Giving It Over
When the past comes knocking with bedroom eyes, will Justin open the door... or bolt like he did last time?
Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr. has it all. Money, power, and a penthouse view of the world.
But when the city lights dim and the champagne runs dry, all he's left with is silence—and a heart that’s never been claimed.
Returning to Sweet Water, Alabama was supposed to be a quick visit. Instead, it brings him face-to-face with the one man he never truly let go—Enon Green. The boyhood best friend. The long-lost lover. The one who left a mark he never stopped feeling.
The chemistry’s still there—undeniable, electric, and dangerous. But love like this doesn’t come easy. Not when pride, pain, and unfinished business hang between them.
To have what he’s always wanted, Justin will have to stop playing it safe... and give it over.
Prologue
I flicked the light off, then on again. Checked the clock. Midnight. I’d been sitting at the table for over an hour, waiting for Chris to walk through the door and press kiss after kiss over my skin like he used to. The man I’d spent nearly a decade with.
My eyes drooped as my chin sank to my chest. I wanted to be awake in case he tried to sneak in like he always did—quiet, guiltless.
I reached for the wine bottle to top off my glass. Empty.
Shit.
Who was I kidding? He wasn’t coming. He probably forgot.
Across the room, the cluster of balloons Janet brought me swayed in the dim light. I stared at them for a second, wondering what Chris’ excuse would be this time.
I cleaned up the dishes I’d set for two, slid the untouched meal into the fridge, and checked my phone.
Nothing.
Of course.
I flipped off the lights and padded down the hall to my bedroom. Stripped down, I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror—eyes glassy, mouth set tight, like I was trying not to feel anything.
The wine buzz hit hard. Thoughts jabbed at me from every angle. Don’t go there, I warned myself. I wasn’t going to be that guy who breaks down, turns bitter, and starts hating love.
The sheets were cold. My body curled into itself on instinct.
A single tear soaked into my pillow. Then another.
Happy birthday to me.
I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. Can you keep one? I, Justin Dixon Sinclair, Jr.—folks call me JJ. In fact, I’ve done it for so long that I've started believing the lie. The lie being that my life is perfect. No biggie, right? It’s a pretty big fucking deal to me.
Okay, maybe I'm being a tad dramatic.
I'm an Infopreneur. Fancy word, simple concept: I package and sell readily available information to people hungry for it, all about targeting, hitting the right audience.
“JJ, you've got a two-thirty with Mr. Killman from Ringer,” Janet said, breezing into the kitchen.
My office was my home—no need to set up in some overpriced Manhattan high-rise. Give me decent Wi-Fi, power, and a continuous flow of hot tea, and I'm golden. I loved New York—the buzz, the energy, the endless adventures.
Janet was my assistant and trusted confidante. I’d found her on a rainy autumn day, fresh from an audition for "The Color Purple." She lost the part because she was too pretty—no joke. They wanted homely; Janet was anything but.
Standing about five-six in heels with flawless graham-cracker skin, a dazzling smile, and curls that cascaded down her back, she was striking even through the tears running down her cheeks. She was my best friend and the world's greatest assistant two years later.
“Janet, can you call Mr. Killman and push him back an hour? I—”
“Can't," she interrupted. "You've got a doctor's appointment at three-thirty.” She buttered her toast without looking up. Janet always knew my schedule better than I did. It was part of her charm—no sugar-coating, no nonsense.
“Fine,” I sighed, closing my laptop.
I moved to the kitchen island where Janet sat, sipping coffee and side-eyeing me over the paper. She'd made my favorite breakfast: omelet, grits, and toast. She'd even brought homemade jam from her last visit home—another southerner like me, which instantly bonded us.
“What’s with the daggers?” I asked, spooning cheesy grits onto my omelet.
“What’s happening with you and Chris?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play. You know exactly what I mean. He’s been calling nonstop. Should I tell the poor guy to give it up?”
I washed down my toast with orange juice. “Do that.”
Janet scowled. That wasn't the answer she'd wanted.
Chris, my ex, was a complicated mess. We'd been off and on like a worn-out light switch. Since he missed my birthday last month and showed up two days late with flowers, he'd been calling, thinking I'd forgive him again. Once, maybe. Twice? Absolutely not. Chris was notorious for vanishing, then reappearing as if nothing had happened.
“Sort this out with Chris. I can't handle him clogging up the line with his foolishness,” Janet said, grabbing her bag.
“Where are you headed?” I asked, mouth half-full.
“I've got lunch with one of the app developers. Pretty sure he's into me.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn't do,” I teased.
“That leaves almost nothing,” she laughed, blowing a kiss. “Smooches.”
I hated being alone.
Finishing breakfast, I ignored the unread newspaper—too depressing, and I was halfway there already. I could retire comfortably, even now. My dad retired in his sixties and returned to work, claiming he missed the routine. Maybe I just needed a new challenge. Or perhaps I needed a solid man in my life—wasn't that the go-to remedy? New hairstyle or a new man? Already cut my brown locks shorter, so that was out.
My phone rang, loudly pulling me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen—Chris. I let it ring through to voicemail.
It was still morning, and I had time before my meeting. I sauntered into my bedroom, drew the blinds, and crawled back into bed. Maybe I'd go clubbing tonight and find a man who could make me forget everything, at least temporarily.
Why did Mondays have to suck so hard?