Chapter 2 #6
Because neither she nor Trinity had expected things to progress this quickly.
And now both women were discovering the same unsettling truth.
The men were no longer possibilities.
They were becoming important.
And every day that passed without the full truth being revealed increased the risk.
Yet neither woman wanted to stop.
Not now.
Not when the conversations were becoming deeper.
Not when the attraction was becoming stronger.
Not when the emotional intimacy was becoming harder to ignore.
For the first time in a very long time, both women were beginning to imagine a future that included somebody else.
And somewhere beneath the excitement, beneath the laughter, beneath the kisses, beneath the growing affection, another reality waited patiently.
The funeral homes.
The flowers.
The profession.
The truth.
For now, however, that truth remained outside the room.
And love—or something very close to it—continued moving forward.
Dominique left a few minutes later, but the conversation stayed behind.
It lingered in the rooms of the brownstone long after the front door closed and the sound of her heels disappeared down the stoop.
Trinity moved through the house slowly, switching off lamps she wasn't using, straightening a decorative throw that didn't need straightening, and pausing in front of the foyer mirror for reasons she refused to examine too closely.
The reflection looking back at her was familiar.
The same elegant woman. The same successful business owner.
The same careful professional who had spent years maintaining composure when other people were falling apart.
Yet lately, she looked different to herself.
Softer.
Not weaker.
Just softer.
As though some heavily guarded part of her had finally unlocked a window and allowed fresh air inside.
The thought followed her upstairs and into her bedroom, where she sat at the edge of the bed removing earrings one at a time while Cedric occupied far too much space in her thoughts for a man she had known only a handful of weeks.
She could still picture him standing beneath the gallery lights.
She could still hear the warmth in his voice.
She could still remember the feel of his hand resting at her waist, steady and respectful and somehow more intimate because it hadn't been possessive.
The memory unsettled her because she enjoyed it.
Trinity had always been a woman who valued self-control, yet she found herself revisiting small moments from their time together the way other people revisited favorite songs.
Across the city, Cedric wasn't sleeping either.
His apartment overlooked a stretch of Harlem illuminated by amber streetlights and the glow of apartment windows where countless other lives were unfolding behind curtains and blinds.
Architectural drawings sat spread across his dining table.
Emails waited unanswered. Tomorrow's schedule remained unfinished.
None of it held his attention.
Instead, he found himself thinking about a woman in black.
A woman whose confidence felt effortless until she laughed.
A woman whose intelligence sharpened every conversation.
A woman who somehow managed to be both composed and deeply feminine at the same time.
Cedric leaned back against his sofa and smiled to himself.
At fifty-one years old, he knew better than to confuse attraction with compatibility.
He knew better than to confuse chemistry with character.
Experience had taught him that lesson thoroughly.
What concerned him was that Trinity seemed to possess both.
That combination was far more dangerous.
His phone rested on the coffee table.
He picked it up.
Put it down.
Picked it up again.
Then finally laughed at himself.
He had spent years negotiating contracts, managing construction projects, leading teams, and making difficult decisions.
Yet he was suddenly debating whether sending one more text message would make him appear too eager.
Life had an interesting sense of humor.
Meanwhile, in the Bronx, Dominique sat curled into the corner of her sectional sofa with a blanket draped across her legs while Jamal's last voice message played for the third time.
Not because she hadn't heard it clearly.
Because she liked hearing it.
His voice possessed a warmth that reminded her of slow conversations and unhurried evenings.
There was confidence in it, but not arrogance.
Intelligence, but not performance. Humor, but not immaturity.
Dominique listened to the message finish and immediately hated herself a little for smiling again.
"Lord help me," she muttered to the empty room.
The room offered no assistance.
Her phone vibrated.
Another message.
Jamal.
The smile returned immediately.
She didn't even try to stop it anymore.
The message contained nothing dramatic.
A photograph.
That was all.
A photograph of a bookstore window he had passed earlier.
Beneath it he had written:
You'd probably make me buy three books and leave with six.
Dominique laughed out loud.
Not because the joke was extraordinary.
Because it was accurate.
The frightening thing about intimacy wasn't grand declarations.
It was recognition.
The feeling that another person was beginning to see you clearly.
That was what made her lower the phone and stare thoughtfully into the quiet room afterward.
Jamal was beginning to know her.
Not completely.
Not deeply enough yet.
But enough.
Enough to notice things.
Enough to remember things.
Enough to become familiar.
And familiarity was becoming affection.
The next morning arrived with the usual demands of business ownership, but neither woman managed to escape her growing feelings.
At St. Clair Memorial House, Trinity spent the better part of the morning moving between offices, meeting spaces, and the chapel. Families required attention. Staff required direction. Vendors required supervision. Every hour brought new responsibilities.
Yet somewhere beneath all of it existed anticipation.
Around eleven-thirty, her assistant informed her that lunch had arrived.
Trinity frowned.
"I didn't order lunch."
Her assistant smiled suspiciously.
"No. But somebody did."
The smile alone told Trinity everything she needed to know.
A few moments later, she found a neatly packaged meal waiting in her office accompanied by a simple note.
You mentioned skipping lunch twice this week. Consider this architectural intervention. — Cedric
Trinity sat down slowly.
The note wasn't expensive.
It wasn't extravagant.
It wasn't flashy.
Which somehow made it more effective.
Because it meant he had listened.
He had remembered.
He had cared enough to act.
She stared at the note longer than necessary.
Then folded it carefully and placed it inside her desk drawer before opening the meal.
Several employees noticed.
Marva noticed most of all.
The older woman walked past Trinity's office, saw the expression on her face, and kept walking without saying a word.
Some observations were too obvious to require commentary.
Across the Bronx, Dominique wasn't having much better luck maintaining emotional distance.
Jamal had called during her lunch break.
The conversation lasted twelve minutes.
Then twenty.
Then forty.
By the time she hung up, Patrice was standing in the doorway watching her.
"That serious?"
Dominique looked up.
"What?"
Patrice pointed toward the phone.
"That man."
Dominique attempted dignity.
Patrice wasn't impressed.
The younger woman folded her arms.
"You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one where you're trying very hard not to look happy."
Dominique rolled her eyes.
Patrice continued.
"The same look Miss Trinity gets."
That made Dominique laugh despite herself.
Because it was true.
The two women had spent years encouraging one another through professional challenges, family responsibilities, business decisions, and disappointments.
Now they were apparently falling into romance at approximately the same speed.
The realization should have felt ridiculous.
Instead, it felt strangely right.
That evening, Trinity and Cedric met again.
Nothing elaborate.
Nothing theatrical.
Just dinner.
Conversation.
Time.
Yet somehow those simple things were becoming the highlights of her week.
As she walked toward the restaurant, she spotted Cedric waiting outside beneath the glow of a streetlamp.
He looked up.
Saw her.
Smiled.
And just like that, the stress of the day loosened its grip.
Not completely.
Just enough.
The effect irritated her.
Which was becoming another sign of how much she liked him.
Cedric stepped forward as she approached, his gaze traveling briefly over her before returning to her eyes.
The look wasn't hurried.
Wasn't casual.
Wasn't hidden.
The appreciation in it warmed her immediately.
"You look beautiful."
The words were simple.
The way he said them wasn't.
Trinity felt the compliment settle somewhere deeper than vanity.
Because he always sounded as though he meant it.
Because he wasn't merely admiring her appearance.
He was admiring her.
And that distinction mattered more than she wanted to admit.
As they entered the restaurant together, neither noticed the future waiting patiently ahead.
Neither noticed how much closer they had become.
Neither realized that every shared meal, every lingering conversation, every smile, every thoughtful gesture, and every carefully guarded confession was making the eventual truth more difficult.
For now, there was only attraction.
Only friendship.
Only growing affection.
Only the comforting illusion that there would always be more time before difficult conversations arrived.
And for people falling in love, that illusion could be incredibly convincing.