Chapter 43 Bougie On A Budget （Kind Of）
Bougie On A Budget (Kind Of)
Harlee
The suite should’ve been the end of the surprises.
I mean, how do you top walking into a cloud of white balloons and a giant “Happy Birthday” sign that damn near made me ugly cry on the spot?
But of course, August isn’t done.
He’s leaning against the suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection merging with the skyline, watching me with that look.
The one that says he’s up to something. I’m still catching my breath when I notice it—a sleek black suitcase parked neatly at the foot of the bed. I didn’t bring a suitcase.
I spin around, narrowing my eyes. “Baby…”
He raises his hands in mock innocence. “So, I had help.”
When I unzip it, it’s like cracking open a Pandora’s box of Wynter Maddox chaos.
Bodysuits, sheer tops, leather minis, at least three pairs of thigh-high boots, and a suspicious number of nipple covers.
And no pants. Why are there no pants? This is a Miami bachelorette weekend wardrobe. Not a New York winter survival kit.
“Oh, she packed me for slutty brunch, not even remotely practical ,” I mutter, pulling out a neon pink mesh top that has no business seeing December. "What the hell am I going to do with pasties in 19 degree weather?"
August’s laugh rumbles low, filling the suite with that warm, infuriating smugness. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have enlisted her help, now that I think about it.” He laughs
I hold up a pair of denim shorts that would get me arrested in SoHo. “I’ll be thanking her when hypothermia sets in.”
He’s already at the door, smirking like he’s in on a joke I haven’t caught up to yet. “Come on. We’ve got one more stop before we call it a night. Trust me, what you are wearing is perfect.”
The air feels different in The Heights.
Not the sanitized, stage-lit version of New York. This is the city breathing, music spilling out of bodegas, empanadas and laundry soap fighting for dominance in the cold.
August moves through it like he never left. Every few steps someone calls his name, dap-ups and shoulder hugs like he’s still the neighborhood’s golden boy.
“Augustito, cono, you forgot where you came from?” an older man yells from a domino table, grinning.
August just laughs, tugs me closer, and dips his mouth to my ear. “Welcome to my world, baby.”
And somehow I stop feeling like a guest. I’m not a tourist in a hoodie. I’m his.
“Are we almost there?” I ask as we cut down another busy block.
“Yeah,” he says, pointing ahead. “Right on the corner.”
The brick building glows warm against the cracked sidewalk, and as we jaywalk over, I catch myself tugging at my sleeve, suddenly self-conscious in my plane-fit plus coat.
“You sure I’m dressed okay for this?” I ask.
He looks me over slow, like he’s cataloging every inch on purpose. “Cada vez que te miro, me enamoro más,” he murmurs.
I narrow my eyes, smiling because I know he’s doing this to mess with me. “You keep saying that. Are you ever gonna tell me what it means, or do you really expect me to Google it?”
“Nope,” he says, already pulling me forward.
“Fine,” I huff, jogging to keep up.
He laughs like he’s proud of himself. “Baby, I’m in jeans and a peacoat. If anybody’s underdressed, it’s me. You look fine. You are fine. Now come on, woman. Let’s eat.”
He swings the door open and we step straight into sensory chaos.
A wood-fired oven roars at the center like a furnace, booths packed tight with families elbow-to-elbow, pizzas coming out bigger than the plates they’re supposed to fit on. The air is heat and garlic and marinara, loud with shouts and laughter.
Someone behind the counter calls, “Welcome!” and it slices through everything.
I look up at August, grinning. “Okay. I take it back. This? This is perfect.”
We’ve eaten at fancy-ass places. But this is loud and cramped and honest, smells like heaven dipped in sauce. I yank off my beanie, fluff my hair, and let myself sink into it.
This isn’t a vibe you watch from the outside.
You get in it. You live it.
He leans in close, breath warm against my ear, his voice cutting through the clatter. “Told you. You haven't lived until you’ve had a slice of Ricardo’s.” His hand presses to the small of my back, steering me toward the counter. “This,” he announces, gesturing with reverence, “is Heaven on Earth.”
We shimmy our way up front, bodies packed tighter than a subway car. The kid behind the register—he’s barely old enough to have a shift—rattles off the total and rings a bell that somehow quiets the place for a split second.
Sliding into a booth by the window, August drops two red and white cups on the table like he’s done this routine a thousand times. There’s a glow about him here, an ease I haven’t seen in weeks. Like his soul knows these walls, these sounds.
“You’re gonna use this memory against me later,” I tease, watching him take it all in, his grin boyish, soft.
“Why?” he asks, eyes scanning every laugh, every grease stain, like he’s drinking it in.
“Because I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. Meanwhile, you’re out here recalling a pizza conversation we had months ago.”
His dimples flash. “I only remember the important stuff.”
“So a conversation about pizza is important?”
He looks at me then—really looks—and for a second, everything else fades. “It is because it was with you.”
Before I can respond, a shout from the kitchen cuts through the noise. “Two pies up!” August’s already on his feet, kissing the top of my head like it’s instinct.
“Be right back,” he says, knuckles tapping the table.
I watch him go, moving through this space like it still belongs to him. He’s not the billionaire media mogul’s right hand here. He’s Augustito, the kid from the block, the one who still knows how to fold a slice of pizza like a damn art form.
When he returns, two massive slices in hand, I plant a kiss on his cheek.
“For the pizza?” he asks, amused.
“For being amazing,” I say.
He grins. “I hardly think I’m amazing. God-like maybe.”
“Moment ruined,” I deadpan, grabbing my slice.
The pizza’s a monster—cheese, grease, pepperoni, all daring me to find religion with a single bite. I lift it, both hands required, ready to dive in.
As I bring the pizza to my lips, I pause, suddenly remembering something. “I can't believe I'm about to eat meat for you.”
His grin turns wolfish. “Technically, you—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” August changes gears, grabbing my wrist mid-bite. “Mami, what are you doing?”
I blink. “About to eat this pizza? You know, the thing you dragged me here for?”
He looks pained. “You can’t just bite it like that. There’s a way.”
I smirk. “Oh, you’d know all about that, huh?"
“Absolutely,” he says, eyes darkening. “Watch and learn.”
He picks up his slice like it’s holy, handling it with the kind of reverence priests reserve for communion wafers.
“First things first,” he says, slipping into that mock-professor tone that makes me want to both roll my eyes and kiss him senseless.
“If you don’t give your pizza some architecture, some shape to the crust, you’re gonna end up with that sad-ass flap. ”
He points at my slice, which is indeed flopping in my hand like it’s lost the will to live. I sigh dramatically and set it down on the tiny saucer of a plate, turning to face him, arms crossed, waiting for his masterclass.
“No one wants a flappy dick or a flappy pizza,” he declares, deadpan.
I bark out a laugh so loud heads turn. “I’m sorry, what? Did you really just—never mind. Go on, pizza maestro.”
He's deep in the zone now, unfazed by my cackling. “Trust me, it’s embarrassing to watch people butcher this. Some folks do the full fold, crust corner to corner, like they’re reading a brochure. Others”—he makes a limp-wristed gesture—“let it droop and pray for the best.”
I can’t stop smiling. “Men and their obsessions. Go off then, King of Carbs.”
“Now, for a lefty like you,” he continues, cocking a brow because of course he remembers which hand I write with, “the fold's a little different. But for me?” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, lips brushing my ear. “I like to eat my pizza like I like to eat my pussy. In a perfect V.”
My jaw unhinges. My face goes up in flames. He did not just—oh, but he did. In the middle of a packed pizza joint.
He’s fully committed now, oblivious or maybe just enjoying the hell out of my flustered state.
“You gotta guide the fold, thumb on top, fingers underneath. Not too much pressure, though. If you crack it down the middle, you lose all that beautiful cheese and grease. Gotta be gentle with it. Respectful.”
He folds his slice with surgical precision, the motion smooth and obscene in the best way. Then, with a cocky flourish, he takes a bite—and moans. Loudly. In public. The kind of sound that should come with a parental advisory.
I shift in my seat, suddenly hyperaware of how close we're sitting.
“I’m sorry,” he says after swallowing, not even pretending to look sorry. “But this—this is how pizza should taste. Never more than an inch thick. And a true pepperoni? Should always taste like the best thing on earth. Next to pussy, of course.”
I blink at him, stuck between mortified and ridiculously entertained. “Why is everything always a metaphor for pussy with you?”
He grins, wide and boyish. “Try it. You'll get it.”
I pick up my slice again, now cradling it like it’s a fragile piece of art. He watches, smug as hell. I fold it the way he showed me, because God forbid I disrespect the process.
I lift the slice, adjusting my grip like I’m defusing a bomb. The crust holds its shape now, firm but giving, just like he said. He’s watching me like I’m the halftime show.
Alright, maestro. Let’s see if your method lives up to the mouth.
I sink my teeth in—and it’s over.