Page 8 of Saving Saul

“Yes, I know that now. It was just a silly rule I put in place to protect myself. I didn’t want anyone to focus on my wealth and not me. We only have so much time in these hubs; I didn’t want to lead with that. I made a lot of money doing something I love. And now I can’t do it anymore, and it bloody sucks. I’d give all the money away if I could get back on that pitch again.”

I can sense her hesitation even through the barrier that separates us. Tessa's usually quick with a laugh, a quip, or a verbal hug at a time like this. But now the silence stretches long enough for doubt to slip in. I lean forward, palms pressing into my thighs as I brace for whatever is holding her back.

“You okay, Tessa?” I ask, keeping my voice low and steady. Gentle enough to let her know she can take her time.

“Yeah,” she says after a moment, but the tight edge in her voice gives her away. “Just... thinking.”

I wait, letting the pause hang between us until she fills it.

“You live such a... big life, Saul,” she finally admits, the words cautious, as if testing their weight. “All the fame, the money... It’s hard to imagine where someone like me fits into that. I thought I’d be a great B-list actress one day, with a nice house back in New Orleans and a small place here in LA. But you… I don’t know.”

The honesty in her voice punches right through me. She’s not playing coy, not angling for reassurance—she’s just laying itbare. I feel reassurance that our bond is not just in my head. If she thinks about how my lifestyle could affect her, she feels this, too.

“Tessa,” I start, keeping my tone as warm and sincere as I feel. “My life isn’t defined by headlines or glitz. All of that—galas, cameras, accolades—is just noise. The truth is, I’m a reclusive bastard at my best. It’s like I told you yesterday: after my mother was killed, I withdrew socially, only doing what my contracts required. Do you want to know what truly matters to me? Sitting at a table with people who make the world feel smaller and safer. Sharing stories over a meal that reminds you who you are. That’s the life I want to create.”

She’s quiet, but I can feel her absorbing my words.

“That sounds... nice,” she says softly, but there’s still an edge of doubt, a thread of fear I need to unravel.

“It’s more than nice,” I press. “It’s real. And trust me, Tessa, I’m no stranger to feeling out of place. Fame might open doors, but it closes windows, too. Sometimes, I miss the simple things—the kind of moments you don’t have to dress up for. That’s why I like living in America again; no one knows me here.”

I pause, exhaling a slow breath. “And you? You’re not ‘someone like you,’ Tessa. You’re you. And from where I’m sitting, that’s more than enough.”

A soft laugh escapes her, tinged with something raw. “It’s just… I’ve seen men like you: grand lives, grand dreams. Women like me are often just another chapter in the story. A nice chapter, but one that comes to an end.”

Her words hit me hard, not because they’re unfair but because I’ve heard them before—from people who never cared to look deeper. “If I’ve learned anything in the kitchen,” I say slowly, “the best recipes aren’t understood at a first pass. They’re lifted in the details. And Tessa, I’m not here to skim througha simple recipe. I’m here because I’m looking for someone who can face the complexities and flavors of life with me.”

Her breath catches, and I can hear the soft exhale that follows, like she’s letting go of something heavy.

“Do you ever get tired of being so known?” she asks, her voice quieter now, more curious than guarded.

“All the time,” I admit without hesitation. “There’s this version of me the world thinks they know, but then there’s the real me—the one who finds peace in the rhythm of a kitchen, who grew up listening to his grandmother tell stories while stirring a pot of jollof rice. That’s who I am, Tessa. Not the name on the restaurant marquee.”

I hear her laugh, soft and genuine this time. “Wait! You own a restaurant. Okay, let’s back up, Mr. Mensah; who are you again?”

Her laugh warms the air between us, and I feel it settle into my chest. It’s not just the sound—it’s what it carries: trust.

“I’m a man who wants a girl to make him laugh every day and make him hard as granite every night. Judging by how I’m about to burst out my zipper every time your breathy little laugh comes through that wall, I think I may have found her.”

“Oh,” is all my little chatterbox says in return, and I take that as a win.

GIFTS OF DESIRE

SAUL

It’s date number four;this is the one private encounter we’re granted. It guarantees no cameras and no interruptions. Once I found out, I decided I needed to hear my girl come tonight.

It’s wild that I think of her that way, but that’s who she is—my girl.

When my hublight comes in, and I know she’s there, I wait to hear her reaction to the gifts I left her.

“Oh, Saul! Is all this for me?”

“Of course, sweetheart, who else would I leave gifts for?

I left everything Tessa needed to relax on the couch and lower her inhibitions just enough for me to touch her sexually without touching her at all. I left a Bluetooth speaker that will play some D’Angelo in the background when I press play. I left her a dozen chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of my favorite Rose. I ordered a soft cashmere blanket in her favorite color, purple, and a matching satin nightie. I can only imagine how she will look in the baby doll negligee.

I hear a gasp and figure she’s opened the La Perla Box with the lingerie. “How did you know my size?”

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