7. Nolani
Self Ridge loosened from my rearview mirror beneath a Saturday morning too beautiful to distrust. By the time the highway opened, Crème & Chill belonged to the people I’d trusted with it.
Micah had production, Tasha had the floor, and Nyla had everything else, including explicit authority to ignore me if I called pretending to check on a crisis nobody had reported.
Her message appeared before I reached the county line.
Nyla:
You crossed city limits before ten in the morning for a man. Our family has witnessed history.
I pressed the voice-control button on my steering wheel. Go manage something.
Her response came before the next exit.
Nyla:
I am. Your emotional development. Drive safely, lover girl.
My laugh filled the SUV as I glanced toward the passenger seat.
Landon’s coffee occupied one cup holder beside mine, dark and plain because he believed flavored coffee was dessert suffering from an identity crisis.
A paper bag held two breakfast sandwiches, fruit, and enough water to prevent him from pretending caffeine qualified as hydration.
Last Saturday, he’d driven into my world with pastries for my staff and coffee for my sister.
Today, I was returning the road, and I liked the symmetry of that more than I intended to examine before breakfast.
The playlist shifted into the old R&B song we’d argued about earlier in the week.
Landon preferred the live version because, according to him, the extended bridge possessed “more emotional integrity.” I had informed him that refusing to end a song was not evidence of depth.
Unfortunately, the bridge came through the speakers beneath a slow guitar and proved him right.
I turned the volume higher. He would learn that information after a prolonged appeals process.
My phone chimed through the speakers.
Landon:
You on the road, love?
About halfway there. Coffee secured. Breakfast under armed protection.
His answer came almost immediately.
Landon:
Breakfast?
You coached all morning last Saturday and tried to survive on caffeine. I gathered evidence.
Three dots appeared before his response.
Landon:
Look at my Hershey applying research. Drive safely. I’ll see you soon.
My Hershey.
I stared at the message entirely too long before forcing my attention back to the highway.
That damn my had range. Landon had been calling me Hershey since Willow Run, but possession changed the sound of it without making it feel like ownership.
It felt intimate instead, like something warm he’d cupped between his palms and decided belonged only to the space between us.
By the time Self Springs rose around me, beneath old trees and brick storefronts, I’d decided I liked his city.
There was pride in it without performance.
Black-owned businesses stretched along the boulevard beside churches, bookstores, cafés, and professional offices that looked as though they had been there long enough to become part of the town’s memory.
Two older men argued through the window of a barbershop with enough commitment to suggest the disagreement had survived several presidential administrations.
I smiled as the navigation guided me toward the athletic complex, where parents occupied folding chairs along the sidelines while boys in practice jerseys moved across the field.
I heard Landon before I saw him. A whistle cut through the morning, sharp enough to carry across the complex, and I followed the sound until I found him near midfield in black training pants and a Langston shirt darkened across the chest from the heat.
His locs were pulled away from his face, and one hand rested against his hip while he watched a young receiver reset at the line.
The boy had missed something. Landon crossed toward him and lowered himself enough to speak without turning correction into a performance, demonstrated the route once, then sent him back.
The quarterback took the snap. The receiver cut across the middle and caught the ball cleanly.
Landon nodded once, and the boy returned to the huddle, standing straighter than he had before.
I’d heard Landon talk about coaching. I’d watched him read to children at Scoops & Stories.
Seeing him here showed me something different.
He expected something from those boys without making failure expensive to their dignity.
The thought had barely settled before his attention shifted toward the parking lot.
Toward me.
Whatever instruction had been waiting behind his mouth disappeared.
His whistle lowered against his chest while his eyes traveled over my cream sundress with absolutely no respect for the public nature of the environment.
I stood beside my SUV, holding his breakfast, and tried to behave like I hadn’t changed clothes twice before deciding on the dress.
One of the boys followed his attention and called across the field, “Coach, Hershey here!”
My eyes closed. Wonderful. Privacy had officially died in Self Springs.
Landon never looked away from me. “I see her.”
The boy laughed. “You smiling too.”
“And you still out of position.” Landon pointed toward the formation. “Give me one clean rep before curiosity becomes conditioning.”
That handled everybody. Mostly.
I crossed toward the lowest row of bleachers and placed his coffee and breakfast beside me.
Landon returned to practice, but his attention kept finding me between plays.
Once while the quarterback checked the defense.
Again while a receiver reset his feet. The third time, I stared right back.
His eyebrow lifted. Mine answered. The smile he gave me almost made me forget there were children present.
The final rep ended cleanly. Landon gathered the boys at midfield, said something I couldn’t hear, then dismissed them toward their parents.
The whistle came off his neck, and then he came toward me.
Sweat had darkened his shirt, his locs were beginning to loosen near his temples, and sunlight had apparently decided to participate in my downfall by catching the deep brown of his skin in all the places I had no business studying on a youth football field.
I stood before he reached me. His eyes made another slow trip over my dress before he stopped close enough for the heat of him to reach me.
“Morning, love.”
My pulse lost all professional credibility. “Morning.”
“You pulled up in my city looking like that?”
I glanced down at myself. “I wasn’t aware Self Springs had a dress code.”
“It does now.”
“What am I violating?”
His attention moved over me again. “Public decency.”
I laughed. “You’ve been looking at me for five minutes, and you’re already dramatic.”
“Nah, Hershey. I’m precise with language.”
“You lost your train of thought in front of twelve children.”
“I paused to appreciate an unexpected variable.”
“An unexpected variable?”
“You. Walking across my field in that dress while I’m expected to maintain institutional order.”
I held his coffee toward him before he could enjoy himself any further. “Maybe the institution needs stronger leadership.”
“My leadership is exceptional. You’re disruptive.”
“Personal deficiency.”
“It became personal when you showed up exposing all that leg.”
I looked at the entirely reasonable amount of calf visible beneath my dress. “You coach at a university. Surely you’ve encountered knees.”
“Not yours.”
Damn him.
I lifted the breakfast bag between us. “Do you want this, or should I let the eggs file a grievance?”
He took the bag and looked inside. “Two sandwiches? Fruit too? And water?”
“You coached all morning.”
“Hershey.”
“What?”
His teasing eased. “You remembered.”
“I pay attention.”
His eyes stayed on mine for a second before he set the bag and coffee on the bleacher behind me. Then he opened his arms.
“Come here.”
I went immediately.
Landon closed his arms around me with a low breath, one hand spreading across my back while the other settled beneath my curls.
He smelled like grass, soap, heat, and the clean salt of a man who had been working beneath the Texas sun.
I pressed my cheek against his chest and held him tighter, letting the week between us collapse beneath the first full contact.
“You sweaty,” I murmured.
“And you squeezing me harder.”
“I’m being polite.”
“Polite women don’t bury their face in a man’s chest.”
“Maybe I’m trying not to inhale.”
His laugh moved beneath my cheek. “Keep lying while you hold me like somebody issued a deadline.”
I smiled and stayed exactly where I was. His mouth touched my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my lips with enough patience to make me aware of the kiss he hadn’t given me yet. I turned my face.
That was all the invitation he needed.
His mouth settled over mine, soft at first, warm with recognition, before the kiss deepened. My fingers gathered the damp fabric at his sides while his palm moved lower against my back, bringing me closer. I had missed him. Enough that pretending otherwise would’ve insulted both of us.
When Landon finally eased back, his mouth remained near mine. “You miss me?”
“Moderately.”
His eyes dropped to the arms still wrapped around him. “That moderate got a strong-ass grip.”
“You missed me too.”
“Bad enough that you ain’t have to tell me what I already know.”
I laughed, and he kissed me again, shorter this time, before resting his forehead against mine.
“I’m glad you came, love.”
“I wanted to see you.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to sound so pleased with yourself.”
“I am pleased with myself.”
“Obviously.”
“And you drove seventy-five miles with breakfast. I’m working with favorable data.”
I pushed lightly at his chest. “There he go. Professor Romance.”
“I got range.”
“Eat.”
“You giving orders already?”
“Evidence-based recommendation.”
His eyes brightened. “You stealing my material?”
“I’m redistributing intellectual property.”
“That is theft wearing collegiate language.”
“Community enrichment.”