Naomi #2
My hands are shaky as I pick it up, but I get a fresh wave of relief, my chest loosening, when I see the name stretched across the screen.
Christian:
Good morning, wife!
I let out a deep sigh.
Me:
Good morning, husband :)
Christian:
So, my mom thinks it’s a good idea to have a little engagement party.
Knowing Evelyn Cavanaugh, there will be nothing “little” about this party—it will be loud and gaudy.
Me:
Oh… when?
Christian:
Listen, if you’re not ready, I can tell her we need another week or so.
Me:
No, no, it’s fine! It’s good. I’m ready.
Christian:
Good. I’ll let her know. I love you.
Me:
Ditto!
“Well, shit,” I mutter, rubbing the tension knotting my shoulder.
The pressure has been building for days. No sleep, a stalker creeping around in my life, Jaxon’s arrival, and now Christian’s picture-perfect proposal. It’s all swirling together, a storm I can’t outrun. Everything’s moving too fast. If I don’t find a way to slow it down, it’s going to break me.
I toss my phone onto the bed as I trudge into the closet.
Pulling my curls into a pineapple, I tell my Google Hub to play “Dash It Out” by Dexta Daps.
It’s the perfect song to chase away the tension and help me pick an outfit for the day.
Dancing always soothes me. The rhythm hits, and my waist moves on instinct, my hips rolling in perfect circles as I lower my body to the ground.
I bounce, as my booty pops in time with the beat.
I grab a pair of cream and brown Jordans off the bottom shelf. With a smooth swivel of my hips to stand, I snatch a pair of joggers from a nearby drawer, dashing it out just like Dexta says.
When I was little, Momma and I danced in the kitchen while she cooked dinner.
Beres Hammond's soulful rhythms floated through the air, wrapping around us like a warm embrace. We’d giggle and sway, letting the stress of the day melt into the tiles beneath our feet.
Her hips moved with ease as she stirred the pot, the rich scent of curry and spices swirling through every room.
For those precious moments, it was just the two of us—lost in the music, in each other, and in those moments nothing else mattered.
Eventually, Daddy would wander in, planting a kiss on Momma’s temple, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
He’d whisper the lyrics to I Feel Good into her ear, swaying with her, his voice deep and in time with the beat.
The smile on Momma’s face would brighten the entire room as they moved together, perfectly in sync.
Daddy always says she is like milk and honey—calming in every way.
It’s one of the many things that made him fall for her.
My brother thought their PDA was nauseating, but I secretly loved it. Their love shaped who we are today.
I move through the huge walk-in closet, pulling out different pieces for my outfit, and the more I move, the more my mind quiets. Each beat of the music helps me forget the storm raging inside me.
Then I turn around—and nearly pass the hell out.
Leaning casually against the doorframe is Jaxon Knox, that panty-dropping smirk plastered on his face, one ankle crossed over the other like he owns the damn place.
“Google, pause,” I shout, my voice sharper than I intended.
“I knocked,” he says, shrugging with infuriating nonchalance as his smirk somehow grows even cockier.
“Usually, one waits until they’re invited in before barging into someone’s space,” I snap, brushing past him in the doorway to lay my outfit on the bed—anything to avoid the pull of his gaze.
“With music that loud and a performance like that?” He starts clapping, slow and deliberate, as I hear him stroll closer. “I was enjoying the show.”
Making my hands busy, I try to steady the sudden heat rushing through me. “Okay, Jaxon, what was so important that you had to intrude?” My tone is clipped, but I can hear the slight tremble in my voice.
Damn him.
“Can we not do this?” He sighs, closing the distance between us until I can feel his presence looming over me.
“Do what?” I ask, feigning ease, but my knees threaten to give out beneath me.
“This whole ‘woe-is-me, Jaxon-is-the-devil-who-corrupted-my-virtue’ routine.” His voice is low, biting. “You wanted it just as much as I did. Admit it.”
I scoff because it’s all I can do. Words fail me. The heat radiating from him is unbearable... and yet I want to drown in it.
“How about we skip to the good part?” His voice drops to a husky whisper as his fingers graze my skin, tucking a stray curl behind my ear.
“And what part is that?” I ask, my hands busy smoothing the outfit I’ve already fixed for the fifteenth time, a futile attempt to keep from unraveling.
He doesn’t answer—not with words. His hand wraps around the curve of my neck, firm but not rough, and he pulls me flush against his chest. His thumb tilts my chin, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They’re intense, piercing, and utterly beautiful.
“The part,” he purrs, his voice silk and sin, “where I show you exactly how good it feels to be worshiped.”
I gulp, fighting the dryness in my throat his words left behind, but his low, infuriating chuckle only makes it worse. He thrives on my discomfort, drinks it in like it fuels him, and I hate that he’s so damn good at it.
My hand moves over his, sliding it down, trailing it along my collarbone, across the plane of my chest. I listen to his breathing hitch slightly as I graze the edge of his control, but just before his fingers reach my breast, I flick his hand away, spinning to face him.
The astonishment in his eyes is unmistakable.
I don’t think he’s ever been denied, well at least not like this.
“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Mr. Knox?” I ask, my voice sweet but razor-sharp, with a smile to match.
“So, we’re back to ‘Mr. Knox’ now?” he says coolly, recovering far too quickly for my liking. His smirk returns, but there’s an edge to it. “All right, Ms. Blaine. I’ll get ready for your outing.”
“And where will you be when I’m ready?” I ask, keeping my tone light even as I watch his expression shift. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening just enough to make my pulse skip.
“Kitchen,” he replies, the word clipped, cold. Turning on his heel, he strides out, shutting the door behind him.
The silence he leaves behind feels heavy, pressing. And the unease settling in my chest is maddening.
By ten, Aisha pulls up to my house, “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon blasting through her speakers loud enough to shake the windows.
Tossing everything I need for the day into my Gucci belt bag, I reluctantly slide on my engagement ring before shoving sunglasses in front of the curly mess I’ve decided to call a bun.
After twirling some mousse through a few stubborn curls to make them the slightest bit more presentable, I dab some make up over the unsightly eyesore on my neck, before racing downstairs. When I swing open the front door, Aisha greets me in her signature fashion.
Leaning on the horn twice, she shouts from her M8 convertible, “Get in, sexy! We’re going to make your skin pretty!”
“My skin’s already pretty.” I giggle, sliding into the passenger seat, giving her quick kisses on each cheek. “I should tell security to keep your crazy ass off the property.”
“Too late now! We’re locked in.” She hooks her pinkie out, waiting. Smiling, I loop mine through hers. We both lean in, kissing the backs of our thumbs at the same time.
“Ain’t no switching up,” I finish in a sing-song voice, laughing as she throws the car in drive.
God, I love her. Aisha has this way of turning my worst days into something worth living through. She always knows what to say—even if it stings a little—and how to put a smile back on my face.
“Ooooo,” she coos, shimmying her shoulders. “Isn’t that your fine-ass bodyguard?”
Glancing up briefly, I spot him through the rear view as he walks to his car, that same maddeningly stoic expression on his face. Aisha, on the other hand, is blatant about her ogling. She practically twists her neck like she’s auditioning for the Exorcist.
“Girl, stop drooling,” I mutter, though I can’t help but look again—a little more nuanced, of course.
He pauses behind her car, long enough for our eyes to meet in the mirror but that unreadable mask doesn’t crack, the intensity of his stare pinning my gaze to his, suffocating and electric all at once. It stretches on too long, and when tears prick at the corners of my eyes, I break first.
Flicking my sunglasses down over my eyes, the single syllable comes out sharp, “Drive.”
Aisha doesn’t move right away, her eyebrow cocked. “Holy fucking brrrrrr,” she mutters, finally easing off the brake. “That look was colder than Antarctica. Trouble in paradise?”
“No,” I lie easily. “I’ve told you—I just don’t need a babysitter, and he’s just…everywhere.”
“Well, he’s not here now, so it can’t be that bad,” she says with a shrug.
I jab my thumb over my shoulder; I don’t have to look to know he’s back there. She glances in her rearview again. “Oh.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh’ is right,” I say. “Even when you think he’s not, he’s there! He’s fucking everywhere. And now he’s staying with me for a week. It’s just—”
“Hold up.” She slams on the metaphorical brakes, whipping her head toward me. “What do you mean staying with you for a week?”
“The Bozos asked him to watch me while they’re at some friend’s wedding in Fiji,” I admit with a huff.
“And you didn’t tell me?!”
“I found out last night. They didn’t even tell me—he did.”
Her jaw drops. “So, wait… is he staying in the guest house?” She pauses, continuing when I don’t answer. “No, Lady, stop!” She shrieks. “He’s in the house with you!?”
“June, please.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Can we not talk about him anymore?”
“All right, all right,” she says, lifting a hand off the steering wheel in surrender.