Chapter 23
Harvesting Trouble
Harlee
Jackson Park looks like it’s flirting with me.
Everything is gold and rust and soft around the edges.
Leaves crunch underfoot like they’re trying to be part of the conversation.
The air smells like caramel apples, smoke, and that sharp cold that sneaks up your sleeves and makes you lean closer to whoever you’re with.
A kid with half a tiger painted on his face barrels past us, laughing like the world has never disappointed him.
August's hand feels warm and solid in mine. Familiar, even though it probably shouldn't yet. It's the kind of thing that would've had me spiraling not too long ago, especially with graduation looming over everything.
But out here with him, I don't feel that tightness in my chest. I feel myself relax. We're not hiding, but we're not being stupid either. August knows how to play this game.
No one's gonna be looking for a CEO at some family park, too busy with their caramel apples to give a damn. Out here he's just a fine man in a coat, holding my hand like that's where it's meant to be.
And I realize, slowly, that this is him letting me breathe.
“Oye, bonita,” he murmurs, leaning in close, voice pitched just for me. “Apple cider?”
I glance up at him, already smiling. The camel coat is back. Scarf loose at his throat. Beard trimmed just enough to be disrespectful. Fall suits him. Slows him down. Makes him look like he’s done trying to impress anyone.
As we wait in line, I catch myself staring. The way his smile crinkles makes you wanna be the reason for it. And that laugh, deep and steady like a good pour of whiskey warming you from the inside out.
Autumn August ain't just a snack. He's the whole damn meal. The kind of man who could split logs in the morning, close a big deal by lunch, and then have dinner on the table with some smooth jazz and a bottle of red already breathing.
And the worst part? He knows it too.
That smug little smirk when he catches me looking says it all. He don't even have to try. Just existing is enough.
Zaddy. With a capital Z.
“You’re not even pretending that’s for me,” I say.
He grins. “I’ll share.”
Sure you will.
Two ciders, por favor,” he says smoothly. “And that bag of roasted nuts.”
He nods toward the display.
The cashier—a freckle-faced kid who looks barely old enough to vote—nods like she’s trying to stay professional through a personal crisis.
“Tap,” August says, flashing that effortless smile.
The woman behind the counter hands me the drinks. The warmth seeps into my palms, a welcome contrast to the cold.
We walk a few steps before I glance at the bag, then back at him.
“Well,” I purr, “looks like we’re both gonna have nuts in our mouths today.”
He almost chokes.
“Damn, princesa,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You never fail to surprise me.”
“Just keeping you on your toes, papi,” I say. “Can’t let you get too comfortable.”
“And here I thought I had you figured out,” he says.
“Oh, you’ve barely scratched the surface,” I whisper. “I’m full of surprises.”
His smile softens, eyes still burning. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
We wander through vendor stalls, shoulders brushing, fingers lacing and unlacing like they can’t decide what they want to do more. Kids dart past us with sticky hands and melting face paint. Somewhere nearby, a couple argues quietly about kettle corn.
It feels… normal.
I clock the way people look at August. A glance. Appreciation. Then they move on. No recognition. No whispers. He’s not a headline out here.
“Oh,” I say. “Okay. I get it now.”
“Told you,” August says, bumping his shoulder into mine. “Trust me more.”
I side-eye him. “Let’s not get reckless.”
Later, we’re on a blanket for the outdoor movie—Edward Scissorhands, because of course. His arm slips around me without ceremony. I tuck into his side, cold nose pressed into his neck, and he adjusts the blanket like it’s muscle memory.
No show. No hesitation.
Just habit.
My man, I think.
The thought doesn’t spark panic or qualifiers. It lands like a fact.
The world doesn’t disappear.
It just quiets.
The next morning, reality shows up like it always does. Late. Loud. And completely unimpressed with romance.
I’m already ten minutes late for class and still brushing lint off my hoodie like it’s gonna save me from being the girl who showed up with one sock and no bra.
My overnight bag’s digging into my shoulder, my backpack's heavy with my laptop, and my work tote? Hanging on for dear life. I feel like a sherpa, and this man’s condo might as well be base camp.
I sprint to the bathroom to toss on some mascara—quick glance in the mirror, edges half-laid, curls halfway frizzed from sleeping like I was in a street fight—and I pause, suddenly.
My contact lens case is empty. Of course it is. Because I forgot to refill it last night. Again.
I groan and brace myself for the blindness I’m about to endure.
But then…
Right there, on the counter, like a gift from the heavens wrapped in frosted plastic—
my contact lens solution.
Not just any solution.
The exact brand I use. The one that doesn’t sting or dry me out. The one that takes three to five business days to ship. Sitting there. Full-sized. Unbothered.
I blink at it.
Then glance around the bathroom.
And that’s when I start seeing it.
Tucked behind the mirror cabinet?
My shea butter. Triple-whipped. Handmade. No label. No barcode.
The curl custard I can only find from that one boutique in Bronzeville that doesn’t even have an online store.
My leave-in. My edge control. My travel-sized glossy oil drops that I haven’t even repurchased for myself yet.
I open the drawer.
And yo. It’s like the Black Girl Starter Pack came to life under his sink.
My bonnet—folded.
My detangling brush—clean.
Razors, toothbrush, eco-friendly toothpaste, even a fresh lip balm in the exact mango flavor I buy when I’m feeling indulgent.
I stand there in silence, lip twitching, eyes blinking slow.
Not because of the price tag.
He’s Augustus James. Money’s never the issue.
It’s the fact that he noticed.
He paid attention to everything.
The brands. The obscure jars with half missing labels. The things I’ve mumbled in passing, the rituals he’s seen me do half-asleep and bonnet-headed.
He didn’t just see me.
He learned me.
I feel something tug low in my stomach, soft and reverent and a little terrifying.
I don’t cry. I don’t make a scene.
I just reach behind the door, grab his navy hoodie—the one that smells like his laundry and that quiet mix of fig leaf and black tea that always clings to his skin—and pull it over my head.
I cinch it at the waist, tug on some gold hoops, and stare at myself in the mirror.
No bra. Light makeup. Baggy hoodie. Baby hairs wild.
And still?
I look kept.
August’s voice floats in from the kitchen.
“You want a banana or a smoothie for the road?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, shove my contact solution into my bag, and yell back: “Whatever’s fastest!”
I walk out of the bathroom like nothing’s changed.
But everything has. Because he’s not just taking care of me.
He’s making space for me.
And that?
That’s love I never saw coming.
Friday arrives exactly how Friday always does. Loud. Fluorescent. Unapologetic.
My heels click through James Wilde Media, coffee in one hand, bag in the other, brain already shifting gears. When I reach my desk, I stop short.
Flowers.
Not just flowers—a whole statement.
Deep burgundy Osiria roses, baby’s breath softening the edges. Expensive without screaming about it. I lean in, inhale.
There’s a card tucked between the stems.
A vision for a vision. — A
I smile like an idiot and grab my phone.
I hit send, then immediately wonder if that was too many feelings in emoji form. Before I can spiral, my phone buzzes.
A: I hope they put a smile on your face. ??
Me: They did. Sorry you have to miss it.
A: I know. Make it up to me tonight? FaceTime?
My heart flips. Annoying. Unavoidable.
Me: It’s a date. ??
A: Perfect. I’ll text you when I land.
I set my phone down and take a breath.
Romance later. Numbers now.
Spreadsheets don’t care if you’re catching feelings. They don’t flirt. They don’t reassure you. They just sit there, waiting to judge you.
I dive into the shared drive August sent over before his flight. Expense reports, EOQ cleanup—the thrilling stuff that keeps companies afloat. His request was casual, almost flippant.
“Hey, can you give these a quick once-over before I rope Kelley in? No time for wild goose chases.”
Translation: Find the smoke before I waste my time chasing fires.
Part of me bristled at the ask. Not because I couldn't handle it, but because I could. Because some things can't be unseen once you notice them. Like finding out your favorite uncle cheats at cards—the game never looks the same after.
But I open the files anyway. One, two, three.
At first glance, it's standard. Mind-numbing, even. Reimbursements, client lunches, flights for road warriors. I start to unclench.
Then I see it. A snag. Not a mistake, but a pattern.
Small line items that make me pause. Tiny, tidy amounts, always just shy of triggering red flags. I scroll up, then back down. The numbers blur, then sharpen into focus like those Magic Eye pictures from the '90s.
There's a cadence to it. My molars grind.
I start fresh, different angle. Same story.
Three execs, same travel rhythm, same background noise.
Except one. CJ.
Same initials peppered through multiple reports. New reasons, one card.
Slowly, I recline back. The chair groans like it knows what I know.
“Well, well,” I mutter. “Aren't you interesting.”
I strip it down to raw data. No names, no narrative, just numbers. Cold. Clinical. Honest in the way only math can be.
They don't even blink. They have no need to.
This isn't an oversight. It's deliberate.