Chapter 21
21
T he next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden streaks across the bed, across her. She was still curled up against me, her warm, bare skin pressed to mine, her breath soft against my chest.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere.
Until the damn doorbell rang. Loud as hell. Once. Twice. Then a quick three more times.
Amaya stirred with a groan, her fingers tightening in the sheets. I sighed, reluctant to move, but whoever was at the door wasn’t going away.
Carefully, I slid out of bed, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder before grabbing my sweats from the floor.
Still half-asleep, she murmured, “Who the hell is that?”
“Only one way to find out.” I tugged the drawstring tight and headed for the door.
I swung it open and froze.
There, standing on the doorstep, was trouble.
Beverly Jameson and Regina Barkley. Our mothers.
Two Black women in their early fifties, looking better than most thirty-year-olds.
My mother had skin the color of rich espresso, her locs pulled up into a neat bun, gold hoops in her ears, that knowing look in her deep-set eyes. She was a woman who never needed to raise her voice to get her point across—her presence alone demanded respect.
Mrs. Beverly, Amaya’s mom, stood beside her, her smooth cinnamon-toned skin glowing like she just stepped out of a spa. Her jet-black hair was always laid to perfection, framing high cheekbones and a sharp jawline Amaya inherited.
They both wore wide, smug smiles.
And then their eyes did a quick sweep of me—shirtless, barefoot, fresh out of Amaya’s bed.
Mama raised a brow. “Mm—had a good night, baby?”
Mrs. Beverly nodded approvingly. “I’d say so.”
I exhaled deep and slow, already knowing there was no winning this.
Before I could respond, the sound of soft footsteps had all three of us looking toward the hallway.
And there she was.
Amaya stood in her robe, her bare legs peeking out, her lips still swollen, her braids falling loose around her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing her glasses—her eyes narrowed slightly, squinting like she was trying to take in the whole scene but couldn’t quite make out the details.
The second she realized who stood in her apartment, she froze. Her mother. My mother. In the doorway. Looking entirely too pleased.
Her eyes widened in horror.
“Mom?!”
Mrs.Beverly smiled sweetly. “Good morning, baby girl.”
Mama crossed her arms. “You two gonna stand here looking guilty, or you gonna freshen up and let your mothers make you some breakfast?”
Amaya groaned, burying her face in her hands.
I sighed, shaking my head, then turned to close the door behind them.
This was gonna be a long ass morning.
By the time we showered—separately, because Amaya was too embarrassed, we stepped into the kitchen to find our mothers already running the place.
Mrs. Beverly flipped buttermilk pancakes with ease, her gold bangles clinking softly as she worked.
Mama was at the counter, slicing fresh fruit with the same sharp precision she used to cut through nonsense.
Their laughter filled the space—easy, familiar.
I’d grown up hearing that sound. It was the backdrop of my childhood.
These two women had been inseparable since high school. I had memories of running through Amaya’s house as a kid, her mother fussing over me like I was hers. Memories of our moms throwing game nights and talking trash while they played spades with our dads.
They had always been a unit.
And because of that, Amaya and I had always been a unit too.
I leaned against the counter, watching them move, their years of friendship weaving through every motion, every laugh.
Mama glanced over at me. “Y’all thought y’all were slick, huh?”
Mrs. Beverly chuckled. “It was only a matter of time.”
Amaya sighed, shaking her head. “Y’all act like you planned this.”
Her mother gave her a pointed look. “Baby, we did.”
I exhaled, rubbing my hands over my face. “Figures.”
Mama passed me a plate, then turned to Amaya. “You happy?”
Amaya blinked, lips parting slightly—like she hadn’t considered it until now.
Then, quietly, she nodded. "Yeah. I am."
Something tightened in my chest.
Mama nudged me. "And you?"
I turned to Amaya, watching the way her eyes softened, her body relaxed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
Later that afternoon, I was back in the studio.
This album with Taraj Ferrell was gonna make or break the next step in my career.
He was already a name that was starting to buzz, but this album was personal for him.
And now that I knew his story, I understood why.
We were mid-session, the music filling the space, when Taraj leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his beard.
"You ever feel like… nobody really sees you?"
I glanced over at him.
He wasn’t just asking. He was telling me something. I didn’t say anything, just let him talk.
"My old man," he started, voice low, "was a legend. In the streets. In the game. Everybody respected him."
I knew who his father was.
Shine. Michael Ferrell. A name that carried weight.
Taraj exhaled. "But I didn’t wanna be that. I wanted my own name. My own thing." He tapped his fingers on his knee, reminding me of how I was always playing the music in my mind. "This album is that."
I nodded slowly. "So that’s why you sound like you’re crying out for something on some of these tracks?"
He chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor in it.
"I guess. You ever want something so bad, but you don’t know if you’ll ever really get it?"
I knew exactly what he meant. I wanted Amaya. For years.
And now that I had her, there was no way in hell I was letting her go.
I leaned forward. "You put all that in the music?"
Taraj’s gaze met mine, sharp, understanding.
"I put everything in the music."
And I knew then—this album wasn’t just about making hits. It was about making something that mattered. For him. For me.
For both of us.