Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The same car had waited outside Mason’s after games, outside her dorm when she swore she was only coming down for five minutes, and outside my apartment the night I asked her to be mine like a young fool who believed wanting forever meant we automatically knew how to protect it.
I had kept the car longer than sense required.
Some things a man simply didn't sell because he grew up.
When Imani stepped outside, every thought I had went quiet.
Her dress was black, knit, off the shoulder, and fitted close enough to prove God loved detail. Plum thigh-high boots hugged her legs, and the matching YSL bag in her hand made the whole thing look like temptation had received a luxury budget.
Diamonds flashed at her ears, throat, and wrist.
She stopped when she saw the car.
“Andre.”
I leaned against the passenger door. “What?”
“You brought the Hellcat?”
“I did.”
Her eyes softened before her smile appeared. “This thing still loud as hell?”
“It was loud when you liked it.”
“I was twenty-two.”
“And had good taste.”
“I had questionable judgment.”
“That too.”
She laughed, and for a second we were young again. Not enough to forget the hurt or pretend the years between us hadn't happened, but enough to remember that before everything broke, there had been a lot of joy.
I opened the passenger door.
“You cheating on Saint Aurelia?” I asked, nodding toward the diamonds.
Her smile widened. “Tiffany raised me.”
“Saint Aurelia pays you.”
“I’m allowed to be bilingual.”
I laughed.
Up close, she smelled warm and expensive, something sweet beneath the perfume that made my mind start misbehaving before we'd even left the curb.
“Are we leaving,” she asked, “or are you going to keep looking like you need a moment of silence?”
“I need several.”
“Take one.”
I leaned closer, keeping the words between us. “You look beautiful.”
The teasing eased from her face.
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
She didn't dodge it.
That mattered enough for me to notice and not enough for me to ruin by explaining.
I closed her door and walked around to the driver's side.
The engine started with that same rude growl I remembered, and Imani tipped her head back laughing.
“You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I haven’t even pulled off.”
“That’s what worries me.”
We drove toward Oakland with the car filling whatever quiet we did not need to rush. Imani's perfume, the rumble beneath us, her legs angled toward me as if her body remembered this passenger seat before her pride decided whether it wanted to admit the same.
“You remember the first time you rode in this?” I asked.
“You mean when you drove like you had a signing bonus and no survival instincts?”
“I drove fine.”
“You drove like the Lord owed you favors.”
I laughed. “You still got in.”
“I was young.”
“You smiled then too.”
She looked at me.
Something old and warm passed between us before she reached across the console and slid her fingers through mine.
I held on.
When I turned through the private entrance near Phipps Conservatory, she sat straighter.
“At night?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you rent Phipps?”
“Not all of it.”
“Andre.”
“I reserved enough.”
She stared at me.
“You like flowers.”
“I do.”
“My family owns a landscaping company.”
“I know.”
“So this is basically cultural.”
Her laugh filled the car. “You are ridiculous.”
“But thoughtful.”
“Unexpectedly.”
“I’m choosing to hear the compliment.”
“That is very on brand for you.”
Phipps felt different at night, warm air under glass, pathways glowing between palms, orchids, and deep green. I hadn't wanted the entire place empty. Empty would have felt like hiding her.
I wanted room.
A section had been reserved for us with enough discretion that the ropes almost looked accidental.
Staff appeared when needed and disappeared before their presence crowded the evening, while other patrons remained far enough away to give us space without pretending Andre Jones could walk through Pittsburgh unseen.
A couple near the orchids slowed when they recognized me. Somebody whispered my name. One phone lifted briefly.
Imani's fingers tightened around mine.
She didn't let go.
I rubbed my thumb over her hand and kept walking.
That was what I wanted from the date. No announcement, no performance, no trying to use a public evening to force a label we had only recently agreed to explore.
I wanted to take Imani somewhere beautiful, hold her hand, feed her well, and let anybody watching understand I had no interest in treating her like something I needed to hide.
Ellis, the horticulturist assigned to us, walked us through orchids, palms, and rooms where I knew just enough about plants to keep from embarrassing my family business.
Imani asked all the questions.
Of course she did.
She looked at flowers the same way she looked at jewelry, noticing texture, proportion, how light changed color, why one arrangement felt luxurious while another simply looked expensive. Beauty never swallowed her. She studied it until she understood what made it work.
I liked watching her in places designed to be admired.
She always gave me something better to look at.
Dinner waited in a glass-walled room with low flowers, dark linens, and candles positioned so nothing blocked my view of her. North & Vine handled the food because I trusted my people and because there was something satisfying about feeding Imani from something I had built.
We took our time through crab cakes, short ribs over parmesan grits, cornbread, vegetables, and lemon cake.
She talked about Saint Aurelia and Nina growing more confident in meetings.
I told her I'd still be at her condo the next morning with coffee and tools to judge everything Jabari had allegedly unpacked correctly.
“Bari helped.”
“Bari lied.”
“You haven't even seen it.”
“I know my man's work.”
She laughed into her wine.
After dinner, Ellis led us into the rose room.
Near the far end, Imani slowed in front of a section of deep-red roses with thick petals opening wide around darker centers.
“Oh.”
One little word.
I already knew I had picked right.
“Rouge Royale,” Ellis explained. “They can be temperamental, but when they open correctly, there's nothing quite like them.”
Imani stepped closer.
I pulled out my phone.
“Ask first,” she said without looking at me.
I smiled. “May I?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “You may.”
I took the picture.
“Do not post that.”
“I wasn't going to.”
“And do not send it to your mother.”
“She asked for pictures.”
“Your mother is not on this date.”
“Technically, she helped raise the man who planned it.”
“Andre.”
I put the phone away. “Private.”
Her shoulders eased.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, Ellis returned with another staff member carrying a long black floral box tied with satin ribbon. When the lid opened, two dozen Rouge Royale roses rested against cream paper.
Imani turned slowly toward me.
“Dre.”
“Mr. Jones asked us for something rare,” Ellis said. “These are scheduled for delivery to you tomorrow morning.”
She touched one petal with the tip of her finger.
“So these are mine?”
“Yours.”
Her eyes lifted, brown and shining in the low light. “Thank you.”
I stepped closer. “You deserve beautiful things, Mani.”
Her expression softened enough to make the entire room feel quieter.
Then she slipped her hand into mine again.
The ride back to her condo didn't need much conversation. Her hand rested in mine until I needed both on the wheel, then moved to my thigh like touching me had already become something she no longer needed to discuss with herself first.
When I stopped in front of her building, she looked toward the lobby and then back at me.
“You are not supposed to be looking at me like that.”
“I know.”
“Yet here we are.”
“Here we are.”
Her breathing changed.
I heard the invitation before she gave it words, but I waited.
Most of what we'd rebuilt had happened inside spaces that belonged to me or to Crown Weekend. My hotel suite. My house. My couch. I had walked Imani to her condo door before, carried something inside, stood near the entry long enough to tease her about the boxes.
She had never invited me all the way in.
“You want me to walk you up?”
“Yes.”
That one word moved through me differently.
Imani unlocked her door with hands that were a little too careful.
I noticed.
I had been noticing her all night.
At Phipps, under glass and flowers and all that warm green light, she had looked like something a man with sense should thank God for and leave alone until he got her somewhere private.
Black dress. Plum leather boots. Lips shining.
Eyes catching mine every time she thought I was not watching.
She had touched those Rouge Royale roses like beauty still had the power to surprise her, and I had spent the rest of the night thinking about putting my hands where those petals had made hers go soft.
Now her condo door opened, and the air changed.
Her place was dim except for one lamp tucked on a table near the far wall, half-hidden behind a stack of books and a candle she had probably lit before we left because Imani liked pretending ambiance was an accident.
Boxes sat along the wall. A framed print leaned near the hallway.
Her shoes were still in places only she understood.
Her home was unfinished. Her want was not.
She stepped inside ahead of me, set her purse down, and turned.
I closed the door behind us.
The lock clicked.
For one second, we only looked at each other.
Then I was on her.
My mouth found hers while my hands went to the hem of that black dress, and she helped me get it over her head, both of us moving too fast to care where it landed. Plum lace. Brown skin. Those damn boots.
I stepped back just enough to look at her.
“Keep the boots on.”
Her mouth curved, and I kissed the smile off it before she could say anything smart.