9. Nolani #2
Her grin told me the conversation had merely been postponed.
By three, the crowd had thinned enough for me to retreat to the office. Invoices covered the desk, my laptop remained open to payroll, and Landon’s morning message sat unanswered because he’d told me to handle my day.
I liked that he could miss me without demanding constant evidence that I missed him too.
I took a picture of my empty breakfast wrapper beside the inventory sheet.
Me:
Food consumed. Empire intact.
His response arrived less than a minute later.
Big Lando:
Knew you had it.
Me:
Your emotional-support freezers remain undefeated in hours spent with me.
Big Lando:
Temporary advantage.
I laughed.
Me:
Jealous of commercial refrigeration?
Big Lando:
Nah. But I do object to anything getting your hands all day while I’m over here remembering what they feel like on me.
My grip tightened around the phone.
Me:
That was inappropriate for business hours.
Big Lando:
Missing you doesn’t follow a corporate schedule.
Me:
Go work.
Big Lando:
I am working.
Me:
Then behave.
Big Lando:
Until I hear your voice.
I placed my phone face down.
Nyla knocked against the open office door before entering. “You finished sexting Big Lando?”
“We were discussing refrigeration.”
“That made it worse.”
I pointed toward the chair across from me. “What do you want?”
“The festival.” Of course. She sat. “Before you start, I’m not saying second location, expansion, empire, franchise, world domination, or any other phrase that’ll make your left eye twitch. I’m saying one pop-up.”
I leaned back.
Nyla continued. “Four signature flavors. Two dairy-free. Prepackaged sandwiches from Scoops one I’d known since childhood. I hummed beneath it before realizing I’d done it.
Landon stopped talking.
I stopped humming.
“Don’t,” I warned.
“You can sing?”
“No.”
“That sounded like singing.”
“Nyla sings.”
“I know Nyla sings. I asked about you.”
I sighed. “I can sing.”
His delight came through immediately. “Aye, Hershey.”
“Do not get excited.”
“My woman got vocals, and I’m supposed to respond administratively?”
“You’re not hearing them.”
“Aight.”
I frowned at the windshield. “That easy?”
“You said no.”
The answer left nowhere for an argument to stand.
The song continued.
So did the road.
A minute later, I hummed again.
Landon said nothing.
Another few measures passed before I let actual words follow, barely above the music and meant more for myself than him. I sang through half the chorus before self-consciousness caught up and made me stop.
Landon remained silent.
“Now you’re being weird.”
His laugh came softly through the speakers. “I’m trying to act like my woman didn’t just sing to me after saying she wasn’t going to.”
“It was barely anything.”
“It was beautiful.”
I pressed my lips together.
“You behaved.”
“You said no.”
Simple.
I liked that.
“I changed my mind.”
“I’m glad you did.”
No lesson followed.
No explanation required.
I sang the final line when the chorus returned.
This time, he hummed beneath me badly enough to make me laugh.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?”
“You missed that note on purpose.”
“I need instruction.”
“You need deliverance.”
“So sing it again.”
“Nice try.”
“Had to shoot my shot.”
By the time I reached home, Landon had butchered the melody twice more and defended every incorrect note like a tenured professor arguing before a hostile committee.
“You home?” he asked as I parked.
“Yes.”
“You ending the call?”
I looked toward the book on the passenger seat.
“No.”
“Good.”
That single word carried entirely too much satisfaction.
I took him inside with me.
His T-shirt still rested on the kitchen chair.
I left it there.
“Give me a minute to change.”
“You need privacy?”
“Yes.”
“Aight.”
I smiled.
No pout.
No negotiation.
I carried the phone toward the bedroom, changed into leggings and an oversized tee, then returned to the sofa with the book he’d chosen at Sable & Spine.
By then, Landon had moved from his practice plan to film review.
The occasional click of his remote came through the speaker while I settled into the corner of the couch.
“You still working?”
“Film.”
“Which means you’re sitting down, watching men run.”
“Disrespectful oversimplification.”
“Accurate.”
“These grown men got assignments, Hershey.”
“And you’re yelling at recordings.”
“He missed the read.”
“Can he hear you?”
“Spiritually.”
I laughed and opened my book.
For a while, we did nothing together.
I read.
He reviewed film.
Every so often, he muttered something about leverage, foot placement, or a route somebody had apparently disrespected. Once, he praised a block with enough enthusiasm that I looked toward the phone and smiled.
I liked this.
Not the spectacle of romance.
The ordinary access.
My house remained mine. His work remained his. Neither one of us had to abandon the evening to prove we belonged inside each other’s lives.
Several pages later, something pale slipped from between the pages and landed in my lap.
I picked it up.
Cream cardstock.
Gold edge.
Landon’s handwriting across the center.
Every beautiful story deserves another chapter.
Beneath it sat a single initial.
L.
The film stopped through the speaker.
“You found me.”
My fingers tightened around the bookmark. “You hid inside my book.”
“Nah, Hershey. Left you somewhere beautiful to meet me again.”
“That line was entirely too prepared.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You wrote a secret message in a bookstore.”
“That don’t mean I rehearsed the reaction.”
I read it again.
Every beautiful story deserves another chapter.
“You really believe this?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
His answer took a moment.
“Because your life was already beautiful before me.”
I became still.
“You had Nyla, your businesses, your people, all the stuff that made you you before I ever spilled into Willow Run acting lost. I’m not interested in pretending your story started when I showed up.
” My thumb moved along the edge of the bookmark.
“I just like the story enough to want another chapter.”
The words sat differently than a grand declaration would have.
They didn’t erase anything.
They didn’t claim anything.
They simply made room.
“You knew what you were doing when you wrote this.”
“I knew what I meant.”
“That might be worse.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
He laughed. “Why?”
“Smooth men can be dismissed.”
“And sincere ones?”
I stared at his initial.
“They have to be believed.”
Silence settled between us for a beat.
Then Landon said, “Yeah.”
Nothing more.
He didn’t rush to convince me.
That helped more than persuasion would have.
I tucked the bookmark carefully inside the front cover.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, love.”
The film started again.
I read another page.
Then another.
Eventually I closed the book around one finger.
“Coach.”
“Wassup?”
“I’ve been thinking about the festival.”
The film stopped.
“Aight. Talk to me.”
“That’s all?”
“What you want me to do, build the booth from over here?”
“No.”