Chapter 11 Naomi #3
And just like that, they’re in business mode. Deals over dinner. Wins over wine. Tris dabs his mouth with a linen napkin—his partners, Flor and Daveny, on either side of him.
“Well, while the tech geniuses change the world,” he says, “I spent three hours arguing with a stylist who thought taupe and beige were the same thing.”
Flor chuckles beside him. “You were so dramatic.”
Flor always looks like she just walked out of a magazine, the kind where what the ads are really selling is the woman—glowing skin, bedroom eyes, curves for days, and the kind of poise that makes even silence feel intentional.
Born in El Salvador, she wears that heritage like it’s stitched into her bones.
Her rich brown skin is flawless. Her hair, always glossy, is usually swept back in some simple style that somehow still looks runway-ready.
She talks softly but fights hard — I’ve seen her go from angelic to assassin in a blink when someone disrespects Tris. Or Daveny. She’s sugar and switchblades, and every room she walks into leans a little in her direction.
And then there’s Daveny.
If golden retrievers were built like MMA fighters and dressed like CEOs, that’s Daveny.
Tall. Broad. Built like he was engineered to carry two people through a hurricane — because let’s be honest, he basically does.
His arms are ridiculous, like he’s constantly auditioning to be someone’s temptation.
He has hazel eyes that always soften when he looks at Flor, and damn near melt when he looks at Tris.
And that’s the thing—he loves both of them. Visibly. Comfortably. Without hesitation. The kind of love that makes you question your own standards. Like maybe your person should also look at you like you hung the damn moon.
The man is all steady hands and a deep, quiet protectiveness that says, Say one wrong thing about them and I’ll ruin your week.
The three of them together are an unfair standard of beauty. A walking, talking, disturbingly gorgeous power trifecta.
“I was correct,” Tris counters. “Color matters. Texture matters. Balance? It matters.”
He looks at me then, a smirk tugging at his glossy lips. “Naomi, back me up.”
“Absolutely,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “You’d be surprised how many millionaires ask for ‘minimalist luxury’ and then try to sneak in a mirror that looks like it’s from the Renaissance.”
“That hurts me,” Flor says, clutching her chest.
I laugh. “They all want to live like Pinterest thumbnails until you tell them how much custom molding costs.”
“You did that penthouse in Tribeca, didn’t you?” Daveny asks from across the table. “I saw it featured in a home tour video.”
“I did.” I set my wine down and straighten slightly. “Six months, fifteen vendors, a wine room no one will ever use.”
“Damn,” Emily—Tré’s fiancée—says softly, tossing her deep brown curls over her shoulder. “You make it sound easy.”
Emily looks like she belongs in a painting.
Or a cottage in a meadow where the air smells like honey and time moves slower—like she’d press flowers between book pages and leave handwritten notes for strangers to find.
Tonight, she’s wearing a soft blue floral dress, cinched at the waist, with puffy sleeves and tiny buttons that make her look like a fairytale come to life.
And somehow, she still holds her own next to Tré—who is all sharp edges and firepower.
She’s Blaisan—a blend of Black history and Taiwanese heritage—and her first impression is sweet, with a quiet demeanor that is often mistaken for shyness.
People see her and tend to think of her as delicate, like a porcelain doll.
But she’s the type who’ll say something devastating with a warm, gentle smile, and you won’t even realize she just wrecked you until later, when you’re in the shower trying to figure out why you feel so humbled.
My brother worships the ground she walks on. He looks at her like she’s his peace. As if after all the bullshit he deals with in politics, she’s the quiet place he comes back to. Which is funny—because even with her sunshine dress and soft little giggle, she’s not actually quiet.
“It’s definitely not easy,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “I’ve had clients scream at me over sconce placement. Sconces! Literal lighting rage.”
Tré holds up a hand. “Don’t look at me—I’ve had men cry over parking tickets.”
Jaxon snorts beside me, low and barely audible, but enough for me to remember that the pain in the ass is still here.
“You okay?” I ask, a little too sweet.
“Just imagining what it’s like to argue about drapes for a living,” he says, not looking up from his plate.
I smile. “Funny. I imagine the same thing about men who talk in meetings just to hear themselves say stupid shit out loud.”
He lifts his eyes then. Those cold, precise, irritatingly pretty eyes. “Language, Ms. Blaine. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you don’t have manners, would we?
“And yet, I don’t give a shit,” I say, cool as glass.
“Oop,” Tris mutters.
“Whelp,” Emily whispers under her breath.
Max just shakes his head. “You two should write a sitcom together. ‘War of the Words.’”
Shantel nudges his arm. “At least they’re saying words. Some couples just fight with eye contact.”
“Couple?” I say, looking over both shoulders, searching far and wide for the “couple” my sister-in-law to be is referencing. “Where?”
His mouth twitches. Just slightly. But I see it.
“You always this charming?” he asks me.
“No,” I say. “I save my real charm for people whose faces don’t make me sick.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Flor saves us all by leaning into Tris and whispering, “I don’t know what I love more—the wine or the drama.”
“Definitely the drama,” Daveny says. “The wine can’t talk back.”
The conversation shifts again — back to upcoming launches, new projects, international shoots—but the rhythm of my heartbeat thunders against my ribcage, which is currently trying to figure out why Jaxon gets under my skin like he lives there.
“You know, Naomi,” he says, popping a bit of beef into his mouth, chewing slowly before sipping his wine. “I’m not your enemy.”
“So happy that you feel that way,” I say, diverting my attention, trying to tune him out.
“Cut the fucking attitude.” He growls into my ear.
“Or what?” I whisper, turning my head to face him, our lips inches apart.
From the head of the table, Max’s voice booms. “What are you two whispering about down there?”
Before I can respond, Jaxon answers with a devilish drawl, his tone as smooth as the wine he’s sipping.
“I was just telling your sister how rude it’d be for us to leave the table.
She’s been asking about it since she sat down—says she wants to see exactly how qualified I am to be her bodyguard.
Though I’m not quite sure how I could prove that to her tonight.
” He furrows a brow, feigning innocence while the implications sink into the table’s collective understanding.
His grin is subtle, something only I catch before it morphs into a look of sincere consideration.
“But I understand her concerns; she is entrusting me with her well-being, after all.”
I sputter, choking on my wine as heat rises to my face. How is it possible to imply that I asked to sleep with him, and still sound like a gentleman!
The table falls into an awkward silence, Max’s eyes cutting into me like lasers.
“May I be excused?” I say, my voice tight as I dab at the corners of my mouth and set the napkin down.
“I think that would be best,” Max replies coolly.
I push back my chair, my movements stiff as I stand.
“Have a good evening, Ms. Blaine,” Jaxon says, his voice dripping with amusement.
When I glance back at him, his grin is wicked, curling at the corners of his mouth like he’s just won some twisted game. It takes everything in me not to smack it off his face.
"Fucking. Asshole.” I hiss, my words only loud enough for him to hear, my heart pounding with barely contained rage.
I don’t make it to the hall before I hear him excuse himself—hard soles echo against hardwood—as he catches up to me with ease, stopping me in my tracks.
My eyes widen as I take a step back, but he grips the back of my neck, pulling me closer, and I’m struck silent by his sheer audacity.
“This little attitude of yours is getting under my skin.” He grits his teeth. “Fix it before I do.”
When he releases me, I stumble backward, catching myself as I watch him coolly return to the dining room.
My knees buckle as heat pools low in my belly. I blink slowly in the dim corridor.
What the hell just happened?
My phone buzzes in my palm, bringing me back to the moment. An unsaved number flashes on the screen, but the brazenness of the message leaves no doubt about who it’s from.
555-2489:
You don’t want to get on my bad side, Reina. My palm is itching to teach you a lesson. I don’t mind throwing you across my lap.
I grip the phone tighter, my nails digging into the case.
Me:
Fuck you.
555-2489:
Rumor has it you’ve been trying all night. ;)
I see red. He’s infuriating, smug, and absolutely unbearable.
I stalk past my bed and rip my phone out of my pocket, dialing Aisha. She picks up on the third ring, her voice bubbly and sharp at the same time.
“You better be on your way, or I swear—”
“Change of plans,” I interrupt, my voice clipped. “I’m not coming over tonight.”
There’s a pause before her reply comes, drenched in dramatic flair. “Boo, you whore.”
I laugh despite myself, rolling my eyes.
“Fine,” she huffs. “But don’t forget about the party this weekend. And you better have a story, Naomi.”
“Oh, I will,” I mutter, my mind already racing. “Trust me, I will.”
As I hang up, my jaw tightens. Jaxon Knox thinks he’s won this round, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with. He wants to be my bodyguard, fine. I’m going to put him to work.