Page 87 of King of Praise
“You’re back.” Her concern both warms and wounds me.
“Didn’t mean to keep you up,” I say gruffly, shrugging out of my coat. The night’s events weigh heavy on me. But Naomi doesn’t need those burdens.
She unfolds from the chair with natural grace, crossing to help me with my coat. The simple act catches me off guard.
“I wanted to wait up,” she says softly, hanging my coat by the door.
Her fingers brush my arm, and I have to consciously stop myself from flinching. I don’t want her to feel the dried blood on my sleeve.
“Are you hungry? I could heat up some of the stew from earlier.”
The offer of food, of care without agenda, creates a lump in my throat I have to swallow past. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
She studies my face with those observant green eyes that always see straight through my defenses. “Rough night?”
Rougher than you need to know about, I think, remembering the wet gurgle of the lieutenant’s final breath, the spray of arterial blood from his throat. But after the attack on the restaurant, I owe you an answer. “Took care of those who attack you. They won’t be a problem anymore.”
Naomi’s hand finds mine, small fingers interlacing with my larger ones. The contact grounds me, pulling me back from the edge of darkness where violence and duty live.
“Tell me something good,” I say. “Something that has nothing to do with Columbus or business or any of it.”
A shy smile curves her lips as she tugs me toward the bed. “Well, I’ve been thinking about something. A dream, really. Probably silly.”
“Not silly,” I counter, following her lead. I discard my button-down shirt, leaving myself in a T-shirt. We settle on the bed, my back against the headboard, Naomi curled against my side in a position that’s become natural over these weeks together. “Tell me.”
She takes a breath, fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve—a nervous tell I’ve learned about her. “Remember how I told you I always dreamed of owning a bakery? I want to do it. A real one, not just selling at farmers markets or working for someone else. My own place.”
The simple honesty of her dream catches me off guard. In my world, ambitions involve territory and power, the endless game of control and dominance. But this? This is pure Naomi—creating something beautiful and sustaining, bringing joy through simple pleasures.
“Tell me more.” When was the last time I discussed someone’s dreams without calculating angles or advantages?
She sits up straighter, animation entering her voice. “I have money saved in my trust fund, more than enough for a downpayment and initial equipment. I’d need to write a proper business plan of course, figure out licensing and permits.”
“I could help with that.” I don’t even think before I say it. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I mean them. My position in Columbus’s underworld requires more than muscle. Understanding business operations, finances, and legal frameworks is essential. Why not use that knowledge for something good for once?
Her eyes light up. “Really? You’d help me?”
“Of course.” I cup her cheek, thumb tracing the constellation of freckles I’ve memorized. “You have the talent and vision. Let me help with the practical details.”
She leans into my touch. “I’ve been sketching layouts, making equipment lists—would you look at them? Tell me if I’m being realistic?”
Her enthusiasm is contagious. She retrieves a notebook from the bedside table, its pages filled with her neat handwriting and careful drawings. Floor plans, equipment specifications, even rough calculations of startup costs. She’s clearly given this serious thought.
“Show me what you’re thinking.” I shift to make room as she settles beside me again.
For the next hour, we pour over her plans together. My experience with business operations allows me to offer practical suggestions about layout efficiency and equipment priorities. Her face lights up with each contribution.
“We’d need to research locations carefully,” I muse, studying her sketch of the ideal storefront. “The right neighborhood is crucial. We need enough foot traffic to support a specialty bakery, but not so trendy the rent becomes unsustainable.”
“We?” she echoes softly.
I freeze, realizing my assumption. But before I can backtrack, she continues.
“I’d like that,” she whispers. “Having you involved. Not just with the planning, but …everything.”
Her vulnerability matches how exposed I feel. This conversation has shifted from theoretical support to something more concrete, more permanent. Are we really discussing a shared future? One that extends beyond our current circumstances?
“You should know what you’re getting into,” I say carefully. “My involvement comes withcomplications.”
