27. Miles
Miles
I left the money in the trunk of my car.
The whole ride home, it felt like I had a bomb that was ticking away, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. It was like after Victor left, a curse fell over the site.
Equipment kept malfunctioning. Materials went missing. I almost fell off the fucking ledge inside the mansion.
I had a plan—clean, simple. Get him talking.
Get evidence. Pass it off to somebody. Maybe even Dante could help with something like this, even though I didn’t fucking trust the guy.
I heard that last year, when Reese’s mom’s assistant freaked out and almost killed Laurene and Reese, Dante and the Kings covered it up.
You need help.
I was hurt everywhere—plaster stuck to my skin, aches in every damn muscle. I needed a good shower, a drink, and sleep.
Now I had a duffel bag full of dirty money in my possession like a bomb and a sick feeling crawling up the back of my neck. That bastard had flipped the script.
And if I went down? I took Serena with me.
I needed to end this. Fast. Permanently.
Opening the front door, I shouted, “Honey, I’m home.”
Kicking off my boats, I drug myself down the hall, and I could smell food.
“Oh lord, please don’t tell me you cooked.”
“Haha, jerk,” Serena’s voice rang out.
I did some more research on just what was going on with Victor.
Victor was sloppy.
The dude had three companies under review, two permit violations, and a sex-trafficking rumor tied to one of his warehouses. Bad shit. Just bad.
You could have prevented this years ago.
And that was the part I couldn’t stomach.
Because I knew what King Developments meant to her. Knew how hard she worked, how deep her loyalty ran—even when it didn’t serve her. Yvonne. Erik. The entire King legacy. She’d burn herself alive to keep it intact.
Victor wasn’t just a liability. He was a shadow, dragging Whitmore Ventures back into the same gutter my father had drowned us in before.
And maybe…I’d been too stubborn to admit it, but?—
This company wasn’t a legacy. It was an anchor tied to my ankle.
I kept trying to save it like it was some life raft. A way to prove I wasn’t Omar Whitmore. That I was different. Better.
It was clear to me now.
I had to let it go.
Not just the name. The guilt. The story I’d been telling myself—that holding on meant I was winning. I wasn’t winning. I was just stuck.
“What’s smelling so good in here?” My stomach did growl but part of me was also alarmed if Serena had cooked.
When I rounded the corner, I stopped.
Serena was curled up on the couch in one of my shirts—sleeves too big, collar slipping off one shoulder, her bare legs tucked under her. Doughboy was beside her, head on her thigh like he belonged to her now.
“What happened to you?” she gasped. “You look like a ceiling fell on you.”
“Part of the ceiling and roof,” I muttered.
She sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re not kidding. Please tell me the roof did not cave in.”
“Just part of it, don’t worry. Now, food, woman?”
She narrowed her eyes but licked the spoon and I felt my dick twitch. “Jennie called—Reese’s sister, remember? She said a wedding at their resort had a ton of leftover food. She asked if we wanted any, so I picked it up on the way back.”
She gave me a small smile.
“I didn’t want to subject us to my cooking again, and I felt like being a good wife. So… Hope you like chicken marsala and truffle potatoes.”
I rubbed my hands together. “Yummy.”
“Uh, no!”
Footsteps padded behind me, fast and full of judgment. I turned just as Serena rushed over, eyes sweeping me head to toe.
“You’re filthy.”
“Thank you.” I grinned, winking at her, and she rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious, you’re not touching food looking like the way you are. It’s not sanitary.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Germophobe.”
Her gaze tracked over my shoulder, then up—zeroing in on my head. “Is that plaster in your hair?”
I ran a hand through it. Flakes dusted onto the counter.
“I’ll wash it out later,” I said, brushing some of the mess onto the floor with my sleeve.
“Miles Whitmore, did you just dust my floors with your crusty-ass scalp?”
“Technically, it’s not my scalp?—”
She stepped closer. Her fingers reached up, brushing lightly through my hair with more focus than I expected. She plucked a small clump of dried plaster out, inspecting it like it personally offended her.
“You need to take these braids down and wash it properly,” she said quietly.
“I’ll do it in the morning.”
She shook her head. “You’re going to do it tonight. Take a seat, and let me get a comb, I’ll take down your braids.”
“When did you start doing hair?”
She shot me a look like I was slow. “I’m Black, Miles. Who did you think Laurene taught?”
I chuckled. “I need to call my stylist and get an appointment with her to rebraid it anyway.”
“ Her? ” Serena sniffed.
“She’s sixty. Old enough to be my grandmama.” I frowned.
“You don’t think I can take down your hair, wash it, and rebraid it? I did it all the time when we were kids.”
“You had my parts looking crooked too.”
Serena playfully punched me in the arm and I laughed but sighed, running a hand over my face. “You’ve been at work too, Serena. We’ll be up all night doing this. You know my hair is too thick.”
“I’ll fix you a plate.” Serena shook her head. “Sit your ass down. I won’t tell you again.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned.
Heading to the living room, I slowly lowered myself to the floor, letting out a groan as I leaned back on the couch. Doughboy jumped down, stepping into my lap and looking up at me with a curious expression.
“Wassup, man?” I murmured, giving him a few slow scratches under the chin. “You looking after my woman?”
He let out a little sound, half purr, half judgment, like barely.
“Yeah, I feel you.”
I leaned my head back with a sigh, just trying to breathe for a minute—but then I heard it. The soft but unmistakable theme music coming from the TV.
I cracked one eye open.
“Oh, hell no.” I groaned louder this time.
I heard Serena coming from the kitchen, and then I felt a nudge.
“Here you go.”
I took the plate from her, and then she surprised me with a beer.
“Look at you being domestic, taking care of you man.”
“You lucky I can’t divorce you without ramifications,” she said, deadpan. “Don’t get used to this treatment.”
She disappeared again briefly, and then I felt the cushion behind me shift. Serena dropped down on the couch, a small container of hair products and a comb nestled in her lap. She eased herself behind me, her thighs brushing my shoulders, warm and bare and smooth.
Her scent wrapped around me—clean linen, soft musk, and something sweet. My body sank deeper into the floor, jaw unclenching, spine relaxing just from being near her.
“You’re not seriously gonna make me watch this, are you?” I asked, eyeing the screen.
“ 13 Going on 30. ” Her voice was light, teasing. “You know you like it.”
A slow grin curved my mouth. “You used to make me watch it every summer.”
“It was my guilty pleasure after Gigi made me watch it… And you liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“Liar.” I let my head fall back, resting against her belly.
She ran her fingers through my hair, comb teasing gently at the edges. My eyes fluttered shut before I meant them to. Between the warmth of her body, the softness of her hands, and the familiar sound of her voice—damn. I could’ve stayed there forever.
Her fingers were slow. Careful. She undid each braid with a patient rhythm, her nails scratching lightly at my scalp, and I had to stop myself from moaning at the pleasant sensation. Each tug felt like tension being pulled out from my body, from the day, from my past.
The feel of her unraveling my braids, the soft scrape of her nails against my scalp, my head dropped forward.
“You okay?” she asked, pausing, looking down at me.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to wake up. “Just tired.”
I felt her hand caress my cheek. “If you want, we can switch places. I can stay on site; you go into the office?”
I never liked the office. I hated staring at spreadsheets and zoning forms and permit requests. I’d do it when I had to, but that part of the job had always felt like dragging a dead weight behind me.
And…truth was, it was nice having Serena out there with me.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t trying to do everything. I wasn’t running around like a one-man crew trying to keep a sinking ship afloat. With her around, I could breathe. Focus on what I enjoyed. Actually building.
“Nah, I like things the way they are.”
Her fingers kept moving. “Your scalp’s dry.”
“You gonna shame me while you do my hair?” I teased.
“I might.” Her nails scraped gently over my temple.
A long silence passed.
Then I said, “You smell good.”
Her hands paused, just for a second. I felt her breath catch, then exhale like she hadn’t meant to hold it.
“You taste good too.”
“Miles…” Her voice sounded strained. “All done. Take a shower. Wash it. I’ll finish it off.”
I leaned in close, just to be an ass. “You gonna join me, or just supervise from the doorway?”
“Miles.”
“Yes, wife ?”
She pointed toward the bathroom like it was exile. “Wash your ass.”
I nodded, and with tired legs, I went to the bathroom. The hot water hit my back, loosening the plaster from my skin, the sweat from my scalp. I took my time, part of me hoping she’d be join me in the shower.
She didn’t.
I stepped out, dried off, pulled on some sweats. When I came back out, Serena was waiting—fresh oil and a comb ready on the table beside her. No Doughboy on the couch, and luckily she’d changed the channel to ambiance music.
“Come on,” she said, patting the spot in front of her.
She poured a little oil into her palms, rubbed them together, and started working it through my hair.
“You’re good at this,” I murmured, eyes closed, relaxing into her touch.
“I watched a few videos,” she said, a small smile in her voice.
She parted a section, smoothed it, started a new braid.