4. Autumn

Chapter 4

Autumn

D esta Ethiopian Kitchen wrapped me in warmth as I stepped through the door, the rich aroma of berbere and coffee filling the air. Marcus stood from his table, and I smiled - his black suit fit perfectly across his broad shoulders, the crisp white shirt setting off his dark skin.

“Right on time,” he smiled, taking my coat. His fingers brushed my shoulders, and I caught a hint of his cedarwood cologne. “You look beautiful.”

The black dress had been the right choice. It hugged my curves without trying too hard, the hem hitting just above my knees. “Thank you. This place smells amazing.”

“Wait until you taste the food.” He pulled out my chair. “Have you been here before?”

“No, but I love Ethiopian cuisine.” I settled into my seat, arranging my dress. “My college roommate used to make the best doro wat.”

“Ah, a woman who knows her Ethiopian dishes.” He sat across from me, his warm brown eyes catching mine. “I’m impressed.”

“Don’t be impressed yet. That’s the only dish I know by name.”

His laugh was rich and deep. “Then allow me to expand your culinary horizons.”

The waiter appeared with menus and wine recommendations. As Marcus discussed vintages, I relaxed in the moment. This was nice—a simple, straightforward attraction. It was something I could get used to.

“So tell me about this spring exhibition you’re planning.” Marcus gave me his attention, genuinely interested. “I heard whispers about some controversial pieces.”

“Not controversial - challenging.” I took a sip of the wine he’d selected. “Art should make people think, push boundaries.”

“Like that piece in your lobby last month? The one about gentrification?”

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about—” His phone buzzed. “Sorry, let me silence this.”

“No, please. I know how it is with client’s emergencies.”

“No emergencies tonight.” He turned off his phone completely. “You have my full attention.”

The gesture shouldn’t have made my stomach flip, but it did. When was the last time someone had given me their undivided attention without business or friendship getting in the way?

Our food arrived on a large platter lined with injera bread. Marcus showed me how to tear off pieces and scoop up the various stews and vegetables.

“The key is to use your right hand,” he demonstrated. “Like this.”

“My mother would be horrified.” I mimicked his technique. “She spent years drilling proper table manners into me.”

“Diana Williams and her etiquette lessons.” At my surprised look, he smiled. “Small world. She helped organize that charity auction I worked on last spring.”

“The one for youth arts programs?”

“Exactly. Now I know where you get your passion for art education.”

“Tell me about this young artist you helped,” I said, reaching for my wine. “The intellectual property case.”

“Denise Jordan. Eighteen years old, painting murals that’ll take your breath away.” Marcus set down his fork, passion lighting his face. “She created this series about growing up on the South Side - raw, powerful pieces. Then a corporation used her work in advertising without permission or credit.”

“What did you do?”

“Filed a cease and desist, negotiated fair compensation. But that wasn’t the best part. I helped her draft her first licensing agreement. Now she’s got murals commissioned all over Chicago, making real money from her art.”

“I’d love to see her work.”

“She’s got a piece over on 63rd Street. I could show you sometime.” His eyes met mine. “What about you? Tell me about your first exhibition.”

“I was fresh out of college and convinced I knew everything.” I laughed at the memory. “I wanted to showcase artists who’d never been in galleries before. My mother thought I was crazy.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I picked five artists who worked in unconventional mediums. One created sculptures from demolished building materials. Another made installations using old vinyl records and cassette tapes.”

“How’d it turn out?”

“On opening night, nobody showed up for the first hour. I stood there in my new dress, trying not to cry.” I shook my head. “Then this group of art students came in. They started talking about the pieces and asking questions. By the end of the night, we’d sold three major works.”

“That must have felt amazing.”

“It taught me to trust my instincts. That sometimes the best art comes from unexpected places.” I took another bite of food. “Like this restaurant - I would have never found it on my own.”

“My grandmother introduced me to Ethiopian food.” His expression softened. “She raised me after my parents died. She used to say food was the best way to understand other cultures.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She was. She taught third grade for forty years and believed education could change the world.” A server refilled my water glass, then bustled away. “That’s why I do the pro bono work. Art, education, community development - it all connects.”

“Is that what made you choose law?”

“Originally? I wanted to make money.” His honesty surprised me. “I grew up without much and thought success meant a big salary and a corner office.”

“What changed?”

“My first year at the firm, I took this case pro bono - an arts program fighting eviction from their building. Watching those kids perform in their saved space,” he shook his head. “It made me realize money is good, but purpose is better.”

“That’s beautiful, Marcus.”

“Yeah?” His smile turned playful. “Most women find corporate law pretty boring.”

“Most women haven’t spent their lives fighting for arts funding.” I raised my glass. “To purpose over profit.”

“To unexpected connections.” He clinked his glass against mine, and I drank the rest of my wine.

“Would you like another glass?” He gestured to the wine bottle.

“I should pace myself. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”

“About the Benefield Project?”

My hand stilled on my wine glass. “How did you know that?”

“Like I said, it’s a small world. My firm handles some of Tyson’s legal work.”

“Oh.” I reached for my water instead of the wine. “Yes, we’re partnering on a new gallery space.”

“Just partners?”

Before I could respond, my phone lit up with Tyson’s face. I moved to silence it.

“Please, don’t silence your phone on my behalf. I know how important you are,” Marcus said. “It might be important.”

A text came through, and I scanned the message.

“There’s a pipe burst at the Benefield Building. Water is threatening the newly renovated first floor. I’m sorry to interrupt you. If you have a minute, I need you.”

I stood, gathering my purse. “I have to go, unfortunately. There’s an emergency at?—”

“Let me drive you,” Marcus was already signaling for the check. “If it’s an infrastructure issue, you might need legal eyes anyway.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” That slowed my progress as our eyes met. I smirked and nodded. “Okay.” He paid quickly, helping me with my coat.

The drive to 47th Street was quick, the streets empty this late. Marcus’s BMW purred through the light snow, his hand steady on the wheel.

Walking across the street, the scene at the Benefield Building kept my protest about Marcus coming in the back of my throat - water pooled on the sidewalk, reflecting red and blue emergency lights.

Tyson stood with the fire department, his onyx suit jacket discarded, shirt sleeves rolled up. He turned as we approached, and something flickered in his gaze when he saw Marcus’s hand at the small of my back.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening.” His voice was perfectly professional. “But we need to make some decisions about the affected areas.”

“Marcus Richardson.” Marcus extended his hand. “From Caldwell & Ross. We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“Of course.” Tyson’s handshake was brief. “Autumn, they’re telling me the water damage extends to the area we marked for the student gallery.”

I kicked off my heels, holding them in one hand as I followed them inside—water squished under my stockinged feet. The space we’d planned to showcase student work - the heart of our community project - bore the worst damage.

“The specialty flooring,” I said. “It won’t survive this.”

“We can expedite replacement materials,” Marcus offered. “I know a contractor who specializes in gallery spaces.”

“We have contractors.” Tyson’s tone remained professional, but I caught the edge beneath it.

“Who’ll take weeks to source the materials.” I assessed the damage. “Marcus, your contact - they do emergency work?”

“I’ll call them now.” He stepped away, phone already out.

Tyson moved closer, his voice low. “Didn’t expect company tonight.”

“He wanted to help.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Don’t.” I turned to face him. “We need solutions right now, not...”

“Not what?”

“Just help me figure out how to save our gallery.”

“I appreciate you, which is why I called, but I don’t need Marcus’s contractors. My guys are just as quick, if not quicker.” He sighed. “I’m sorry I interrupted your… date?”

I locked my jaw, and unfamiliar anxiety that I’d never felt with Tyson filled me to the rim.

He smirked. “Never mind.”

He strolled a few feet away, and I stood awkwardly, unaware of how to feel.

For the next hour, we worked alongside the emergency response team. Marcus made calls, expedited paperwork, and smoothed over permit issues. Tyson directed cleanup crews and documented damage. I coordinated with our artists to protect their preliminary installations.

Finally, the immediate crisis passed. Marcus touched my arm. “Let me take you home. It’s late.”

“I can handle that.” Tyson stepped forward. “We need to discuss next steps anyway.”

They stared at each other, neither backing down. I stood between them, water seeping into my stockings, my perfect date night dress probably ruined.

“I should get home, and Tyson is right. We need to discuss what happens now.” My voice cut through the tension. “Marcus, thank you for dinner. And for your help tonight.”

“My pleasure.” He kissed my cheek, his lips warm against my skin. “Maybe we can have a do-over at Desta. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I nodded, watching him leave. When I turned back, Tyson stood closer than before.

“Dinner at Desta?” he said with an air of contempt. “Good choice. You used to say Ethiopian food was only good when Jasmine made it.”

“People change.”

“Do they?” he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “You’ve got plaster dust in your hair.”

“Pretty sure my whole outfit is a disaster.”

“You look beautiful.” The words came out rough, almost angry. “He’s a good lawyer.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Smart, successful, probably knows which fork to use at fancy dinners.”

“Tyson...”

“We need to talk about the gallery floor.” He stepped back, professional mask sliding back into place. “Over breakfast tomorrow?”

“I have a meeting.”

“Lunch then. Pearl’s at noon.”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded anyway, gathering my wet shoes.

“I’ll drive you home.” He placed his hand on my back, exactly where Marcus’s had been earlier. But his touch burned through the damp fabric of my dress, setting my skin on fire.

At his Range Rover I turned back to him.

“My car is still at Desta. I drove to dinner but left hurriedly when you called, and Marcus insisted on driving me here. If you don’t mind, you can drive me to the restaurant.”

He nodded. “That was nice of him.”

We stared and he motioned for me to get in the passenger seat.

The drive to the restaurant passed in silence, thick with words we didn’t say. When we arrived, Tyson walked me to my car and opened my door.

“I’ll follow you home.”

I nodded and strapped my seatbelt across me.

At my apartment, Tyson caught my hand before I could escape inside.

“Was it a good date?” His voice was soft, dangerous. “Before the interruption?”

“Yes.” I met his eyes. “It was.”

“Good.” He released me. “You deserve good things, Autumn.” He turned to leave.

“Tyson.” He paused and faced me.

“Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

He stared at me a long moment, then, “Never been better,” but he was holding back.

“You’ve never lied to me before, have you?”

His brows rose. “No.”

“Then why would you do it now?”

His nostrils flared, his eyes going dark as they combed over me. “Okay. I’m not fine. Is that what you want to hear?”

“No, but it’s the truth, so I’d rather that than you lie. Tell me what I can do to help.”

He smirked, and I could see the flex in his jaw. But all he had to do was spit it out. Tell me how much he wanted me, wanted us—and I would give up the pretense right now, too. But the longer he held back, the more I knew what was coming next.

“It’s not your problem to fix, Autumn. It’s mine. And I’ll be fine. I want you to be in good hands, and if Marcus is your guy, then…” he nodded.

“For the record, I never said Marcus is “my guy,” it was just a date.”

He nodded again. “Okay.” His gaze fell from mine as he looked around the neighborhood and then back to me. “Do me a favor. If at any time you don’t feel safe with anyone, tell me.”

My eyes widened. “Tyson…”

“Please,” he begged.

A knot formed in my throat, and I nodded. “I will.” He stepped close, lifted my hand, and placed a kiss on the back.

“Have a good night.”

With that, he walked away, leaving my heart pounding and uncertain about our friendship.