Ten Years Too Late

She was single, curious, and determined to enjoy one night without asking where it might lead.

That promise lasted eleven minutes.

She was reaching for a champagne flute when a man stepped between her and the bar. He wore a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, no tie, no visible effort. His skin was deep brown beneath the amber lights, his beard trimmed close, his expression unreadable.

He glanced at the empty space beside her. “You saving that?”

Nia looked at the stool. “The stool?”

“The space. The stool came with it.”

His voice was low enough to make her lean closer, though the music gave her an excuse.

“I’m waiting for my friend.”

“So am I.”

“And if she comes back?”

“Then I’ll move.”

He said it like he meant it, which made her smile. “You’re very generous.”

“I’ve been accused.”

“Of generosity?”

“Usually worse things.”

The bartender set down her drink. Nia took it, but Marcus - though she didn’t know his name yet - didn’t move. He stood close enough that the heat of his arm brushed hers whenever someone passed behind them.

Tasha appeared at Nia’s shoulder. “There you are. I was about to send a search party.”

The man stepped aside, finally. “Your friend found you.”

“She did,” Nia said.

He gave her a brief nod and disappeared into the crowd.

Tasha watched him go. “Who was that?”

“Somebody waiting for his friend.”

“Did his friend have a name?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“That is not the answer of a woman who isn’t interested.”

Nia took a sip of champagne. The bubbles stung her tongue. “I’m not interested.”

Across the room, the man turned his head.

Their eyes met.

He didn’t smile. He only held her gaze for one second longer than politeness required before looking away.

Tasha leaned closer. “You’re lying already.”

The evening gathered speed around them. Birthday shots appeared. Tasha danced with a man in a green jacket, then abandoned him when he called her “shorty.” Nia laughed until her cheeks hurt. The DJ shifted from old-school R&B into a song everybody knew, and the room lifted with it - Black voices singing over one another, hands raised, bodies moving beneath red and gold light.

Nia let the music take her.

She was halfway through a turn when a palm settled lightly at her waist.

“Is this space taken?” the man asked.

She looked over her shoulder. “You already used that line.”

“It worked the first time.”

“You didn’t get the space.”

“I’m standing in it now.”

His hand remained where it was, warm but not demanding. Nia could have stepped away. Instead, she turned to face him.

Up close, he smelled like cedar, clean soap, and something darker she couldn’t name. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes, not enough to make him look old - just lived-in. He had the kind of stillness that made the crowded lounge seem less chaotic around him.

“I’m Marcus,” he said.

“Nia.”

“I heard.”

“From who?”

“Tasha.”

Nia glanced toward the bar. Tasha was watching them with the satisfied expression of a woman who had engineered something and planned to deny it.

Marcus’s mouth tilted. “You’re hard to miss.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.”

The song changed. Marcus didn’t ask before moving, but he gave her enough room to choose. Nia closed the distance herself.

His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back. Her fingers found his shoulder. He moved with restraint, never rushing, never performing for the room. When she swayed closer, he answered. When she slowed, he followed.

“You dance like you’re trying not to think,” he murmured.

“That’s because I am.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing usually takes up a lot of space.”

She pulled back enough to study him. “Do you always interrogate women while dancing?”

“Only the ones who lie badly.”

She should have been annoyed. Instead, warmth spread beneath her skin.

The song ended, and applause broke out around them. Marcus released her immediately.

The sudden absence of his hand felt louder than the music.

“You want a drink?” he asked.

“I have one.”

“You want another?”

“Maybe.”

He nodded toward the bar, but before they could move, a woman in a sleek white jumpsuit touched his arm.

“Marcus, you disappeared.”

His face changed - not dramatically, but enough. The ease left his eyes.

“I was right here,” he said.

She looked between them. “I can see that.”

Nia felt the shift and hated that she noticed. Hated more that she cared.

The woman’s gaze skimmed over Nia, cool and quick. “We’re still going to dinner, right?”

“Not tonight.”

“Since when?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. “Since I said not tonight.”

The woman laughed without humor. “You always say that when you want to avoid explaining yourself.”

She walked away before he could answer.

Nia folded her arms. “Friend?”

“Complicated.”

“That’s a broad category.”

“It’s the accurate one.”

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Ex?”

Marcus looked at her. “You ask direct questions.”

“You gave me an incomplete answer.”

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. “You want the complete one?”

The noise seemed to thin around them.

Nia’s pulse jumped. “I want the honest one.”

He looked toward the woman disappearing through the crowd. “She’s someone I should have stopped entertaining a long time ago.”

“That sounds like a problem.”

“It is.”

“And you brought it to a birthday party?”

“I didn’t bring her.”

“But she came anyway.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose. For the first time, he looked tired. Not bored. Not irritated. Tired in a way that made his guardedness feel less like arrogance and more like armor.

Nia softened despite herself. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because you asked.”

The answer landed harder than it should have.

He ordered her water. Not another drink. Water.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“What did you expect?”

“Somebody who would make a joke and leave.”

“I can still do that.”

“You could.”

“But I’m not going to.”

The bartender set down the glass. Marcus pushed it toward her. His knuckles brushed her fingers.

Nia looked at his hand. “How old are you?”

One eyebrow lifted. “That’s your next question?”

“You feel older.”

“Older than what?”

“Older than me.”

“I am.”

“How much?”

“Ten years.”

She waited for him to make it sound smaller. He didn’t.

“Thirty-six,” he said.

“Twenty-six.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I listen.”

Something inside her loosened. She had dated men who listened only long enough to find an opening to talk about themselves. Marcus seemed to collect details and keep them somewhere private.

Tasha called her name from the dance floor, but Nia barely heard her.

Marcus leaned closer. “You should go enjoy your friend’s birthday.”

“Are you dismissing me?”

“I’m trying not to become the reason you regret tonight.”

The words struck an unfamiliar place. “You don’t know me well enough to decide what I’ll regret.”

“No,” he said. “But I know myself well enough to know when I’m not in a clean place.”

There it was - the barrier between them, solid and invisible.

Nia set down her glass. “I’m not asking you to be clean.”

His eyes sharpened.

“I’m asking you to be honest.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Marcus reached for her hand.

“Come outside.”

The cold hit her first, slipping beneath the thin fabric of her dress as they stepped into the parking lot. Behind them, Velvet & Vine throbbed against the night, its music muffled by brick and glass. Harlem traffic rolled along the avenue, headlights sliding over wet pavement.

Marcus stopped beneath a streetlamp.

“This is where you tell me you’re too old for this,” Nia said.

“I’m not too old.”

“Too complicated, then.”

“Yes.”

She gave a small laugh, but it trembled. “At least you’re consistent.”

“I’m trying to be.”

“Why does trying sound like leaving?”

His face tightened. “Because sometimes leaving is the only decent thing a person knows how to do.”

The honesty in it stole her next reply.

He looked at her as if he had already decided something and hated the decision. “You should go back inside.”

“Do you want me to?”

“That’s not the question.”

“It is to me.”

He stepped closer. “Nia.”

Her name in his mouth changed the air.

“Tell me to go,” she whispered.

Marcus’s eyes searched hers. “Do you want me to?”

She shook her head.

He lifted one hand, stopping just short of her cheek. “If I kiss you, you can tell me to stop.”

“I know.”

“And if you change your mind - ”

“I’ll tell you.”

Only then did he touch her.

His palm curved around her jaw, warm against the cold night. The kiss began carefully, almost cautiously, but the restraint lasted only until Nia gripped the front of his shirt. His mouth deepened against hers, and the world narrowed to cedar, winter air, and the rough brush of his beard against her skin.

She felt him pause.

“Still okay?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

The second kiss was less careful.

Nia pressed into him, her hands sliding beneath his open collar. Marcus made a quiet sound against her mouth and pulled her closer, one arm firm around her waist. Heat rushed through her despite the cold. She had wanted a night without consequences, but his mouth made consequences feel like a distant problem belonging to somebody else.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against hers.

Neither of them spoke.

Then Marcus stepped back.

The loss of him was immediate and humiliating.

“What?” Nia asked.

He reached into his pocket and checked his phone. Whatever he saw there closed his expression again.

“Marcus.”

“I have to go.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

“You kiss me like that and then say you have to go?”

His gaze flickered over her face. “I said I wasn’t in a clean place.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“It explains enough.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Her voice rose, and a couple near the entrance glanced over. Nia lowered it, anger burning through the attraction. “You don’t get to decide I’m worth wanting and then act like I’m a mistake before I can even ask your last name.”

His face changed at that. Regret, maybe. Or fear.

“Whitfield,” he said. “Marcus Whitfield.”

She waited.

He didn’t offer a number. Didn’t ask for hers. Didn’t promise to call.

“So that’s it?” she asked.

“I hope not.”

“Hope is not a plan.”

“I know.”

“Then make one.”

Marcus looked toward the lounge, where the bass still pulsed through the walls. “I can’t tonight.”

He walked away before she could answer.

Nia stood beneath the streetlamp, lips still warm, fingers curled around the place his shirt had been. A moment later, his dark sedan pulled from the lot and disappeared into traffic.

Tasha pushed through the lounge doors. “Nia? What happened?”

Nia watched the empty street.

“I met somebody,” she said.

“And?”

Nia touched her mouth, already knowing the answer would follow her home.

“He left.”

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters in the full book.