Page 30 of Kentrell

The way she said it slid right past any protest I might’ve had. If anything, it settled too easy.Your girl.

I let it rock.

“Should I sweeten her iced coffee like she prefers?” she asked, eyes bright, hands already moving.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Fix it how she likes it.”

Kelly tapped the screen with a little bounce in her step, clearly feeling good about playing matchmaker.

“And add two slices of Tiramisu,” I added.

She giggled like I was being sweet. Maybe I was. I just kept my hands in my pockets and waited, eyes on the screen—but my mind was already drifting to Hartman Towers.

"Of course—will that be everything?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, that brings your total to $59.40?—"

“My bad,” I cut in before she could finish. “Add two bottles of Pellegrino.”

“Sure, I can do that.” Kelly tapped the keys without missing a beat. “Okay—$70.40.”

I didn’t flinch. Just pulled out my card and swiped, fast and easy. Dropped a twenty percent tip on top, too—not because I had to, but ‘cause it felt like the right thing to do.

“Oh! I forgot to put your name down—I used Zoe’s.” She looked up like she expected me to be tight about it.

“You good,” I told her, brushing it off.

Her shoulders dropped a little, smile creeping back as she stepped away to prep the drinks.

I stayed posted, eyes drifting to the clock. I needed Zoe tied up just a little while longer upstairs so I could slide into Malcolm’s office without it turning into a whole scene.

"Order for Zoe!" Kelly finally called out, fifteen minutes on the dot.

“Appreciate you.” I grabbed the bag and the drink holder from her hands. She gave this bubbly little laugh like she was proud of herself—and maybe she should’ve been.

She didn’t know how deep this delivery really went.

“Sure thing!” she chirped, bright as ever. “I really hope to see you again!”

Her voice trailed behind me as I stepped out of Café Verve, the scent of coffee and sugar still clinging to the back of my throat. One turn to the right, and I was back in the shadows of Hartman Towers, where the mood shifted fast. The hum of suits, heels, and phone calls created this cold rhythm—everybody moving like they was on a timer.

I moved against it, unbothered.

Black leather trucker jacket over a cream sweater. Slim black pants, wheat Timbs clean as hell. Left the chains at home today—figured I ain’t need ‘em. But the diamond Patek on my wrist, plus the bracelet and earrings? Yeah, that was enough to say what needed saying.

If that ain’t catch their eye, the shopping bags in my hands did. I clocked the way folks shifted out my path, like they didn’t know whether to nod or pretend they didn’t see me. I ain’t care either way.

When I reached the front desk, I paused—caught off guard by the young woman behind it. She was Black. Pretty, too. I don’t know why I expected a white girl sitting there, probably some intern-type with thin lips and a forced smile. But this one? She looked just as surprised to see me.

We both masked it quick. But not quick enough.

"Uh—hi," she stammered, eyes flicking between the bags in my hand and the coffee carrier balanced on my forearm. "I do apologize. Ho—how can I help you?"

There was something about her—soft-spoken but not weak, like she knew how to switch lanes depending on who she was talking to. She looked like Corinne Bailey Rae, which made sense. One of them women that could straddle two worlds and not lose herself in either one.

"Yeah, I’m here to see Malcolm Ander?—"

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