African American Fiction Romance

Camille met Julian on an unseasonably warm evening in early March, at a fundraising gala in Buckhead. The event was hosted in a restored mansion—polished floors, tall windows, everything scented faintly of roses and old money.

She’d come alone, representing her firm—she was a senior partner in a boutique public relations agency—and she was tired in the way only the very successful can be, when every achievement feels like a carefully balanced performance.

Julian was standing by the bar, holding a glass of bourbon, surveying the room with the thoughtful reserve of someone accustomed to being noticed. He wore a tailored navy suit, salt at his temples, a quiet confidence in his posture.

She had been sipping sparkling water when she felt his gaze—steady, warm, curious.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said, voice low and smooth.

She turned. He was tall and elegant, his brown skin catching the light, silver at his temples.

She laughed, surprised. “I’m not that obvious, am I?”

“Only to someone who feels the same way.”

He offered his hand. “Julian Thomas.”

“Camille Bryant.”

His smile deepened. “Bryant & Tate, right? I’ve seen your work. Impressive.”

She tried not to show how that pleased her. “Thank you.”

It should have ended there—pleasant small talk at another charity event. But it didn’t.

Something in her stomach tightened. She couldn’t remember the last time a man’s nearness had made her so aware of her own body.

They discovered a mutual understanding almost immediately: the constant pressure to be composed, the unspoken expectation that Black excellence must always be twice as good, twice as gracious.

Julian had recently stepped down as CFO of a healthcare technology company. Now, he served on several boards, consulted selectively, and was contemplating what came next.

Camille, twice-divorced, had built her firm from the ground up. She had a grown daughter finishing law school. She lived in a sleek modern condo near Piedmont Park, filled with art she’d collected during years when she’d been too busy to enjoy any of it.

He asked her to dinner the following week—a reservation at Bacchanalia, discreetly tucked away and dimly lit. The conversation was easy. No performance, no need to shrink or embellish.

“I have to admit,” she said, swirling her glass, “I wasn’t sure I wanted to come tonight.”

“Oh?” He studied her mouth as she spoke.

“Too many first dates that feel like interviews.”

Julian smiled slowly. “And what about this? What does it feel like?”

She hesitated, feeling a flush rise under her skin. “Like the part right before you know you’re going to want more.”

His gaze sharpened, hunger flickering there. “More of what, Camille?”

“More of this.” She lifted her glass between them, but they both knew she didn’t mean the wine.

He drove her home in his Lexus. When he walked her to her door, she reached for her keys with a trembling hand.

Julian placed his palm lightly against the side of her neck, his thumb brushing the delicate skin below her ear.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you since I first saw you,” he murmured.

Her breath caught. “Then why haven’t you?”

His lips curved. “I wanted you to wonder about it.”

“Cruel,” she whispered, and then he kissed her.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, the kind of kiss that promised he would take his time learning every part of her. She pressed closer, her body coming alive in a way she hadn’t felt in years.

When he pulled back, their breathing was uneven.

“Come upstairs,” she said.

“Not tonight,” he said softly, brushing her lower lip with his thumb. “I want to take you to dinner again first. And then I’m not going to let you out of my bed.”

She swallowed, her skin electric. “Deal.”

After that, they fell into something neither of them could pretend was casual.

They began to spend weekends together. Julian’s house in Ansley Park was beautifully restored—original moldings, abstract paintings, a wine cellar that impressed even her.

He cooked for her. She brought over bottles of Barolo and her favorite almond cake from Alon’s. They took long walks through the Botanical Garden, went to lectures at the High Museum, hosted dinner parties that looked effortless from the outside.

People noticed. Her colleagues commented that she seemed lighter. His sister teased him that he finally looked content.

Camille found herself letting her guard down in increments. They would spend hours exploring each other with the deliberate wonder of people old enough to know what they liked.

He learned she liked his hands in her hair. She discovered he liked the delicate scrape of her teeth against his shoulder.

One night, she lay sprawled across his chest, the sheets a tangle around their hips. He traced circles on her back with lazy fingertips.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

“That I forgot what this feels like.”

“What?”

“Wanting someone this much. And not feeling ashamed of it.”

Julian pressed a kiss to her hairline. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting.”

In August, they spent an entire Saturday in bed. Light spilled across the room as she drowsed against him, her legs tangled with his.

“Camille,” he said quietly, smoothing her hair from her cheek.

“Mmm?”

“I wish we’d met earlier.”

She opened her eyes. “Why?”

“Because I’m afraid I don’t have it in me to do this forever.”

She lifted herself up on an elbow. “What is this, Julian?”

He exhaled. “Something I’m starting to need.”

She didn’t say anything. She just kissed him again, slow and deep, wishing desire were enough to dissolve the fear neither of them could name.

One evening, as they stood in his kitchen finishing a bottle of wine, she asked quietly, “Do you ever think about getting married again?”

He exhaled. “Sometimes.”

“But?”

“I don’t know if I trust myself to try.”

She nodded, pretending that didn’t hurt.

In September, Camille received an invitation she hadn’t expected: an offer to take a yearlong fellowship at Georgetown, advising on a policy initiative about equitable media representation.

It was the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come twice. But it meant leaving Atlanta, her firm, and—if she was honest—whatever she and Julian were.

When she told him over dinner at Kevin Rathbun Steak, he was gracious. He was always gracious.

“That’s incredible,” he said, and she heard the catch in his voice that told her what he wasn’t saying.

“I haven’t accepted,” she said.

“You will,” he said softly.

“I don’t want to lose this.”

“Neither do I.”

She reached across the table, took his hand. “Then tell me you’ll try.”

He looked down at their joined hands. “I’m not sure I can be the man you deserve. Not if you’re there and I’m here.”

“Julian.” Her voice broke. “I want you.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, the place that always made her shiver. “Sometimes it is. But not this time.”

They spent one final evening together in October, at her condo overlooking the city skyline. They opened an old bottle of Bordeaux he’d been saving.

They didn’t talk about the fellowship. They didn’t talk about goodbye.

They watched the lights glitter over Midtown. He kissed her slowly, tenderly, as if memorizing her.

They undressed each other with a tenderness that felt almost brutal. Every kiss was threaded with grief.

Afterward, she lay across his chest, her hand spread over his heart.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her. “I love you too.”

The words hung in the darkness, beautiful and useless.

In the morning, he left before sunrise. She heard the door close and lay in the quiet, willing herself not to chase after him.

Washington was everything she’d hoped—stimulating, validating, full of new connections. She threw herself into the work, into proving she belonged at the table.

But some nights, after the receptions and briefings were over, she would sit in her borrowed apartment and think about Julian. The way his mouth had felt against her collarbone, the soft rasp of his voice in the dark.

They texted sometimes. Never enough to close the distance.

Time passed. The ache dulled, but it never quite vanished.

A year later, Camille returned to Atlanta. Her firm had flourished in her absence. Her daughter had passed the bar. On the surface, everything was as she had left it.

But she was not the same.

In April, she attended an art opening in Inman Park. As she stood near a photograph she particularly loved—two Black figures silhouetted against the dawn—she felt someone step up beside her.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

His voice.

She turned.

Julian looked much the same—still elegant, still self-possessed. But there was something softer around his eyes.

“Julian.”

“Camille.”

They smiled, and she felt the old ache rush up.

“You look incredible,” he said.

“So do you.”

They stood in the hush of the gallery, everything between them unspoken.

“I think about you,” he said softly.

“I think about you too.”

“Sometimes I wonder—”

She reached out, brushed his hand. “Don’t.”

He nodded, eyes shining.

“Take care of yourself,” she whispered.

“You too.”

And she walked away, the memory of his touch warm against her skin, knowing some loves are meant to stay unfinished.

Posted Jul 04, 2025
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