car carried us toward Malibu, exhaustion had settled behind my eyes and the secured jewelry case rested near my feet. Dre leaned back beside me, looking calm despite having turned his own day into mine without complaint.
“You really didn’t have to come,” I said.
“I know.”
“I could've handled it.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why?”
He looked at me. “Because I wanted to.”
Simple.
Frustrating.
And enough.
The hotel appeared above the coast, low white walls and dark glass glowing against the night. Beyond it, the Pacific caught enough moonlight to remind me how far from Pittsburgh we had traveled in a single day.
Dre watched my face instead of the view.
“You did this on purpose.”
“Did what?”
“Found somewhere beautiful enough to make it harder for me to stay annoyed with you.”
“I’m strategic.”
“You are extravagant.”
“Sometimes.”
Business waited for me in the morning. Laila Hart. Marisol Grant. The fitting that had gone from next month to tomorrow. The opportunity Saint Aurelia had trusted me to handle.
Dre stepped from the car first and held his hand back for mine.
I looked at it.
At twenty-two, one of my deepest fears had been that loving Andre Jones would mean arranging my ambition around the size of his future.
This wasn't that.
He hadn't brought me across the country because his life required me here. He had helped me get where my work demanded I be, then stepped aside and left the accomplishment where it belonged.
With me.
I placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed around mine.
“All right, Ms. Bennett,” he said. “Let’s get you ready to make everybody want what Saint Aurelia already knew was worth wanting.”
I smiled and stepped out beside him.
The Pacific moved somewhere below us, my diamonds waited to be worn in the morning, and Andre Jones held my hand without trying to lead me anywhere I had not already chosen to go.