Chapter 27
The room was full of light when Meadow finally surfaced from her sleep, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks before she gave up and pulled the covers over her head again.
Her body felt sore everywhere — the good kind.
The kind that came from crying too hard and loving too hard and letting herself be held through both.
She still smelled him on her skin.
His cologne was stubborn.
His touch was still stamped in her muscles.
And the sheets…were warm in a way that meant he had been there, watching her sleep, touching her hair before he left the room.
Meadow rolled onto her side, groaning when her thighs brushed each other.
Lord, he did a number on her – had her aching.
The doorknob twisted.
Before Meadow could hide her entire existence under the comforter, Lesha pushed the door open with her hip, bonnet on, glasses sliding down her nose, and a handful of folded clothes stacked against her chest.
The way this woman walked into a room made Meadow sit up like she got caught stealing.
Lesha glanced around at the room.
At the wet clothes on the floor…at the pole glistening under the small lamp…at the air that still smelled like rain, sex and secrets.
Then her eyes landed on Meadow’s messy hair sticking out the covers.
“Mmhmm,” Lesha pursed her lips, leaning against the doorframe like she was judging the entire scene. “You used the pole, didn’t you?”
Meadow disappeared under the blankets so fast she damn nearly suffocated.
Lesha laughed loud enough to shake dust off the picture frames.
Her bracelets jingled when she talked with her hands. Lesha was so animated. “You ain’t gotta tell me nothin’. I already know.”
She placed the clothes on a chair and put her hands on her hips. “My son got the whole world out here this mornin’ like he the Mayor of Juniper Falls.”
That made Meadow peek out just enough for one eye to show. “What world?”
“Oh, baby.” Lesha walked over and pulled the curtains open before Meadow could stop her. “Go ‘head…look.”
Meadow squinted into the morning light and instantly felt her breath stop.
Trucks…People…Workers moving metal beams across the yard.
A forklift pushing a heavy gate section, Black men in polos carrying blueprints, and True standing in the gravel with sunglasses on, pointing and directing like he knew what he was doing.
A fencing crew dug holes along the property line while a security tech van parked near the hangar and Ray spoke to two men in suits.
Even Magnolia’s old shed had men walking around it, measuring something.
“What…” Meadow whispered. “What is all this?”
Lesha pursed her lips like she’d been waiting to spill the tea. “What this is Zaire makin’ sure don’t nobody ever step foot on this land again without permission.”
Meadow sat up fully, covers dropping to her lap, her breasts exposed. “A fence?”
Remembering, she snatched it back up. Lesha laughed.
“A fence…a gate…cameras and some other fancy shit I can’t even pronounce.” Lesha shrugged. “He calls it a perimeter. I call it ‘my son don’t play ‘bout his girl.’”
Meadow blinked, letting it settle in her mind. Her hand went to her chest because she felt like she was being given new oxygen but at the same time she couldn’t breathe.
“And that’s not even the big part,” Lesha added casually, picking up one of Meadow’s hoodies off the floor and folding it.
“His whole team is downstairs right now. Publicists, PR friends, lawyers, some man named Keon or Kion, I don’t know, people who look like they went to them good colleges.
All of ‘em trying to figure out how to clap back at that Ertan nigga, how to stop the reporters from showing up again, and how to turn this place into an actual business.”
Meadow shook her head. “A business?” She felt dizzy. It was all so much…happening so fast.
“Girl, yes.” Lesha snapped her fingers like Meadow was slow.
“You think he out there in the rain playin’ with fence pieces?
Nah. He told ‘em every plan he had while he was half asleep. He wanna turn this place into somethin’ bigger with a proper driving range, a school, spot for kids…
something he said gon’ feel like family the minute you walk on the dirt. ’”
Meadow stared at her knees, tears collecting so fast she had to blink hard to keep them from falling. “He did all that…this morning?”
“No, he did half of it last night. You was knocked out, baby. He was outside pacing like he was building the ark.”
Meadow covered her face with both hands.
The tears slipped through her fingers anyway.
Lesha sat gently on the edge of the bed, rubbing her back with small patient circles.
Her touch was warm, steady, mother-coded.
“What you cryin’ for?” Lesha cooed softly. “This the good part.”
Meadow shook her head. “It’s too much.”
“No,” Lesha corrected. “It’s exactly what you deserve.”
A sob escaped before Meadow could muffle it.
She leaned into Lesha’s shoulder like her body finally gave up pretending she was fine.
Lesha pulled her close with both arms, humming quietly. One of those old Black woman hums that carried history, comfort, and hope in the same breath.
“He loves you,” Lesha spoke into her hair, “and he ain’t scared of the work that comes with you. That’s rare, baby...that’s precious. Don’t throw that away ‘cause fear whisperin’ in your ear.”
Meadow nodded slowly, tears soaking the collar of Lesha’s sweatshirt.
After a long moment, Lesha patted her leg and stood. “Now,” she said, pointing toward the bathroom, “you get yourself together, and make sure you change them sheets. I know my boy put you through there.”
Meadow choked on a gasp. “Lesha—!”
“What? Y’all grown!” Lesha grabbed her bag. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little cardio. But don’t be lettin’ him break the pole before I get a chance to see you spin on it correctly.”
Meadow threw a pillow at her. Lesha dodged it like she used to doing this with Zaire his whole childhood.
“Oh and before I forget,” she added, opening the door, “he sent up breakfast for you.”
Meadow froze. “Sent…breakfast?”
“A whole tray - eggs, bacon, fruit, toast, that little fancy honey butter Ray said you like. He said ‘let her rest today.’ You know how men get when they in that guilt-and-love stew and when you show them your pole work.” She wagged her tongue.
Meadow pressed her palms to her face again.
Lesha smirked. “Mmhmm. That’s what I thought.”
She pointed at the dresser. “Eat…cry…shower. Then come downstairs when you’re ready. Ain’t nobody rushin’ you, though.”
Then she closed the door behind her.
The room fell silent except for Meadow’s heartbeat and the low hum of voices drifting from downstairs — Zaire’s voice among them.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand and sat there a moment, her breathing shallow but getting steadier.
Meadow let her eyes drift around her room, taking in the mess of clothes, the soft glow from the lamp, the cold imprint on the sheets where Zaire must’ve been sitting before he left her to sleep.
It felt unreal, this quiet morning after a storm that should’ve destroyed them but didn’t.
Everything in her life had always been a fighting match…but this?
Waking up to a man fighting for her instead of asking her to fight with him?
It felt unfamiliar…uncomfortably beautiful.
Like a fairytale with dirt under its nails and a heartbeat.
She pressed a palm to her chest.
It wasn’t fear this time…it was possibility…it was love.
Her phone buzzed beside her, lighting up the nightstand with Tia’s name.
Meadow exhaled a shaky breath and answered. “Tia,” she whispered.
“Bitch.” Tia’s voice came through so loud Meadow had to pull the phone back. “I been waiting for you to wake up. You alive?!”
Meadow finally laughed a wet, broken, needed laugh. “I’m alive.”
“You sound like you been through war,” Tia hissed, “start talking.”
Meadow curled her knees to her chest and leaned back against the headboard, the first true smile forming on her face.
“Girl…you have no idea.”
“Well give me an idea…” Tia laughed.
The kitchen looked like a war room and Zaire was the king. Once a knight so he wanted to do more than call the shots.
There were papers spread across the table. Blueprints, land maps, tax breakdowns, printouts of Ertan’s bitter interviews, screenshots of reporters trespassing, notes scribbled in hurried handwriting and a whiteboard leaning crooked against the pantry that somebody dragged in from the shed.
Zaire stood in the middle of it all with his arms crossed.
The muscle in his jaw twitched every few seconds, just enough to tell anybody paying close attention that he was two heartbeats away from losing every ounce of patience he had left.
True was on the phone, pacing tight circles like he was negotiating a hostage situation.
Lesha sat at the counter with her legs crossed, arms folded, judging the entire PR team like she wished one of them would say something sideways so she could throw a skillet.
She was still a little hesitant about them.
Rightfully so, after the shit show Ertan’s people brought into their lives with promises of making Zaire a star.
Ray leaned against the fridge quietly, his presence grounding the room every time Zaire’s anger rose too fast.
The all-Black PR team of two women, one man looked sharp and ready.
Blazers, tablets, and calm expressions hiding the urgency thrumming through the room.
“Alright,” the lead PR woman, Kendra, said, sliding a folder toward Zaire. “This is the current public sentiment. Word is spreading fast. Reporters didn’t just come because of the land. Someone tipped them.”
Zaire didn’t blink when he said. “Ertan.” His fingers jumped because niggas like Ertan should’ve been handled a different way. The way Crescent Park had taught him before he knew anything about winning million-dollar golf tournaments.
Kendra nodded. “The timing lines up. His interview dropped thirty-eight minutes before the first car pulled into your driveway.”
Lesha clicked her tongue. “He woke up mad and wanted company.”