Chapter 1
There Aren’t Enough Black Nepo Babies in the World
Max
Landing a job with Timantha Spellman is the tech-world equivalent of landing a job with Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada.
The moment she launched her app, she became the woman everyone wanted to meet, study, impress, or copy.
Then she married one of the most socially conscious venture capitalists in the country, and overnight she turned into the Kimora Lee Simmons of tech.
Her influence hit fast and hard, and I knew I needed to be in her orbit.
So naturally, I stalked her for months and practically offered to work for free just to learn her playbook. One day, I plan to launch my own app—an AI personal assistant designed specifically for neurodivergent women—and I study Timantha’s go-to-market strategy like it’s my personal business Bible.
I close my eyes and take a slow breath as her voice floats in from the corner office. “Max! The screen is doing that green thing again!”
I exhale and take another sip of my coffee. “Are you sure it’s green and not blue?”
“It’s…” Timantha pauses. “I think it’s green?”
I push back from my desk and head into her office, setting my coffee on the edge of her desk. “What did you do?” I ask, only half teasing.
“I didn’t do anything!”
I give her a look. “You sure you didn’t try to Skype your husband with your shirt off and accidentally start a company-wide meeting again…with me?”
“It was a mistake, Max!”
“It was sexual harassment, Tim.” I say, deadpan. “I saw a nipple!”
“I told you I was sorry! Sometimes I do wild things when I’m ovulating!”
“First of all, way too much information. Second and third of all, I need you to ovulate on your phone and not the company equipment.”
I hear a knock on Timantha’s door while I’m bent over her desk, fixing whatever she managed to break this time.
“Uh, Ms. Palmer? I’m here to review the security logs about the attempted breach last night?”
I glance over my shoulder and catch Reese staring straight at my behind.
“Eyes up here, Reese,” I warn. “Sit in my office. I’ll be there in a second.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Palmer,” he says, stretching out my last name like it’s an invitation.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. This is Reese. Charming, confident, and just bold enough to test boundaries without crashing straight through them.
Reese and I went to North Kensington University together.
Even though I was a few years ahead of him, we ran into each other frequently while we were both busy grinding our way through a program notorious for producing some of the sharpest minds in tech security.
If you were lucky enough to get into that program, once you graduated, you could pretty much write your own ticket. Most of us did.
I went straight into corporate America. Reese didn’t have to.
His family owns a sprawling empire that touches everything from media to cybersecurity, so his degree was more formality than necessity.
A box checked before stepping into a legacy already waiting for him.
And I never faulted him for that. If my last name came with an empire, I wouldn’t pretend otherwise either.
There aren’t enough Black nepo babies in this world, if you ask me.
What earned my respect last year was when he showed up in my office and asked for experience that wasn’t handed to him. He wanted to prove—to himself more than anyone—that he could stand on his own.
I said yes. Who wouldn’t?
Since then, he’s tried flirting a handful of times. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to let me know he noticed me. And every time, I’ve shut it down just as calmly, making it clear where the line lives and how firmly it stays in place.
Still, moments like this amuse me.
“Good boy,” I say, so only Timantha can hear.
She snorts, barely holding in her laughter as Reese disappears down the hall, obedient as ordered.
The man is pure chocolate and magically delicious, but I do not sit on the dick of men where I eat. Or however the saying goes.
“Girl, I know you’re mad there’s a company policy against climbing that tree,” Timantha says under her breath. “Because that man looks like he would gladly waste your time, ruin your good name, and insist you thank him for it.”
I glance toward the doorway even though Reese is already gone. “And I’d gladly let him. Then drop to my ashy knees and thank him properly.”
We both laugh some more.
“And he wears glasses?” she adds, fanning herself.
“I’d fog the fuck out of those lenses. You hear me?”
She gasps in mock outrage. “Maxine Palmer, you are so nasty.”
“Timantha Spellman, why do you act brand-new?”
She gets an email and uses her phone to check since I’m still messing around with her computer.
“Aww!” She squeals.
“What?”
“Well, they just put out the list of North America’s most eligible taste-makers, millionaires and billionaires, and Will Huntley was listed as the one that got away.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are maddeningly cute,” I say, because they are.
Timantha is the kind of woman who once had a very specific list of qualities she wanted in a man.
Tall, extremely dark, devastatingly handsome.
Instead, she married a tall, rich, devastatingly handsome…
white man. A man who technically kidnapped her and somehow managed to turn it into the most romantic story any of us have ever heard.
And did I mention he is rich?
Timantha gasps dramatically. “And girl! There are—count them—not one, not two, but three Black men on the list this year!”
I shoot her a look. Pure disbelief. Then I snatch the phone from her hand. “Let me see,” I say, because there is absolutely no way that’s true.
I scroll.
Pause.
Scroll again.
Well damn.
I half-expected the list to be nonsense, but I stand corrected. There are exactly three beautiful Black men on it, two of whom live right here in Cinnamon Grove.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Cinnamon Grove has become a hideaway for the elite. A small town tucked within the sprawl of Atlanta that houses a little bit of everyone, from the modest to the incredibly wealthy. One of whom is Ares Beaumont.
Former pro athlete turned media mogul. Founder of the Beaumont Sports Network—BSN. Net worth: obscene. Reputation: ruthless in business, mysteriously soft where his daughter is concerned.
Ares Beaumont recently stepped away from the spotlight to “focus on family,” which is billionaire-speak for something broke him open. He’s known for being intimidating, emotionally guarded, and devastatingly fine. Single. Allegedly reformed. The women in the comments are unwell.
“Damn,” I say out loud.
“Mmm hmm. I told you!”
Then there’s Eros Beaumont. Business partner and younger brother to Ares.
Co-founder of BSN. Charismatic. Volatile.
Brilliant. I’ve heard about him. The man who can charm a room and then set it on fire five minutes later.
Divorced. One child. Currently “working on himself,” which feels like a warning label more than a promise.
Still single. Still dangerous. Still rich. Absolutely not my type.
My thumb scrolls again and—
“Oh,” I whisper.
“What?” Tim calls, but I barely hear her.
Because this profile doesn’t look like the others.
No stiff suit. No smug power pose. No arrogant grin. The headshot shows a man seated at a drafting desk, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, attention fully absorbed by whatever he’s sketching. The moment feels stolen. Like he forgot, or didn’t care, the camera existed.
Eli Shaw.
Founder and CEO of Shaw Industries and RootHaus.
Sustainability-focused manufacturing. Quiet millionaire.
Reclusive by design. Known for avoiding publicity and society pages altogether.
Rarely photographed. Even more rarely linked to anyone romantically.
Described as “the most eligible taste-maker no one can seem to pin down.” Rumored to live off-grid part of the year.
Values land stewardship, longevity, and impact over flash. Single. Very irresistible.
I stare at his name longer than I mean to.
Three Black men on the list.
Three wildly different kinds of power.
But only one of them does anything to me. Only one holds my attention in a way I don’t have language for yet.
I exhale and hand Timantha her phone back. “They’re nice to look at, I’ll give you that. But you already know how I feel about rich men.”
She shakes her head, clearly exhausted with me and my refusal to date men who make my annual salary before breakfast. “Yes, Maxine Palmer. We are all painfully aware you prefer ‘down to earth.’ Unlike the very attractive, very rich man named Nyles who lives in your building.”
“I hate that I ever told you about him,” I groan. “You’re never going to let that go.”
“It’s not about letting anything go,” she says. “It’s about the fact that you work nonstop, take care of everyone else, and somehow convince yourself you’re not missing out on anything fun.”
“I’m not missing out,” I say. “I’m just…postponing things.”
Even as I say it, I can’t quite articulate what I’m postponing. Or what I’m waiting for.
Timantha lifts a brow. “And when you’re done postponing—do you see Nyles waiting for you at the finish line?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Even though we hung out again last night.” I don’t add that he helps me sleep sometimes. That part stays private. “He’s just…not it,” I say, as I practically assault her computer like it’s personally wronged me.
“And you need to stop using control-alt-delete on a Mac. That’s not how this works.”
“Okay, okay,” she laughs, holding up her hands. Then she sobers. “But seriously. You’ve broken things off with him but you’re still hanging out with him, and you’re not moving toward him either? Help me understand.”
I pause, fingers still. “Because every time we hang out,” I say carefully, “I don’t feel pulled closer. I feel clearer."