Page 190 of The Sweetest Return

His voice had gone quiet.

“I kept a lot of things.”

That was all I managed before his eyes dropped to my mouth.

The fuller version eventually involved me wearing the jacket and almost nothing else while proving adulthood had improved several skills I first attempted in college.

He helped me unpack.

Mostly.

Before he left Saturday night, I opened the little bowl near the door and took out the spare key I had tossed there when I moved in.

Dre looked at my palm, then at me. “This mine?”

“It’s a key, Andre. You understand how they work.”

His mouth twitched. “You giving me a key to your place and trying to act like that ain’t something?”

“I’m giving you access.”

“That’s what I said.”

I rolled my eyes. “Give it back.”

His fist closed around it. “Hell no.”

I tried not to smile and failed, which only made him look more pleased with himself.

By Sunday, enough boxes had disappeared that my condo finally looked like somewhere I intended to stay. We watched the Forge lose at his place, and when Dre grew quiet in the second half, leaning forward with one hand rubbing his jaw while the running backs kept missing cuts he saw before the snap.

I did not repeat the speech I'd already given him. I moved behind him instead and worked my thumbs into the tight muscles across his shoulders until some of the tension finally gave. Dre went quiet under my hands, head bowed, letting me take care of something without turning it into a joke. When he finally leaned back into me, I kissed his temple and left the football alone.

Now it was Monday, and diamonds required my attention.

“Say it again,” I told Cleo.

She stood at the head of the conference table in black slacks, a white button-down, red frames, and the expression of a woman carrying glamour, opportunity, and aggravation in the same hand.

“Marisol’s team moved the fitting,” she said. “Laila Hart needs the bracelet and pear drops in Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. Three-thirty Pacific at the latest.”

I stared at her.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“That fitting was next month.”

“It was. Now Laila has a press preview before the Ellington campaign rollout. Private dinner, controlled portraits, a lot more eyes than the original fitting, and her team wants jewelry locked before wardrobe gets photographed.”

Nina's stylus stopped above her tablet.

Laila Hart was not simply a celebrity placement. Actress, producer, fragrance founder, newly divorced headline magnet, and one of those rare women who could make thousands of other women suddenly decide they needed whatever she wore before anybody released a price.

Next month, the opportunity had been major.

Tomorrow, it could shift the entire Saint Aurelia launch if we handled it correctly.