Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Today was his birthday, and Kennedi had so much planned for him.
She’d been up since six, waddling around the kitchen in his t-shirt, trying to make breakfast without waking him.
She was making all his favorites the way he liked them, fresh fruit because Dr. Khalifa stayed on her about eating balanced.
The smell of coffee filled the house—his coffee, not hers, because RJ apparently hated caffeine now and made her nauseous every time she tried.
She moved through his kitchen like it was hers. Because it was now.
Six months ago, she would’ve laughed at this scene. Her, barefoot and pregnant, cooking breakfast for a man in a house she’d moved into without a second thought. The old Kennedi, that woman wouldn't recognize who she was now.
But standing here now, belly round with his son, diamond ring on her finger, his shirt falling off her shoulder. This was the best decision she’d ever made.
She heard him before she saw him—corduroy slippers on hardwood, that slow morning shuffle he did when he wasn’t fully awake yet.
“What are you doing up?”
She turned, spatula in hand, and smiled. “Happy birthday, baby. I love you, and today is all about you.”
He stood in the doorway, shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low, locs messy from sleep. His eyes shifted from her to the spread on the counter, then back to her. A flicker of surprise crossed his face—yet there was also joy at her excitement.
“Thank you, baby. You made all this?”
“I did.” She gestured to the kitchen island where she’d set everything up. “Sit down. Let me fix your plate.”
“Ken, you’re seven months pregnant. You should be sitting down.”
“It’s your birthday. I’m taking care of you today.” She pointed the spatula at him. “Now sit.”
He raised his hands in surrender and settled onto one of the barstools, watching her move around the kitchen. She fixed his plate first—stacked it high the way he liked—then made her own, smaller portion.
They ate together at the island, he stole fruit off her plate even though he had his own, she swatted his hand away and laughed. The morning sun came through the windows, catching his smooth mahogany skin. He was a gorgeous man.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asked, mouth full of pancake.
“You’ll see.”
“Ken.”
“What? It’s your birthday. Trust me and let me do this. We are trading places today.”
“Trading…”
The doorbell rang, cutting him off.
Rolani frowned, looking toward the front of the house. “Who the hell is that this early?”
“That’s part of the plan.” She wiped her hands on a napkin and stood. “Stay here.”
She waddled to the front door and opened it to find Dre on the porch, a barber bag slung over his shoulder, a clippers case in his hand.
“What’s good, Kennedi?” He grinned. “Birthday boy ready?”
“He doesn’t know yet. Come on in.”
She led Dre back to the kitchen, where Rolani was still sitting at the island, fork frozen halfway to his mouth.
“Dre?”
“Happy birthday, nigga.” Dre set his bag on the counter. “Your girl called me last week and said you needed to be right for whatever she got planned today.”
Rolani looked at Kennedi, his expression cracking open. “Not you got my barber to make a house call.”
“I told you. I’m taking care of you today.” She kissed his cheek. “Now finish eating so Dre can get you together.”
“Imma let you have this with yo sneaky ass. I love it, baby.”
“I’ve been planning for weeks.” She settled back onto her stool, rubbing her belly. “You deserve to feel special, Ro. You deserve to have someone make a fuss over you for once.”
He looked at her with that soft, unguarded expression that made her bashful, then went back to his food.
“Thank you.”
This man had spent his whole life taking care of everybody else. His grandmother, his brother, his niece, and his business. He didn’t know how to sit still and receive. But today, she was going to teach him.
Rolani stepped to the sink and washed his hands while Kennedi took off for their bedroom. He shook his head at her, but he was already appreciative of whatever she had planned.
Dre set up in the living room—cape draped over a dining chair, clippers laid out on the coffee table, mirror propped up so Rolani could see.
“Just clean me up,” Rolani said. “Shape the beard, line me up.”
“I got you.”
The buzz of the clippers filled the room as Dre made small talk about Kennedi setting this up.
“You lucky bro. I’m happy for you too. This big shit.”
“Preciate that.”
The two men kicked and caught up until he was cleaning up and packing up to head out.
After Dre left, Rolani stood in the living room, freshly lined up, hair clippings still dusting his shoulders and neck.
“Now what?” he asked.
She took his hand. “Now you shower. And I’m helping.”
She led him to the master bathroom. She’d already set everything up this morning while he was still asleep—his body wash, exfoliant for his face, the beard oil, fresh towels warming on the rack.
She turned on the water, let it heat up until steam started filling the room. Then she turned to him.
“Take those off.”
He smirked. “It must be time for the birthday sex?”
“Please grow up and save that for later.” She laughed and tugged at the waistband of his sweats. “Take them off.”
He obliged, stepping out of his sweats and boxers, standing before her naked and unbothered. She’d seen him like this a hundred times, but this moment felt different. More intentional. She wasn’t undressing him for sex—she was undressing him to take care of him.
“Get in,” she said.
He stepped into the shower, and she pulled the t-shirt over her head and followed him in, still in her underwear because she wasn’t trying to be cute, just useful.
The warm water hit his shoulders, and she watched the hair clippings wash away, swirling down the drain. She grabbed the body wash and squeezed some onto the loofah.
“Turn around.”
He turned, and she started at his shoulders, working the soap into his skin in slow circles. Her hands moved down his back, pressing into the muscles that carried so much tension, so much weight. He groaned, head dropping forward.
“When’s the last time somebody did this for you?” she asked softly.
“Never.”
Her heart squeezed. She kept washing him — his back, his arms, his chest when he turned around. Her fingers slid into his scalp and massaged until his eyes closed.
“Feel good?”
“Hell yeah, but you know that’s my weakness.”
She saved his face for last, by the time he stepped out of the shower into the warm towel she was holding, he felt like a new man.
“Come on,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.
She’d laid everything out on the bed—his lotion, the beard oil, the brush.
He sat on the edge of the bed, still quiet, still processing.
She stood between his legs and started with his face, dabbing beard oil onto her fingers and working it through, making sure every strand was moisturized and the skin underneath hydrated.
“You smell good,” she murmured, placing a kiss on his lips.
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Kennedi continued taking care of her man until he insisted she sit down.
He pulled her into his lap and as close as her belly would allow.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
“You showed up. You were patient. You let me run and didn’t chase me. You waited until I was ready to come back.” She touched his face. “That’s what you did.”
He kissed her then, slow and deep, his hands cradling her belly like he was holding all three of them at once.
When he pulled back, he kissed her once more, quickly. Then he smacked her ass. “Thank you, baby.”
“I’m not done yet.” She stepped back, gestured to the outfit she’d laid out on the chair—a throwback Penny Hardaway jersey, cargo shorts, and fresh New Balance 550s in white and grey. “Get dressed. We’ve got places to be.”
He laughed, low and easy, shaking his head at her. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“Ken.”
“What? You surprise me all the time.” She waddled toward the bathroom to finish getting herself ready. “It’s my turn.”
She heard him getting dressed behind her, still chuckling to himself. And she smiled, hand on her belly, feeling RJ kick against her palm.
This was only the beginning of the day. And she couldn’t wait to give him the rest.
Two hours later, they were standing in his driveway, and he was not happy.
“I’m driving.” He stood with his arms crossed, looking at her like she’d lost her mind. “I’mma let you have the day, but I’m driving.”
She was already behind the wheel of his Corvette—the burgundy one he’d spent months customizing—with the engine purring beneath her. She’d convinced him to give her the keys last night with promises she had no business making, but it had worked.
“It’s your birthday,” she called through the open window. “You’re supposed to relax.”
“Ken, get out my car.”
“No.”
“Baby.” His voice dropped into that warning tone that usually worked on her. “I’m not playing with you. You’re pregnant.”
“I’m pregnant, not incapable of driving.” She adjusted the seat, checked the mirrors. “I drove myself everywhere just fine before you came along. I think I can handle two hours on the highway.”
“In my Corvette?”
“Yes, in your Corvette.” She revved the engine slightly, to prove a point. “Get in or we’re gonna be late.”
He stood there for another beat, jaw working, clearly torn between letting her have this moment and his deeply ingrained need to protect his baby. Finally, he shook his head and walked around to the passenger side.
“You crash my shit, we fighting,” he said, sliding into the seat.
“I’m not gonna crash your baby.” She pulled out of the driveway smoothly, carefully, hyper-aware of every gear shift. “I know how much you love this car.”
“Not more than I love you, I guess,” he muttered, but his hand found her thigh anyway, settling there like it always did.
“I know that’s right, daddy.”