Page 20 of In Another Time

OMIR

The clang of weights hitting the rack echoed around the gym as I finished my last set of chest presses. I sat up, grabbing my towel to wipe the sweat off my face, feeling the burn in my arms and chest. Mornings at the gym had become part of my routine, a way to clear my mind and set the tone for the day.

But lately, clearing my mind had been damn near impossible. No matter how hard I pushed myself or how much I tried to focus, she kept creeping back in. Lennox. Her face, her damn scent—every part of her was etched into my brain like she’d carved it there herself.

I gritted my teeth and headed to the squat rack, determined to push her out with sheer force of will. She wasn’t my woman. Hell, she made it crystal clear she didn’t want to be. One night—that was all it was. I knew that going in. And yet, she’d been in my head ever since.

I racked the barbell after my last set and grabbed my water bottle. The gym was starting to fill up with the early risers, but I barely noticed. My phone vibrated on the bench, and I glanced down to see Sherelle’s name flashing on the screen.What could she want this early?

I swiped to answer. “Yo, Relle. What’s up?”

“Hey, O,” she said, her tone unusually serious.

“What’s going on?” I asked, already sensing this wasn’t a social call.

“I just thought you should know,” she started, pausing like she was trying to find the right words. “Lennox got offered a promotion. President.”

I frowned, grabbing my towel and heading toward the quieter corner of the gym. “That’s big. Good for her,” I said, though my chest tightened at the mention of her name.

“Yeah, it’s a big deal,” Sherelle said. “But the position’s in Chicago. President of the sister company.”

I froze for a second before leaning against the wall. “Chicago?”

“Yep. She’d have to move in a month if she accepts,” Sherelle said. “She hasn’t decided yet, but. . . I figured you’d want to know.”

“Why would I need to know that shit?” I said, keeping my tone even.

“Come on, Omir,” she said, exasperated. “You and I both know you care.”

I exhaled through my nose, gripping the phone tighter. “I care. And? But Lennox is a grown ass woman. She can make her own decisions. I’m not about to get in her way.”

“She hasn’t decided yet,” Sherelle pressed.

“And if she does? Good for her. That’s a huge opportunity,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Sherelle sighed on the other end. “You’re not even gonna talk to her, are you?”

“Nah, I’m straight,” I said firmly. “She made it clear what she wanted, Relle. I’m not about to chase after someone who’s already running in the opposite direction.”

“O,” she started, but I cut her off.

“Relle, I appreciate the call, but it doesn’t change anything. Lennox’s gotta do what’s best for her. And I’ll do the same.” Ending the call, I stood there for a moment, staring at my phone, before shoving it back in my pocket. My chest felt tight, and not from the workout.

Lennox in Chicago. That would be it then. No more chances, no more trying. Maybe that was for the best. But damn, it was hard to shake the feeling that she was supposed to be more than just a passing memory. I grabbed my shit and headed for the locker room. Maybe it was time to stop letting her take up so much space in my head. If she wanted to leave, I wasn’t going to stop her.

But as much as I told myself I didn’t care, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if she’d stayed.

The club was alive that night, buzzing with energy as patrons filled every corner, eager to witness the return of Derwin Grant,the hometown kid turned jazz sensation. It was the first celebrity event at my club, and I couldn’t have asked for a better turnout. The warm amber lights reflected off polished tables, the scent of top-shelf whiskey lingered in the air, and the low hum of conversation filled the gaps between the saxophonist’s sound check.

I moved through the crowd, greeting regulars and newcomers alike, my sharp navy suit fitting like a second skin. Derwin’s team had already set up in the back, and the man himself was on stage, running through a few final notes on his trumpet. The guy was a genius. His sound was smooth, effortless, with a touch of grit that hit you in the chest.

The event was going off without a hitch, but my mind was elsewhere, or rather on someone else. Even as I worked the room, Lennox’s face flickered through my thoughts like an old film reel. I’d told myself this morning I needed to let her go, but damn, it was hard when I could still feel the imprint of her lips, the warmth of her skin.

“Omir!” someone called, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I turned to see one of my bartenders waving me over. I nodded and crossed the room, weaving through the crowd. The bar was packed three-deep, customers clamoring for their drinks, and I pitched in to help for a few minutes, pouring cognac and mixing a couple of Old Fashioneds.

As I handed off the last drink, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a woman standing there—a gorgeous woman, with caramel-toned skin, piercing hazel eyes, a body that could stop traffic, and a smile that could disarm anyone in seconds. She wore a fitted emerald-green dress that hugged her curves and sparkled subtly in the low light.

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