Page 114 of The Sweetest Return

Mostly.

The call that pulled me off the phone with her had been Omar, who had the bad timing to need an actual business answer while I was still lying in bed trying to remember how to breathe like a normal man. One issue at the motor group. A vendor delay. Nothing burning badly enough to justify how much attitude I gave him.

By the time we hung up, I needed another shower.

Cool water helped my knee more than it helped anything else. I stood under it with one hand against the tile and made myself remember that Imani and I had agreed to take our time. Calling her instead of showing up at her door had been the responsible choice.

What happened during that call had tested the limits of responsibility, but I had stayed in my suite.

That counted for something.

The part that stayed with me most wasn't what her voice sounded like when she came. God knew I remembered that. It was what came afterward, when the teasing fell away and she let me ask if she was okay. Imani had always been good at pleasure. Letting somebody stay close to the softness afterward had been harder.

This morning, she let me.

Then she agreed to come to the game with me.

I got dressed with my knee still stiff, my body still irritated with my good judgment, and my head full of one simple fact: I wanted more than another night alone with her. I wanted the day. I wanted her beside me while AWU got loud around us, wanted to hear what she remembered and see what still made her laugh before she caught herself.

By the time I stepped off the elevator, I had almost convinced myself I knew how to act.

Then I saw her.

Imani stood near one of The Nocturne’s tall windows talking to a woman with long dark hair and a wide gray streak running from her left temple through the length of it. I noticed the woman first because I knew her face.

Then I looked at Imani and forgot everybody else for a second.

Deep-purple cardigan with gold trim and buttons. White tank underneath. Light-wash jeans hugging her hips and ass before loosening through the legs over purple-and-white sneakers. Gold hoops. A small cream YSL crossbody bag. The front half of her braids was pulled into a high ponytail, the rest falling down her back.

She had dressed for football and still looked like she had come downstairs to test whether I had learned anything about discipline.

Her eyes found mine.

Heat moved through them before she could hide it.

I knew exactly where her mind went because mine went there too.

I smiled.

She narrowed her eyes.

Good morning to me.

“Good morning,” she said when I reached them.

“Morning.”

The other woman turned fully toward me, and recognition settled.

Nia St. James.

I had met her briefly at The Nocturne the previous Homecoming. Hotel bar, maybe ten minutes of conversation before I went upstairs. She had seemed sad beneath expensive clothes and good posture, and that was honestly what I remembered most.

Imani gestured between us. “Nia, this is Andre Jones. Dre, Nia St. James. Her family owns The Nocturne.”

Nia smiled. “We’ve met.”

Imani’s face changed by about half an inch.