Chapter 22
Why would he rent a jet when I own one?
This shit was stressing me out to the point that I spent the bulk of the trip to New Orleans in silence.
“Hey, you okay?” he asked.
I kept my eyes out the window. “No. I don’t understand this. Why would you spend this kind of money when my jet is at your disposal? You said you’re taking care of security and the accommodations, too? What are you trying to prove?”
“Can you look at me, please?”
Shaking my head, I said, “No.”
He chuckled. “Okay…”
“I love you, you and you alone. You don’t have to act like you’re rich. I don’t care about that.”
“I know that, baby. That’s not what this is about.”
Snatching my head around, I finally faced him. “Then what is it about?”
“It’s about you understanding that you don’t have to provide everything in this relationship. I ain’t tryna ride off you like Smoke did.”
“So…what? You spend tens of thousands of dollars? I never thought you were trying to ride off me. This is ridiculous!”
“I can afford it.”
“How?”
His only answer was a sigh.
“Exactly,” I fussed.
“So you gon’ be mad at me the whole trip?”
“I love New Orleans. I wanted to add it to my tour, but I already committed to doing the Sable Woman Festival there in the winter. I’m hyped about this trip, and I’m going to enjoy it regardless, but right now, I’m pissed at you.”
“Just for right now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll take it. Hey, I love you.”
“Mm-hmm.”
His reply was another chuckle.
The security he hired—three huge guys who looked like they shanked people for sport—met us on the tarmac, where a limousine also awaited us.
A motherfucking limousine.
This shit was giving me a headache. Okay, security was necessary, but I had my own who could’ve accompanied us. Why was he financially putting himself out like this? Rather than go off on him, I kept my mouth shut and took in the views of my favorite city.
“You good?” he asked, grasping my hand.
No, I thought, I’m not. You’re touching me and now I’m fighting not to climb you in this vehicle. Outwardly, I nodded and mumbled, “Peachy.”
Of course, he laughed because this shit was so damn funny to him.
The limo stopped in front of a gorgeous house, a mansion really. From the looks of it, I was sure it was built in the 1800s.
I rotated to face him, finding his eyes glued to me. “A bed and breakfast? I’ve never stayed at one before.”
“No,” he said.
“A boutique hotel?”
“Nope.”
“I know the fuck this ain’t no Airbnb! This has to be expensive!”
“It’s not. It’s my house,” he informed me as he opened his door, prompting the driver to throw his own door open and hop out the car. He’d reached to hold Orlando’s door when this negro of mine advised him, “I got it. I got hers, too.”
The driver nodded and backed away. Then, Orlando rounded the car and opened my door. “And we’re not staying here. I just wanted you to see something,” he expounded.
“How is this your house?” I enquired, still glued to my seat in the back of the car.
“My mother left it to me.”
“Oh.”
“Will you please get out of the vehicle, Miss Désir?”
Sighing, I took his outstretched hand and climbed out of the automobile. He was so tall and muscular and insanely good looking. How could I be this annoyed and this turned on at the same time?
“Hey, we’ll be back in a minute,” Orlando said to the driver before leading me up the front steps of the house. It was gorgeous—painted a nice cream color with a bricked porch. It had obviously been well maintained. Once he unlocked the front door and ushered me inside, I saw that the interior was also beautiful. Before I could ask, he started moving from room to room, giving me a tour.
“It was built in eighteen-seventy, I think. My mom bought it and had it restored a couple years before she adopted me, so this was my childhood home,” he explained.
“Wow, how many bedrooms?” I asked.
“Seven…and eight bathrooms. There’s also a guest house on the property. A lady is living there. In lieu of paying rent, she keeps the main house up and running,” he replied.
He stopped in what looked to be the largest bedroom. “This was my mom’s room, and this was her,” he said softly, pointing to a framed photo sitting on a night table. “That’s me sitting in her lap. I have that picture. I look at it all the time.”
“You miss her,” I said.
“Every day. I haven’t spent much time here since she passed. It…it hurts.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry.”
I moved closer to the picture, picking it up, and that’s when it dawned on me. Spinning around, I nearly shrieked, “Hold on a minute! I’ve seen this picture before! This is Nina Rapport! My mom—Patrice—was obsessed with her and her clothing line! She was a fashion icon! Shit, she still is—wait, you’re saying your mom is Nina Rapport?!”
“I knew her as Janina Lee Rapp, but yes, Nina Rapport was the name she preferred when doing business.”
“Wow! She created those iconic satin gauchos! She had a cosmetics line, Rapport sunglasses, the purses. I can’t tell you how many times my stylist has tried to get the people at Nina Rapport Fashions to let me wear one of her vintage pieces. They keep saying no. I think they believe my image will tarnish the brand. You know, the whole Black opulence theme her work always had.”
“I’ll look into that. What piece you tryna wear?”
“I’d love to wear the dress with the peacock feathers on it.”
“Got it.”
We fell silent as I stared at him before realizing, “You were her only child.”
He nodded.
“So…you own her company. It-it’s yours?”
“Yes.”