Tamika & Kamal

The overhead bin won’t close.

I shove my carry-on harder, aware that the line of passengers behind me grows longer by the second. This bag has to fit. It contains my entire presentation, backup drives, and the prototype that could save Rally from bankruptcy.

“Need help?” The flight attendant’s bright tone is way too loud for my level of fatigue.

“I got it.” One final push and the bin clicks shut. Victory.

I collapse into my window seat, already exhausted, and we haven’t even left Atlanta yet. My phone buzzes with a text from Deja, my best friend since high school and Rally’s first employee.

You better close this deal or we’re selling feet pics on the internet.

I type back:

YOUR feet. Mine are too fucked up.

Stop it, your feet are fine! Plus, in this economy? Pedicured or not, buyers aren’t picky. Now go secure that bag so we don’t have to test the theory! P.S. Memphis says hi!

An ache fills my chest at the mention of my five-year-old daughter. Almost a week without her is going to hurt. I’ve never been away this long.

But I’m here, and I’m doing this, and she is the reason I cannot afford to fail.

Give her extra hugs from me. And NO candy after 7pm.

Too late. We’re having a whole sleepover tonight.

I smile despite my anxiety. At least Memphis is in good hands.

The plane taxis, and I close my eyes, running through my pitch for the hundredth time. JAK Innovations is our last shot. Every other tech investor has passed on Rally, my streaming platform designed specifically for Black gamers and content creators. “Too niche,” they said. “Pulse and Viewbit already exist.”

They don’t understand that our creators are tired of being buried by algorithms that favor mainstream content. They don’t get that we need our own space where our voices aren’t drowned out.

But JAK might. They’ve invested in several Black-owned tech startups over the years.

I’ve prepped for this pitch the way I used to prep for trial. Their portfolio, their investment thesis, and their exits. Every interview Jaxon Jamison and Antonio Da Rocha have ever given, which amounts to a handful. The third partner is a ghost. I have fifteen minutes to win over three people, and I barely know what any of them want to hear.

Vegas heat slaps me in the face the moment I exit the airport. The taxi ride to Crown & Key passes in a blur of neon lights. This is work, not play.

Of course, out of every hotel in Vegas, JAK Innovations picked one that belongs to my brother-in-law’s chain. As long as nobody in my family finds out I’m here, it doesn’t matter.

The Crown & Key lobby screams money with its marble floors and crystal chandeliers. I approach the front desk where a man with too much gel in his hair greets me.

“Checking in. Tamika Bailey.”

He types rapidly, frowns, and types again. “Ah yes, Ms. Bailey. It looks like your original room had a plumbing issue, so the system moved you. I’ve got you in one of our tower suites instead, at no additional charge.”

I normally don’t question good fortune when it shows up, but… “An upgrade,” I say. “For free?”

For half a second, I wonder if my sister called ahead, but nobody in my family knows about this trip, and Nathanael isn’t scouring the guest lists of his hotels. Coincidence. Nothing more.

“For the inconvenience.” His smile widens. “Enjoy your stay.”

The elevator shoots me up so fast my ears pop. The hallway stretches endlessly, but I find my door, swipe the card, and push inside.

“What the hell?”

A deep male voice freezes me in place. Standing in the middle of the living room, wearing nothing but a white towel slung dangerously low on his hips, is the finest man I’ve ever seen outside a Glimmr thirst trap.

Water droplets cling to mahogany skin that’s been kissed by whatever blessed his gene pool. His shoulders make me reconsider my stance on climbing men like trees, while his abs—Lord have mercy—could easily grate cheese.

“You lost?” His voice carries amusement now, though his stance suggests he’s ready to tackle me if needed.

I force my eyes up to his face, which is a mistake because he’s got these eyes that shift between brown and gold, and a smile that’s already tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I… What the hell are you doing in my room?” I demand, grabbing a table lamp.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Your room? This is my suite.”

“No, it’s not. The front desk gave me this key.” I wave the keycard at him.

“I’ve been in this suite since Monday.”

We stare at each other. I should be angrier, but something about the way he’s eyeing me steals the heat right out of my anger.

“Well, shit.” I drop my bag and set the lamp back on the table, suddenly too tired to deal with any of this.

“Sounds like they double-booked,” he says. “Give me a second to throw something on and I’ll call down. We’ll get it straightened out.”

“Please do.”

He turns toward the bedroom, and I catch the full back view. My eyes go straight to the ceiling. No, I’m here to save Rally for Memphis, not to gawk at a stranger’s back and shoulders in low lighting.

I learned the hard way what happens when I let a man’s attention override my judgment. Memphis is the best thing that came out of that lesson. She’s also the last.

The suite is ridiculous. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Vegas Strip. A grand piano sits in one corner. The living room is so vast it feels less like a hotel suite and more like a private lounge.

America’s finest comes back in grey joggers and a black t-shirt, already dialing the front desk. The outfit feels even more revealing than the towel.

I listen to him say “I see” and “right” and “that’s not gonna work for me” and then he puts the phone on speaker so I can hear the front desk clerk explain that the hotel is completely booked. A gaming convention and a corporate event have taken every room in the hotel, and the earliest she can guarantee a new room is Tuesday.

The day before I’m set to leave.

“There’s a second bedroom,” he says after hanging up. “Got its own bathroom.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not? You already got the key. The hotel thinks you belong here.” He grins and fuck me! His teeth are perfect.

“I’m not staying in a stranger’s hotel suite.”

“Kamal.” He holds his hand out. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

“That is not how that works.”

“You got a better option?” He says it without smugness.

I don’t have a better option. I looked at room prices on the Strip, and the numbers made my stomach turn.

My sister could fix this in a heartbeat—one quick call and she’d have me set up in the suite Nathanael always keeps empty in his hotels. Probably one somewhere over my head right now.

But I can’t bring myself to keep leaning on her generosity. She’s already paid for my law school degree and funds Memphis’ private school education.

I’ve taken far too much as it is, and every dollar of her support sits heavy on my conscience, right alongside the law degree collecting dust.

“Tamika,” I say, and take his hand. His grip is firm and warm, anchoring me to the spot while my pulse scrambles.

“So what brings you to Vegas, Tamika?”

“Work.”

“Short and sweet. Gonna have to pull every detail out of you, huh?”

“I share on a need-to-know basis. And right now, you don’t need to know.”

“A mystery woman in my suite. Guess I’ll just have to work on upgrading my security clearance.” Kamal stands, and I’m reminded of how tall he is. “You hungry? I was about to get room service.”

My stomach answers before I can, growling loudly enough that we both laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He hands me the menu. “Order whatever.”

There is a long list of reasons why sharing a suite with this man is a terrible idea. I have a daughter who needs me to come home and a company that won’t survive another month without funding.

But I am tired, and the room is here, and my pasta is on its way up. I grab my suitcase and make my way to the bedroom before I can change my mind.

Four days. Eyes on the prize, hands to myself.

Memphis and Rally are counting on it.