Page 101 of King of Praise
She opens her mouth as if to protest, but I continue before she can interrupt. She needs to hear everything.
“Then there’s my work. What I do for Zeke isn’t just illegal, it’s dangerous. I’ve made enemies over the years. People who would hurt anyone associated with me if given the opportunity. I’ve managed those risks by maintaining distance, by avoiding connections that could be leveraged against me. Loving you changes that calculation completely.”
Naomi’s fingers trace patterns on my chest as she listens, her touch grounding me as I continue laying out hard truths.
“Beyond physical danger, there’s the lifestyle itself. My wealth comes through channels that require discretion. My schedule follows crises rather than clocks. My associates aren’t the kind of people you invite to dinner parties. Is that really compatible with what you want—a bakery, normal business hours, legitimate connections in the community?”
I pause, giving her space to process. Her expression remains thoughtful rather than distressed, which somehow makes continuing more difficult. If she showed fear or doubt, perhaps I could more easily justify pulling back to protect her.
“And finally,” I add quietly, “there’s what people will think. To the world, I’m still Lucas’s father, you’re still his widow. Some will find our relationship inappropriate regardless of circumstances. Are you prepared for those judgments? For how they might affect your business prospects, your friendships, your standing in Columbus?”
The questions linger. I’ve delivered them without cushioning or evasion, offering respect through honesty rather than protection through concealment. It’s the only way we can move forward if she so chooses.
Naomi takes her time considering, her gaze never leaving mine.
“I’ve thought about the age difference,” she finally says, her voice quiet but steady. “It matters less to me than you might think. After Lucas—after surviving what I did—time feels different. I want quality in my relationships.”
Her hand moves to cup my cheek, the gesture surprisingly tender. “Yes, you might die before me. Or I might get hit by a bus tomorrow. Nothing’s guaranteed, Micah. I’d rather have genuine love for whatever time we get than safety without meaning.”
How many decisions in my life have been governed by attempts to control the uncontrollable, to plan for certainties that never materialize? I’m in awe of her willingness to embrace uncertainty.
“As for your work,” she continues, “I’ve had months to observe its impact on your life. I’ve seen the late-night calls, the sudden departures, the careful security measures. I’m not naive about what you do, or the risks involved.”
She sits up fully now, the sheet bunching at her waist, firelight gilding her bare skin. The sight momentarily distracts me, but her serious expression draws my attention back to her words.
“I’ve lived with fear. Lucas taught me that danger doesn’t just come from strangers or criminals. Sometimes the most dangerous person is the one sleeping beside you, the one who promised to love and protect you.” Her voice holds no bitterness. “At least the dangers associated with you are ones I understand, ones you actively work to mitigate rather than create.”
Again, her perspective challenges mine. I’ve spent so long viewing my lifestyle as inherently incompatible with genuine connection that I never considered my honesty about dangers might be an improvement over the deception she experienced with Lucas.
“As for what people will think,” she shrugs, drawing my eye to the elegant line of her collarbone, “I spent years making myself smaller, quieter, less noticeable to avoid Lucas’s jealousy and criticism. I’m done living according to others’ judgments.”
She leans forward, green eyes intent on mine. “I want my bakery. I want normal business hours and legitimate community connections. But I also want you, exactly as you are. If that means finding creative solutions, establishing boundaries between your world and mine, creating careful separations where necessary, then that’s what we’ll do.”
The conviction in her voice, the clarity of her vision, humbles me. While I’ve been calculating risks and envisioning problems, she’s been considering practical solutions, realistic compromises, ways to build a bridge between our different worlds.
“What about living arrangements?” I ask, shifting to more concrete concerns. “My apartment is out for obvious reasons. Your old place with Lucas isn’t an option. Do we find something new together? Live separately for appearances? Split time between Columbus and here?”
“I’d like us to live together,” she says without hesitation. “A new place, one that belongs to both of us equally. Somewhere with enough space for privacy when needed, for both your work and my baking. Maybe outside city limits but close enough for work and your club obligations?”
The way she integrates both our needs into her vision is so easy. No demand that I abandon my responsibilities to Zeke, noexpectation that she sacrifice her dreams for my convenience. Just compromise and mutual accommodation.
“We could keep the cabin for weekends and emergencies,” she adds thoughtfully. “A retreat when we need distance from Columbus.”
I nod. “That could work. I know some properties that might suit us—secluded enough for security, close enough for convenience.”
The conversation flows into details—financial arrangements, timeline for her bakery plans, practical logistics of combining our lives. Her questions reveal intelligence alongside emotional investment—concerns about maintaining financial independence despite our shared living, ideas for establishing her business without relying solely on my resources, thoughts about gradual integration of our separate worlds.
As we talk, Powder stretches and relocates to a patch of moonlight on the windowsill, apparently bored with our human planning. Her casual disinterest makes me smile despite the serious topics we’re addressing. Some things remain simple.
The conversation eventually progresses to more intimate territory—family planning. “What about children?” I ask, watching her expression closely. I raise the question carefully, aware that my age makes children unlikely but unwilling to assume her preference. “I know my age makes this complicated, but if it’s something you want then we need to consider all angles.”
Naomi hesitates, her gaze dropping to her hands. When she looks up again, her expression is certain. “I don’t want children,” she says simply. “That’s not a reaction to current circumstances or compromise for your sake. It’s a decision I made long before meeting Lucas, before any of this happened.”
She pauses for a moment before she continues with quiet confidence. “I’ve never felt that maternal pull some womendescribe. I enjoy children in limited doses—like Lydia’s girls or Eve’s nephew—but I’ve never imagined myself as a mother.”
It’s another reason we’re compatible. Though I once imagined a family with Sandra, those dreams died long before our marriage ended. After witnessing the damage fathers can inflict despite their best intentions, the thought of risking another child seemed irresponsible.
“That works for me,” I say, relieved. “I tried fatherhood once. The results speak for themselves.”
