Chapter 4 Lesley
Two Weeks Later
Coco had officially moved into my penthouse.
She didn’t bring much with her because her mortgage had been paid up for the year.
I wasn't sure how I felt about keeping her place. I didn’t want her running to hide from me, but I was doing my best to trust her.
The transition wouldn’t be easy; she was going from a single, independent woman to the wife of a boss.
The penthouse was quiet; all that could be heard was her humming, off-key but happy, the sound bouncing off the countertops and floating down the hall. I’d fallen in love with the normalcy she brought.
Coco didn’t sing loudly. She wasn’t putting on. She was just... in a good mood. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t catch me off guard. It always did. Most of the women I’d ever dealt with just weren’t as down-to-earth as her. They were too busy spending my money instead of finding their own.
That wasn’t Coco; she was about her business. Some days she was just as busy as I was, and I enjoyed it. The fact that I knew this was going to work out was being proven each day she stumbled into the kitchen to greet me.
I was nursing my coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter, when she bounced into view.
Hair wild, curls full of life, body wrapped in a denim dress that hung off one shoulder and stopped just above her thighs.
Her skin glowed. Bare legs, fresh face, and sandals, she looked good, but she always did.
I learned that quickly when she showed up in that damn red dress I still thought about often.
She opened the fridge and pulled out strawberries, shifting my morning with the joy radiating off her.
“What you so chipper about?”
She shrugged, spinning around to face me, one eyebrow raised like she had a secret. “We’re going shopping. Your cousin’s wedding is next week. I need a dress. A new one. Something that’s not last season. I need to look the part.”
I nodded. “Cool. Take the card. Get what you want.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I meant when I said we’re. I meant I’m going out and I want you to come with me.”
I stared at her, lips parting just slightly. “You wanna kick it with me?”
She dropped a strawberry in her mouth, exaggerated the chewing, then placed her hand on her hip. “Is that such a wild idea? Or is that not allowed?”
It was, and it wasn’t. We didn’t move like that. Besides Sasha Roe, we hadn’t really stepped out together at all. But the way she said it made it sound less like a request and more like a challenge.
“Where we goin’?”
She shrugged again, curling her lip like it wasn’t that serious. “I need heels. So... maybe we hit that new boutique downtown first for my dress. My girl should be there. Then the mall. Or do you have someone?”
“I can make some calls and shit for you.”
“No, no, don’t worry about it. Kayla can handle it. So will you come with me?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I looked her over, took in the ease she wore on her face, and told myself it wouldn’t hurt to take a few hours.
“Aight,” I said finally. “But we’re eatin’ first. Somewhere lowkey.”
She lit up. Not in a childish way—but in that grown woman, I’m glad you chose me kinda way. And I couldn’t lie; a nigga was happy to be chosen also.
“Deal.” She leaned in and brushed her lips against mine, quick, soft. She wanted to see if I’d stop her. I didn’t.
She walked off smiling, and I sat there knowing we were close to crossing a line we couldn’t go back over.
Within twenty minutes, we were ready and out the door.
We ended up at this tucked-away cafe near the river.
Nobody knew me there. Nobody expected anything.
I could sit with her and just be. She joked that the menu was bougie, even for her.
Her laugh was genuine, her head thrown back, with no filter.
I don’t think I’d ever met anyone as happy as her.
Over the best Caesar salads in the city, she told me about her business, how much she loved it, how long she’d been building it with her own two hands.
“I started with weddings,” she said, forking salad. “Just me, a clipboard, and a vision board I printed at the UPS store.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You planned people’s biggest day with a vision board?”
She laughed, dabbing at her mouth with her napkin. “Don’t do me. I had the taste, but I didn’t have the funds. But I was good. Booked six weddings that first year, word of mouth only.”
“That’s hustle.”
“I don’t play about my name,” she said, her eyes locking with mine. “I’m not flashy, but I’m excellent. Always have been.”
“You still in it for the weddings?”
“Not really. I mean, I’ll do ‘em, but I pivoted into private events, luxury dinners, brand launches, retreats. Black women with coin who want a soft life, no chaos. That’s my niche now.”
I nodded, impressed. “So, you’re the one behind all those flower walls and neon signs I see on the ‘gram?”
She smirked. “Those are the basic girls. I do candlelit beaches in Cabo, mirrored table spreads in Aspen, multi-sensory installs with custom scents and soundscapes.”
“Damn.” I leaned back, eyes narrowing, seeing her differently. “You really do your big one.”
“I do. And my team knows not to book me for a picnic and a Polaroid. I’m not a DIY girl. I’m a premier girlie.”
“Nah, you not.” I shook my head, thinking back. “I admired the shit you did for my dinner. I know that night’s a sore spot, but your work blew me away.”
“Wow, thank you. And I’m over that night.”
I let a small smile pull at the corner of my mouth, a little caught off guard by how good it felt to say that. To mean it.
“Have I ever told you what I like about you?” I asked, voice dipping low.
“I didn’t know you liked me.”
“Man, stop.” I rubbed the back of my neck, almost embarrassed by how easy it was to fall into her rhythm. “You know what I mean.”
Truth is, I wasn’t used to liking anybody, not like this. Most of what I did was convenience, control, and expectation. But with her, it was something else.
“My standards,” she guessed. “That’s what it is, right?”
“Nah.” I shook my head slowly. “Your mouth. Smart. Slick. But not reckless.”
She tilted her head, studying me, that grin still flirting around her lips. “Yet.”
I chuckled. “Don’t test me, Coco.”
Her laugh this time was softer. Slowly, she was letting me into a part of her nobody else got. She looked down, pushed her salad around her plate like she needed to regroup. I sat still, letting the moment breathe, but not too long.
Then she hit me with, “What about you? What’d you want before all this?”
My brow rose. “All what?”
She gestured between us. “This. Life. Power. The business.”
I exhaled, thumb brushing the rim of my cup, not answering right away. She was asking real shit. The kind of questions that didn’t have neat little answers. And the way she was looking at me—like she actually cared about what I said—made it worse.
“I was born into this,” I said finally. “Didn’t have much of a choice. Pops built it, and I had to either keep it running or let it fall. I thought I wanted to make him proud. Be better than him. But lately…”
I paused, staring down at my plate.
“I been wondering if any of it matters if I can’t even enjoy the shit. What’s the point of building something if it owns you?”
She didn’t jump to fill the silence. She sat with it, met me where I was. “So enjoy it,” she said softly. “You got the money. The freedom. The penthouse. You’ve earned that, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” I muttered, my eyes drifting back to her. “But money don’t mean peace. And it damn sure can’t buy you happiness.”
“Maybe not,” she said with a shrug, lips curling into a half-smile, “but a nice pair of heels never made me unhappy.”
We both laughed a little at that. Her eyes warmed, like she was starting to see me past what she’d heard. She reached across the table, she was gonna touch me, then pulled back and picked up her drink instead. I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose, needing a little space to reset.
She was still figuring me out. Still trying to decide if I was worth the risk.
And me? I was doing the same damn thing.
Every time she spoke, she gave me a piece of herself, sharp, soft, smart, sweet, and I wanted to return the favor.
But I’d never been the type to open up. Never saw the point in it.
Until now.
Sitting here with her, watching the way she listened when I talked, the way she didn’t judge or try to fix anything, just heard me—I was starting to understand what I’d been missing. What it felt like to want someone to know you, really know you, instead of just the version you showed the world.
But wanting something and being ready for it were two different things. And I wasn’t sure I was ready for what she was making me feel.
She adjusted in her seat, her movements small but intentional; she’d read the room, caught the shift in my energy, and decided not to press. That awareness, that respect for my boundaries even when I was pulling back—it just made me want to lean in more.
“My girl is ready for me at the boutique,” she said, folding her napkin with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Let’s go, chauffeur.”
We didn’t say much on the way out. She walked a little ahead of me, but slowed once we hit the lot. I opened the door for her without thinking, and she slid in with a quiet “thank you”.
The boutique was private, with curved mirrors and champagne flutes.
I sat on a cream-colored chair in the back, legs spread, arms folded, pretending not to watch her.
But I was. Every time she disappeared behind that curtain, I found myself waiting to see what version of her would come out next.
I was silently snapping pictures of her.
Weird ass shit because I didn’t have any photos in my gallery that weren’t of her.
“I think this is the one. I know it’s been an hour. Sorry, boo.”
“Take your time, love. You need to love it. Right?”
“Right. I’m coming out.”