Chapter 6 #4
We were led to a half-moon mixing station, polished onyx table, bronze droppers gleaming, crystal beakers catching candlelight, amber bottles waiting like little secrets.
In the center, a turntable-style lazy Susan spun with labeled vials.
Base. Heart. Top. A statement wall blazed across the room with graffiti loops in royal purples, greens, and golds:
We mix. We glow. We carry our scent into the world.
Kenya, owner, host, and the kind of beautiful that made someone sit up straighter, appeared with a conspirator’s grin.
“I hear tonight is special. At Melanin Mixery, scent is language. You’ll pick a base to ground you, a heart to speak for you, and a top to announce you.
When you’re done, we’ll pour your creations into matte black bottles etched in gold, and names, initials, or a word you want to carry.
Behind you is our Glow Station for butters and balms. Staff will float, hype you, and keep the vibes right. ”
, that oud and vanilla mix? That’s danger in a bottle. Keep it away from the wrong crowd.”
Kenya left us with trays of ingredients, and Elias slid into the stool beside me, leaning his elbow on the table like a student waiting for class to begin. His grin was lazy, dangerous, and sweet all at once.
I clapped like I’d just seen magic. “This is… this is my candy store.”
Elias leaned in, voice ghosting my ear. “I know.”
I slid into teacher mode fast because my hands knew where to go when oil and butters were involved. “Okay,” I teased, tying the provided apron at my waist. “Professor Nay’s class is now in session. Do not embarrass yourself.”
He smirked. “What’s my extra credit?”
“Not getting oil on your shirt.”
He pretended to adjust his collar like a good student, and I melted a little.
I showed him how to spin the tray so the glass vials clicked with a satisfying little snick.
“Base anchors you,” I said, tapping sandalwood and musk.
“Heart carries your story. Vanilla, lavender, jasmine. Top is that first hello. Citrus, mint, bergamot.”
“Sounds like you,” he murmured. “Sunshine with an edge.”
I pretended not to hear my heart flip. “We start with butter at the Glow Station, so you have a canvas.”
We carried our bowls to the side booth, a clean white counter lined with jars of shea and cocoa butter, beeswax, and carrier oils.
I pressed my spoon into the shea, and it resisted, then yielded in soft ridges.
“You don’t force it,” I explained, folding in patient strokes.
“You coax it. Heat from your hand helps.”
He took the spoon, muscles flexing… and promptly looked offended. “This little mountain fighting back.”
“Patience.” I covered his hand with mine, guiding the movement more slowly. Skin to skin, pulse to pulse. “Like that.”
His eyes dropped to our hands. “Noted, Professor Gorgeous.” He slipped, a dollop spotting his knuckle. I reached with a napkin and wiped him clean, and the spark that leapt between us was ridiculous.
We started choosing, him drawn to peppery spice and warm woods, me leaning toward citrus-bright with a soft floral hum underneath. He smelled everything off my wrist instead of the strip, like he needed to learn me specifically. I kept my hands steady while my insides wrote poems.
“Try lemon with jasmine,” I said, dribbling careful drops into my beaker. “It’s joy with a secret.”
He inhaled, gaze never leaving my face. “That’s you.”
“For you?” I handed him oud. “Add amber. And a whisper of vanilla. That’s heat and home.”
He mixed, brow furrowed, concentration so handsome it made me ache. When the blend felt right, he dipped a clean stick into his, then, God help me, touched the spot to the back of my hand and kissed it softly, testing scent the way men in old movies greeted their women.
“That’s”—my voice cracked—“not part of the process.”
He smiled, sin and sincerity. “It is now.”
We laughed, we built, and we spun the mix tray again and again until our bowls glowed with something new. Kenya returned, eyes knowing. “And what shall we etch?”
He looked at me first. I considered Peace, and then shook my head. “Unapologetic,” I said. “I want to smell like I took up space on purpose.”
Kenya grinned. “Period.”
Elias tapped his bottle. “Ours.”
I blinked. “Bold of you.”
He didn’t flinch. “Accurate.”
When the matte black bottles came back etched in gold, I felt dizzy with a weird, tender pride, like we’d made proof of something we were afraid to name.
I thought we were done until a velvet curtain slid open and revealed a private dining space glowing warm as a memory.
There were bronze candleholders, white linen, crystal catching light, and a bottle of chardonnay sweating diamonds in its bucket.
Steam curled from silver platters, shrimp scampi swimming in lemon garlic butter, toasted garlic bread, and blistered asparagus with sea salt.
I pressed my hand to my chest. “Elias.”
He pulled out my chair like it was second nature. “You thought I’d let you leave here smelling like heaven without feeding you, baby?”
The first bite had me closing my eyes. The tender shrimp, lemon bright, butter lush, the garlic wrapping around my tongue like a secret I wanted to keep. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me like the meal was secondary to my smile.
“What?” I fought a grin, swallowing.
“Just cataloguing,” he said. “That face you make when you feel safe? I’m trying to memorize it.”
That hit harder than the chardonnay.
I tried to play it cool, twirling pasta on my fork. “You say that like you’re not the reason for it.”
He leaned back, eyes dark and steady. “Good. Then I’m doing my job.”
I tilted my head. “Your job?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Protect. Provide. Be your peace. That’s what I signed up for the second I decided you weren’t just some woman I was passing time with.”
Heat spread through me, sharp and sweet, like cinnamon blooming in hot cream. I set my fork down, pulse racing. “You… you really see me like that?”
“Jonay.” He said my name in such a serious tone.
“I don’t see you. I study you. The way you always got yellow somewhere on you.
The way you light up when you’re creating.
The way you take care of everybody else before yourself.
I see all of that, and I’m telling you now, there’s no running from me. You’re it for me. End of story.”
I couldn’t even breathe for a second. My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he heard it echoing off the walls.
The words hit bone. I set my fork down and let myself lean into this, into him.
We ate and talked like we’d been doing it for years, no performative small talk, no forced stories.
He told me about EJ’s new favorite pajamas, how he insists Spider-Man will be a cop when he grows up, how Elias learned to braid because YouTube taught him and love demanded it.
I told him about how law enforcement didn’t really feel right.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice dropping low enough to curl right around my spine. “What’s your dream, gorgeous? Not the safe one. The one you scared to say out loud.”
The question cracked something open in me.
I told him about wanting to grow my little bath and body brand into a storefront.
About how I dreamed of creating a space where women like me could walk in, mix scents, and leave feeling powerful.
About how I wanted EJ, and maybe one day, my own kids, to see me build something from scratch, brick by brick.
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t brush it off. He just nodded slowly, eyes locked on mine like every word was gospel.
He never looked away. Even when I dropped my eyes, I could feel him there, steady.
“That’s not a dream, baby,” he said finally, pouring me more wine. “That’s a plan. Write the list. I’ll help with the rest. You bring vision. I’ll bring structure and safety. That’s partnership.”
My throat got tight. “You mean that?”
“Gorgeous.” His lips quirked into a smile that felt like sunrise. “I don’t say shit I don’t mean, especially when it comes to you.”
Something in me, timid, bruised, always ready to run, sat down and unclenched.
After dinner, the music softened. Sade’s voice poured like honey in a dim glass. He took my hand with a patience that felt like leadership, not control, and led me to a velvet bench tucked under the Edison glow.
He stretched an arm along the backrest, the other warm across my shoulders, fingers tracing little circles that calmed me in increments. We breathed together a while, the kind of together that didn’t need filling.
“Jonay,” he said, voice low, like words meant for just us. “You ever think God don’t make mistakes? That maybe He put me here to protect you, provide for you, and be your peace, not as a rescue, but as a response?”
I swallowed. “And what if I’m scared to need that?”
“Then I earn it,” he said simply. “Daily.”
His eyes asked a question my mouth didn’t know how to shape. I answered by tipping my face up.
The kiss began like a breeze and deepened like a storm, soft, then certain.
His hand slid to the back of my head, thumb at my nape.
My fingers curled in his shirt like I was holding on to the best decision I’d made in years.
Time thinned and stretched, every second slow, golden, suspended.
I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel his answering under my palm, two metronomes finding a shared rhythm.
When we parted, our foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the hush.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispered, a smile in it, wonder in it.
“Maybe I do,” I admitted breathlessly and he laughed low, pulling me close until my ear rested over his heart.