Page 35 of Before I Say I Don't
“You deserve to feel celebrated, Kamira—not stressed. Please don’t forget that.”
For a second, I was at a loss for words, my throat constricting as emotions welled within me. Finally, I nodded, pressing my lips tightly together to hold back the swell of feelings.
“Thank you, Mariah,” I managed to say, a touch frailer than I had intended.
When I left her office, her words felt heavier in my bag than the twenty thousand I’d just left behind.
By the time I walked out of Landry Hall with the receipt in my bag, the knot in my chest had loosened. Not because I was happy—hell no—but because it was done.
The date was safe. The venue was secured. And once again, I had saved the day.
When I got back in the car, I texted him a screenshot of the “paid in full” balance.
Then, just because my pettiness was louder than my restraint, I almost followed it with:
Invoice: Covering your ass—again. Amount due: one grown man who actually does what he says he’ll do.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: I could cross-examine a hostile witness in a courtroom, command a jury’s attention, and argue circles around seasoned attorneys—but in my own house, I was babysitting a grown man who thought “responsibility” was a group project. And the part that really made me laugh—bitter, not funny—was that my actual day job came with less paperwork and fewer excuses than that relationship.
Chapter Seven
ROMAN HILL
Vacation looked good on me, but rest had never fit right.
The next morning, I was up before my alarm. The penthouse I’d rented was all clean lines—white walls, floor-to-ceiling glass, furniture I had no intention of keeping, and a skyline that reminded me why I left and why I came back. The city was already moving: delivery trucks grumbling, a bus exhaling at the corner, sneakers whispering over concrete. I could’ve crashed at my folks’ place, but I needed my own space, even if I was just visiting.
I laid there a beat longer than usual, remembering the night before last—Kamira’shead on my chest, her phone flipped face down and the way silence felt useful for once.
I got up and hit the gym. That’s where I put things I couldn’t say. I pulled iron until my shoulders burned, counted reps like prayers, and let sweat clean out the corners. A trainer I knew from back in the day gave me the nod men give whentalkingwould start an interview. I nodded back, basically letting him know, I was there. I was good… keep it moving.
By eight o’clock, I was showered and walking toward Marlowe’s on the corner—because pancakes from a griddle justhit different. I wore a gray tee that didn’t hide the work and a black cap low enough to discourage conversation.
It didn’t work.
“Roman Hill?”
I looked up. It was Marcus Reed. I knew him from a distance, but the way he greeted me said he knew me a little better than I knew him. We’d crossed paths in law school—same classes, same late nights in the library, same grind. Last I heard, he was at the same firm as Kamira.
Marcus was dressed in a navy suit. He carried that aura lawyers pick up after too many twelve-hour days, too much coffee in his veins, and still not enough time.
“Marcus Reed, right?” I returned the greeting.
“Right, right. How you been, brother?” he said, offering his hand, then pulling me in for the quick back-slap.
“I’m good; no complaints,” I replied.
“What’s this? You back for good?”
“Nah. Sabbatical.”
His brows shot up. “So you’re still in the law game. Good to hear. No offense. I only say that because you’d be surprised how many folks we went to school with just… gave up. All that tuition, all those long hours, sleepless nights, and now they’re doing something completely different. Tech. Real estate. Hell, yoga studios.”
“Not me,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m actually just taking a month to remember how to breathe.”
He barked a laugh. “From what? The money? The courtroom? Or the women back where you stay?”
“All that,” I smirked, “except the money.”
