When Hearts Negotiate

Chapter Nine

Old Names

Amara stared at the name on her screen.

Kene.

For several seconds, she did nothing.

Then another message appeared.

I hope you haven’t changed your number just to avoid me.

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth.

That sounded like him.

Kenechukwu Eze belonged to a very specific part of her life—family Christmases, long holidays, birthdays neither of them had wanted to attend, and parents who had been friends long before their children understood what friendship meant.

He had been Kene before university, work and distance turned regular conversations into birthday messages and scattered reactions to photographs.

There had never been a dramatic ending between them.

Life had simply moved.

Apparently, it had moved him back.

Amara typed.

How did you hear about the investment negotiations?

His reply came almost immediately.

That is your first question?

Yes.

Not “Kene, where have you been?”

You are the one who disappeared.

Revisionist history.

She smiled.

Answer the question.

Your father mentioned it to mine.

Of course.

Their fathers could turn a casual conversation into a family bulletin faster than any social media platform.

Congratulations, Mara. Seriously. I always knew you’d make something big out of the business.

Her smile softened.

Thank you.

Then another message appeared.

I’m back in Lagos.

Amara straightened.

Visiting?

No. Back back.

That surprised her.

Lunch soon? I owe you at least three years of explanations.

She stared at the screen.

I’ll check my schedule.

You haven’t changed.

Goodnight, Kene.

Still dismissing me too. Definitely haven’t changed.

Amara laughed under her breath and put the phone down.

A few minutes earlier, she had been thinking about Tobe.

Now Kene had reappeared.

Life had an irritating sense of timing.

The following morning, Chisom appeared at Amara’s office door while she was reviewing production figures.

“You’re smiling at spreadsheets.”

“I wasn’t smiling.”

“You were.”

“Maybe the numbers are good.”

“They’re not that good.”

Amara lowered her pen. “Do you need something?”

“Eventually. Zina said Mr Okafor was at the opening last night.”

Amara’s pen stopped.

“His name is Tobe.”

Chisom’s expression changed. “Last week he was Mr Okafor.”

Amara returned to her figures. Her phone lit up.

Kene.

Chisom smiled. “For someone with no story, you suddenly have a lot of characters.”

Across Lagos, Tobe was having an unusually impatient morning.

When Tara brought in revised projections, he asked, “When is my next session with Amara?”

“Next week. That’s when you scheduled it.”

He disliked the answer anyway.

“Has she sent the revised supplier analysis?”

“Not through me.”

Tobe reached for his phone. Tara noticed.

“Nothing,” she said before he could ask, and walked out smiling.

Tobe opened his conversation with Amara.

The last message was still his.

You negotiated well today.

He remembered the restaurant. Her black dress. Her laughter.

Actually, I think I like this version.

He locked the phone.

The supplier analysis could wait.

By afternoon, work had taken over again when Amara’s father called.

After asking about the investment process, he mentioned Chief Eze.

“Kene is back,” Amara said.

“And he wants to see you?”

“For lunch.”

“Go. Make time for people too, Mara. Business will always ask for more.”

The words stayed with her after the call ended.

Then her phone buzzed.

Tomorrow. Lunch. I’m not accepting “I’ll check my schedule” again.

She considered it.

Tomorrow will be busy, but not impossible.

One hour.

Two.

One.

90 minutes.

You have sixty.

I’ve missed negotiating with you.

Amara smiled.

Tomorrow, Kene.

The restaurant he chose the next afternoon was quiet enough for conversation.

Kene stood the moment he saw her.

For a second, he looked less like a man she had not seen in years and more like the boy who used to steal meat from her plate at family parties.

“Mara.”

“Kene.”

He opened his arms.

She laughed and hugged him.

“You actually came back.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Surprised.”

Kene stepped back. “You look exactly the same.”

“Terrible lie.”

“Fine. More expensive.”

She laughed, then learned he had already been back in Lagos for three weeks.

“Three weeks and you’re only calling me now?”

“I knew that would come up.”

They sat, and conversation came more easily than she expected—his years abroad, her business, their families.

Kene had returned to join his family’s investment and property business.

Kene watched her for a moment.

“I missed this.”

“This?”

“You.”

The word landed differently.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Amara reached for her glass. “You had my number.”

“I did.”

“And apparently both hands.”

“I deserved that.”

His expression grew serious.

“I should have stayed in touch.”

“We both got busy.”

“No. You tried longer than I did.”

She studied him.

“Are you apologising?”

“Please don’t make it uncomfortable.”

“I’m enjoying it.”

“I take it back.”

“No refunds.”

He laughed, and the weight between them eased.

By the time Amara checked the time, her one-hour lunch had become ninety minutes.

“You stole thirty minutes,” she said, reaching for her bag.

“You enjoyed yourself.”

“That isn’t admissible evidence.”

They were still laughing when Kene stood.

And that was when Amara saw Tobe.

He had just entered the restaurant with David.

Her smile faltered.

Not because she had done anything wrong.

But suddenly she was conscious of standing beside Kene.

Tobe saw her at the same moment.

His gaze moved from her to Kene, then back.

His expression didn’t change.

That was somehow worse.

David followed his gaze.

“Amara.”

There was no avoiding it.

She approached with Kene and made the introductions.

“Tobe, David—this is Kene Eze. An old family friend.”

Kene offered his hand. “Tobe Okafor. Your reputation travels.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Of course that would be his answer.

Kene’s phone rang.

“I need to take this.” He looked at Amara.

“Okay.”

His hand touched lightly at her upper arm before he stepped away.

An ordinary, familiar gesture.

Tobe noticed it.

He wished he hadn’t.

Amara looked at him. “I should get back to the studio.”

“How’s the revised supplier agreement?”

Safe territory.

“Better. They accepted the volume adjustment.”

“And delivery?”

“Still negotiating.”

“Hold your ground.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “You know I will.”

Something almost passed between them.

Then Kene returned.

“Ready?”

Tobe’s gaze shifted between them.

“You came together?”

“No. Kene offered to drop me at the studio.”

Tobe nodded once. “Right.”

Perfectly neutral.

For some reason, it irritated her.

“Enjoy lunch.”

“You too.”

She walked away with Kene.

David waited until they were seated.

Then Tobe looked at him.

“What?”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face did.”

David opened the menu. “I was going to ask what you’re eating.”

“Anything.”

“That bad?”

Tobe gave him a look.

“Food,” David said quickly. “I’m talking about food.”

But Tobe’s eyes had already moved towards the window.

Outside, Kene opened the passenger door for Amara.

In the car, Kene glanced at her. “Your adviser. That’s Tobe?”

“Yes.”

“How well do you know him?”

“He’s advising my business.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Amara gave him a look. “You’ve been back in my life for twenty-four hours. You don’t get to interrogate me yet.”

“Yet?”

She realised her mistake when he grinned.

Tobe returned to his office later than planned.

He opened Amara’s supplier analysis.

Read the first page.

Then read it again.

His concentration was perfectly fine.

He did not care who Kene Eze was.

Old family friend.

That explained the familiarity. The nickname. The touch on her arm.

None of which concerned him.

At all.

His phone rang.

He answered without checking the screen.

“Tobe Okafor.”

Amara laughed.

His posture relaxed before he could stop it.

“Do you answer everyone like you’re about to acquire their company?”

“What do you want, Amara?”

“The supplier agreement.”

“I’m reading it.”

“Of course you are.”

She explained the revised delivery condition.

“That minimum is too high,” he said. “Counter with staggered volume.”

“I already did.”

Tobe paused. “Then why are you calling me?”

A brief silence.

“I wanted your opinion.”

His fingers stopped against the desk.

“Professionally,” she added.

“Of course.”

Another pause.

Then Amara asked, “Did you enjoy your lunch?”

The question surprised him.

“It was lunch.”

“That sounds like no.”

“You noticed?”

This silence lasted longer.

“I notice things too, Tobe.”

Something shifted in his chest.

Someone called her name in the background.

“I have to go.”

“Send me the final supplier terms before you sign.”

“I will. Bye, Tobe.”

The call ended.

A moment later, his screen lit again.

And for the record, Kene really is an old family friend.

Tobe went still.

He hadn’t asked.

Which meant she had noticed.

And she had wanted him to know.

He typed a response.

Deleted it.

Finally:

I didn’t ask.

Her reply came almost immediately.

I know.

Then:

That's why i told you

For the first time that afternoon, Tobe smiled.

Across Lagos, Amara stared at her own screen, wondering why she had sent the message at all.

Kene’s return wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that, without a single conversation about what existed between them, she and Tobe had already begun behaving as though there was something to explain.