“You got the goods.” He kisses my cheek. “Can’t wait for you to get out here to Cali.”
My stomach knots when it’s clear Canon and I will be the only ones left once Monk bounces. When I look down at him, still seated, it feels like we are borrowing each other’s thoughts—simultaneously realizing that we will be alone if we stay. A muscle tics along his jaw and he reaches for the well-tailored jacket on the back of his chair.
“I’ll walk out with you,” he tells Monk, standing, towering over me. I tip my head back to catch his eyes as they drop no lower than my face. “Neevah, you’re staying here, right? At The V?”
“Uh, yeah.” I grab my wristlet from the table. “I’m headed to my room now. I have an early flight back to New York.”
As the three of us cross the rooftop and walk to the bank of elevators, I’m cognizant of the heads turning, the attention they draw. I’m flanked by two famous, tall, powerfully built, fine-ass men cloaked in melanin, but only one of them inspires acrobatic insides, makes my belly turn flips with nothing more than a glance.
Monk’s phone rings, and he answers, but continues walking with us.
“I guess you should get used to the attention,” Canon murmurs as we exit the restaurant and enter the rooftop lobby.
“What?” I look up, my chest tightening when our stares collide. “What attention?”
“When we walked through the restaurant, all eyes were on you.”
I release a startled peal of laughter. “I thought they were all looking at you, not me.”
“I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “That humility. Once everyone starts telling you how beautiful you are, how amazing you are, it’s hard to hold onto.”
“Is it hard for you?” I ask softly.
That could be taken in some really pervy ways, but I’m glad that when he looks at me, his eyes sober, he seems to consider the question exactly as I meant it.
“Sometimes you start believing your own press, yeah.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his impeccably fitted slacks. “And forget what matters most.”
“What matters most?” I ask.
Dear elevator, if you could just not come until he answers this one question, that’d be great.
“The story matters most. Always the story.” He looks back to the rooftop, still packed with patrons, now bathed in star glow. “And if you’re lucky, you find people along the way who keep your feet on the ground—who remind you that real life matters, too.”
I know he’s referring to his tight inner circle, people like the coterie we just spent the evening with, and some audacious voice inside wonders if I could one day be one of them . . . to him. Someone who reminds a force like this that he’s also just a man.
Our elevator comes too soon, and I savor the last few moments around him. Once I return to New York, I probably won’t see him again before we start production. My senses hoard the last of him. His clean, masculine scent. The rich timbre of his voice and the compelling landscape of his features. The intellect and curiosity mingled in his dark eyes. The rare, bright flash of his smile.
I have no right to think I’ll miss him, and yet I know I will.
Monk is still on the phone when we board, and neither Canon nor I speak once we’re in motion. I sneak a peripheral glance at him from beneath my lashes, watching the shift of his shoulders under the jacket. I think about how I felt when I saw him with Arietta—the unreasonable jealousy. I wonder if he’s got a girl, some woman he goes home to or finds solace in or who merely slakes his physical needs. And the thought of it embeds a burning thorn in my heart. How can someone you’ve known for such a short time inspire this visceral response?
I don’t have much time to wonder because we reach my floor and it’s time to say goodbye. Still on the phone, Monk whispers see you soon. Canon holds the elevator door with one hand, waiting for me to get off.
“Uh, well, I guess I’ll see you in a few months,” I say, leaving the elevator car. I don’t wait for a response but take the first steps toward my room.
“Neevah,” Canon calls.
I look over my shoulder, committing his face and the way I feel when I’m around him to memory.
He stares back, his expression enigmatic, but alert.
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitched low. Waiting. Breath held.
“Nothing.” He frowns, clears his throat. “Good to see you again. Thanks for flying out.”
Before I can respond, he releases the door, letting it close between us.
19
Neevah
“So they found a new understudy?”
Takira’s sitting cross-legged on the twin bed in my tiny bedroom while I purge and prepare to move. We’re crammed in here like Tic Tacs. I’m due in LA in two weeks and I’m so ready to leave this place.
But I’m not ready to leave Takira.
“Yeah.” I toss a denim jacket I don’t even remember buying into a trash bag for Goodwill. “She starts next week, the new girl. I get a few days off before I have to fly out and report to set.”
“That’s great.” She bites her bottom lip and folds a sweatshirt.
We haven’t talked much about me leaving. I think we’ve both been avoiding the subject. I’ll still be able to pay my part of the rent since they provide a place for me in LA. She’ll have more room, privacy, but I know she’d rather have me here. And I want her with me. When you lose your natural family by blood, the family you choose is that much dearer, and I’m closer to Takira than anyone else.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it to check the text message. A slow grin spreads over my face. It’s what I’ve been waiting for.
“Well this is good news,” I say, waving my phone at Takira.
“Oh yeah?” The forced brightness of her tone does little to disguise the glumness.
“My agent and I had a few things in the contract we needed to negotiate.”
“Nice.” She pairs up socks and rolls them into a ball.
“I told them that too often Black women get to a job and there isn’t someone who knows how to do their hair.”
“Girl, facts.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “They don’t be checking for us.”
“And you already know my hair has . . . we’ll call them special considerations.”
Her eyes soften. “Dr. Ansford said everything looks good, though, right?”
“Yes, and I want to keep it that way, so . . .” I let the smile I’ve been suppressing break out fully. “I told them I need to choose my own hairdresser, which is not unheard of.”
“And?” Takira’s eyes hold curiosity and cautious hope.
“They said yes!” I jump on the bed and squeeze her neck. “Girl, we going to Hollywood!”
“Ayyyyeeee!” Her squeal probably wakes the roaches. “We are? You and me?”
“Unless you don’t want to live rent-free in LA for the next five months and get a movie credit on your resume.” I grab my phone and pretend to start dialing. “’Cause I can tell them right now that you’re not—”