“Am I what?”
“Good at picking up on clues—and horny?” I asked, turning my head to face him.
“Touchdown, Banks!” the football commentators shouted, and the whole bar—including my mystery man—cheered. You would’ve thought this was a live game and not a replay with the way these men were reacting. Well, it was the first Super Bowl ring for our state in 13 years, so I guess the barbaric behavior was called for.
“Let’s fucking go, man!” he yelled, before turning back to me. “Gage,” he said, reaching his hand out for me to shake.
“Mahasin,” I said, taking it.
“Mahasin, huh?” he repeated, his tone smooth enough to make my knees buckle. “That’s very fitting.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, blushing.
“The nameMahasinis of Arabic origin—it means beauty, goodness, and excellence. May I ask what you do for a living, Mahasin?”
Damn. The way my name rolled off his tongue, I was ready to let this man ask me for my hand in marriage. Gage was just so smooth, so composed—like he could calm a savage beast. There was this directness about him, as if he couldn’t tell a lie even if he wanted to.
There was no reason my body should be reacting the way it was, but here I was—three minutes in, and my pussy was talking louder than my common sense. Where the hell was Amber? Because if I leaned on this Hennessy and not my own understanding, I’d be just like that hoe of a bartender—ready to plain-out ask for the dick.
“I’m a doctor—OBGYN, to be exact. Serenity Women’s Medical Group is my birthing center,” I said proudly.
“Okay, talk your shit. That’s wassup,” Gage said with a slight chuckle.
“No, I didn’t mean to come off like I was bragging,” I rushed out. “It’s just… There are many types of doctors, and naming my practice eliminates the need for you to ask which office I workedfor. I mean, itisthe best place for Black maternal health—just askWomen’s Health Magazine—but that’s not a flex.”
I covered my face with both hands, trying to hide my mouth and my embarrassment.
Why the fuck was Gage making me so nervous? I thought to myself.
“Aye,” he said calmly, gently removing my hands from my face. “It’s absolutely a flex, and I’m honored to be speaking with a successful African American doctor. I mean, it’s always something to celebrate when a person of color is in a white-collar position—but when it’s someone who looks like my mom, my sister…the epitome of beauty and the blueprint of civilization as we know it—it feels safe, familiar, and loving.”
He paused; eyes locked on mine. “Which is why your name fits you. Youarebeauty, goodness, and excellence, Mahasin.”
A small smirk tugged at his lips. “And hopefully, mine.”
I heard him. Even though he whispered it.
My ass was blushing so hard I couldn’t even manage a thank you. Gage was so handsome and charming it knocked me off my square. That part wasn’t new—the whole state of Rosemoor was full of fine men—but a Havenbrook man was a special recipe: most came from two-parent households where daddy both provided and nurtured, so they knew how to pay bills and treat a woman.
But every pond has its toads, and I should know—I think I kissed every fuck boy this city had to offer. So why would Gage be any different? Naw. He was the same wack-ass prize you find at the bottom of a cereal box. Unless it was one of those Trix color-changing spoons from the '90s—those were fire.
Just like those old prizes, they don’t make men like they used to. Guys now want to be treated like kings but act like jackasses—cheaters who, instead of uplifting a successful woman, feel intimidated and get jealous. And then there are the Hunters ofthe world—fellows who come into your life to wreck it and leave you without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Fuck that. I’m over getting played. The next nigga is going to have to drown a fish to impress me.
For tonight, Gage was simply eye candy.
“Well, gosh, Mr. Gage, here you are saying sweet nothings to me based on my name alone, and when I think of the nameGage,the only thing that comes to mind is that little nigga the daddy buried inPet Sematary,and he came back alive killing everybody,” I smiled.
“Damn!” he said, causing us both to laugh—me so hard that tears escaped my eyes.
That laugh was exactly what I needed. It felt like a ton of bricks lifted off my chest and I could finally exhale. Like the clouds parted to let the sun through. Gage felt like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Like that instant book-boyfriend love—the kind of unhinged MMC energy that only exists in fiction. Which is how I knew what I was feeling for him wasn’t real. I was living through the three H’s right now: hurt, horny, and Hennessy-drunk. Anything a man said to me tonight would sound like a love song.
“Gageis Old French—it has a few meanings around measurement, but my favorite interpretation is ‘guarantee.’ And before you copy me by asking my occupation, I’m a producer for film and television,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re just gonna answer my next question before I even ask it?”
“Yes, Doctor…”
“St. James,” I clarified.
