8. Landon #4
“What?”
“Give me my book.”
“Demanding gifts now?”
“I will climb across you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Promise?”
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she came across my lap.
Exactly as forecasted.
I wrapped one arm around her waist.
“You manufactured this.”
“I provided an opportunity.”
“You play too much.”
“And yet here you are.”
She sat across my thighs with one arm around my neck. My hoodie had slipped from one shoulder, revealing enough of the cream dress underneath to disturb my commitment to literature.
Nolani followed my attention.
“You brought me here to read.”
“Agenda subject to revision.”
“Give me the book, baby.”
I stared at her.
That strategic little sweetness was getting dangerous.
“You weaponizing tenderness?”
“I’m using the most efficient available resource.”
“Dangerous woman.”
“Effective woman.”
“Mine.”
The joke left her face.
Her fingers moved slowly along my jaw.
“Yours.”
Well, shit.
I kissed her.
No rush.
One hand rested against her back beneath the hoodie while the other finally surrendered the bookstore bag. When I pulled away, her mouth followed mine for a second.
That almost ended literacy for the afternoon.
“You keep doing that, the book staying theoretical.”
“You started kissing me.”
“You called me baby.”
“That defense is becoming unreliable.”
“Still persuasive.”
Nolani laughed and climbed off my lap before I could reconsider letting her.
She opened the bag and took out the novel.
Her thumb moved across the cover.
“You picked this because she owns a bakery?”
“Struggling bakery. Your operation successful. Important distinction.”
“She has difficulty accepting help.”
“Coincidence.”
“And learns joy doesn’t have to be earned.”
“Universal theme.”
She looked at me over the book.
“You absolutely chose this to make a point.”
“I chose it because the writing sounded like you. And the woman argues with a man for eleven lines, then expects him to buy her coffee.”
“That does sound familiar.”
“She got less restraint.”
“I have restraint?”
“Comparatively.”
Nolani opened it to the first page.
I touched the bottom edge.
“Read it out loud.”
“Why?”
“I wanna hear what you hear.”
That surprised her.
Good.
She shifted beside me, cleared her throat like she was about to address a classroom, and started.
Her voice changed when she read. Slower. More deliberate. She gave good sentences room to breathe without making a production out of them. I watched the story move across her face and understood why books had claimed so much space in her life.
After several pages, she closed the book around one finger.
“Your turn.”
I held out my hand.
She passed it over, then settled against my side with her head on my shoulder.
I read.
Nolani interrupted frequently.
Of course she did.
“This whole conflict could be solved if she asked one question.”
“You know novels require problems.”
“Problems are fine. Willful stupidity is lazy plotting.”
“You arguing with a fictional woman nine pages in.”
“She’s ignoring available evidence.”
“You relate?”
She pinched my side.
I laughed and kept reading.
A little later, her commentary stopped. Her breathing softened against my chest.
I lowered the book.
One eye opened.
“Why’d you stop?”
“Thought you fell asleep.”
“I was listening.”
“You accused the heroine of emotional negligence thirty seconds ago.”
“I was reflecting.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Her eye closed.
“Keep reading, baby.”
I looked toward the water for one second because the woman was trying to have me acting irresponsible in public.
Then I found my place.
I kept reading while her cheek rested over my heart and the tide moved closer to the edge of the blanket. Every few pages, my thumb passed along her shoulder. She didn’t check her phone. Didn’t ask for the time. Didn’t move unless it was to get closer.
I liked being where she rested.
That was enough.
Eventually, Nolani lifted her head.
“How far did you get?”
“Three pages.”
“That’s all?”
“You kept making little noises every time I turned one.”
“I did not.”
“Aight, love. Tide was commenting on the plot.”
She pinched me again.
I caught her hand and kissed it.
“You’re determined to accuse me of producing sleep-related sound effects.”
“I preserve history accurately.”
“For who?”
“Future generations.”
She stared at me. “You’ve been my man since last night and already creating archives?”
“Hopeful romantic with organizational skills. Respect the range.”
Her laughter rolled across the beach.
I watched her stretch beside me, sunlight catching her face and my hoodie slipping along her shoulders.
“You been looking at me all day,” she said.
“Looked at you all day yesterday too. Consistency.”
“Your eyes need a less demanding schedule.”
“Nah. They finally got assigned somewhere they like working.”
Her smile showed before she could stop it.
“You always have something to say.”
“’Cause you keep giving me something worth talking about.”
She looked at me for a second.
Then took my hand.
I kissed hers.
We packed the picnic together. Nothing complicated. No lesson. No performance. Just her handing me containers, me folding the blanket, both of us finding excuses to touch each other whenever we crossed paths.
When everything was packed, Nolani stood facing the water with her sandals hanging from one hand. I placed the bags near our feet and stepped behind her, wrapping both arms around her waist.
She settled against me immediately.
“You ready?” I asked.
“To leave?”
“To talk about what happens when we do.”
Her hands stilled over mine.
“What happens?”
“I keep showing up.”
Nolani turned inside my arms.
“That simple?”
“Pretty much.”
“You live here.”
“Correct.”
“I live in Self Ridge.”
“Also correct.”
“You coach, your family is here, and half this city knows your name.”
“And you got Crème & Chill, Scoops & Stories, Nyla, and enough responsibilities to make your calendar disrespectful.”
“So?”
“So we figure it out.”
She studied me.
“What if our schedules get impossible?”
“Compare calendars.”
“What if one of us gets tired?”
“We rest.”
“What if we miss each other?”
“I get in the truck.”
“That cannot be your answer to everything.”
“It ain’t. Sometimes, you get in yours.”
Her laugh came quick.
“So your grand romantic strategy is shared fuel expenses?”
“My strategy is showing up. Gas just part of the budget.”
“That sounds far less poetic.”
“I can make it poetic.”
“I’m listening.”
I drew her closer.
“Every road between us gets shorter once I know you’re waiting at the end of it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You prepared that.”
“Nah. You just make a nigga talk pretty.”
Nolani burst out laughing.
“Landon, you cannot follow something that beautiful with that.”
“Why not? Both statements accurate.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I contain range.”
“Malcolm contains multitudes. Don’t steal his material.”
I laughed. “Fair.”
She touched my jaw.
“What do you actually want from this?”
Easy.
“Your ordinary days.”
The question left her face.
I kept going because that part mattered.
“I don’t want access to your best behavior, Hershey. I want your real life. Busy Tuesday. Irritated Wednesday. You calling me after payroll talking shit because somebody sent the wrong shipment. I want the days nobody dresses up for.”
Her fingers curled into my shirt.
“And yours?”
“You already in mine. You watched me coach. Met Mama and Daddy. Survived Lennox. Slept at a place that got half my childhood in it. I’m not asking either one of us to disappear.”
Nolani stayed close.
“What does your week look like?”
“Busy. Yours?”
“Monday is inventory. Tuesday, Nyla and I meet with the literacy nonprofit. Wednesday is production and payroll. Thursday night is usually mine unless the universe develops a grievance.”
“Thursday seven thirty.”
She leaned back. “Excuse me?”
“Video date.”
“You just acquired my Thursday?”
“I heard availability and responded.”
“That is not how relationships work.”
“You choose dinner. I’ll find the same thing here.”
“What if I pick sushi from somewhere you can’t get?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“I thought I wasn’t something you needed to solve.”
“You’re not. Logistics fair game.”
Her smile widened. “And when do I see you again?”
“Saturday.”
“That quickly?”
“Your tone lacks enthusiasm.”
“My tone reflects surprise.”
“Fix it.”
She folded her arms beneath my oversized sleeves. “And what exactly happens Saturday?”
“I come to Self Ridge, kiss my woman properly, and let her show me something that doesn’t involve commercial refrigeration.”
“You’re jealous of my freezers.”
“They receive attention I find disrespectful.”
“They preserve my inventory.”
“I preserve your peace. Them freezers can’t compete with me.”
She stared at me.
“You’re pleased with that.”
“I’m pleased with you.”
“That wasn’t the subject.”
“You usually are.”
“Ridiculous, baby.”
The word hit exactly the way she knew it would.
I let the grin happen.
“Thursday. Seven thirty. Saturday morning, I’m coming to you.”
“You’re organized.”
“I’m serious.”
The humor eased from her face.
“I know.”
That was enough.
A minute later, while I bent for the blanket, Nolani murmured, “Pack it up, Big Lando.”
I froze.
Slowly looked at her.
She was already smiling.
“What you call me?”
“You heard me.”
“I did. I want repetition for quality assurance.”
“No.”
“That name came out confident.”
“It escaped.”
“Nah, love. That bitch strutted.”
Nolani laughed and picked up the tote.
I caught her hand before she made it three steps.
“Big Lando?”
“You look pleased.”
“I’m trying to determine whether my woman has been discussing me with outside parties.”
“Maybe your reputation arrived first.”
“Reputation for what?”
Her eyes traveled down me.
Slowly.
“Taking up space.”
I pulled her against me.
“Physically or otherwise?”
Nolani kissed the corner of my mouth.
“Pack the blanket, baby.”
Then she walked away.
I watched her go.
Yeah.
Big Lando worked for me.