“Who?” I perk up. Montell Webber never remarried. Despite being a hot item on Bayside’s middle-aged menu, he’s either very private or very picky. I can count the women he’s dated in the past twenty years on one hand and still throw up a peace sign.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I popped by Monday evening, and he was dressed all sharp and smelling like date night.”
“He always is.”
“True, but this was extra,” Rayne says. “Bright eyes, pep in his step, like someone sprinkled a little somethin’ somethin’ on hiscornflakes. I asked, but he played it cryptic. Didn’t confirm or deny. I hope I’m right, though. He deserves to find love again.”
“I agree.” I’ve always adored Uncle Mo. He’s everything my father isn’t. Open-minded, someone who cares and listens. Not judgy and uptight. The kind of man my mother deserves. I blink that thought away. “Maybe we’ll get the scoop at dinner. You know Mom can pull anything out of him.”
“True. Oh, did I tell you she asked me about you and Dice?”
“I’m not surprised. She said she was going to. What’d you tell her?”
“Nothing much. Just that y’all are ‘hanging out.’” She air quotes. “I wasn’t about to say you’re friends with benefits.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t need to know that. Neither does Maurice.”
“Girl, you know he wouldlose his whole damn mind.”
“He would,” I agree bitterly. “But it’s not about me. I just don’t want to make it worse for Dice at work.”
“I hear that.” She nods. “So when you seeing him again?”
“Tonight. He asked me to stay over.”
“Try not to fall asleep on the man this time.”
We laugh, clinking glasses. Then I shut down my iPad and go pack an overnight bag.
Chapter Sixteen
Dice
You got this thing insured?
Coming home to a woman feels as unfamiliar as waking up next to one had. But it’s Lot. And I can’t wipe the grin off my face.
Whet Wednesday stayed steady till around eight, but I knew Benny could close out on his own. I shot Lot a text.
Hey, boss, mind if I dip early?
Is it an emergency?
Yep. Got a hot woman waiting at home.
Then you better hurry.
On my way… beready.
I stay ready.
Not just trash talk. She’s standing there in this slinky little black satin, two-piece. Thin straps barely holding up a draped top that plunges low enough to make my blood spike. Her skin’s catching the light, and those tiny shorts, riding high on her thighs, look like they were stitched together just to test my self-control.
Queenie slinks around the corner, shoots me a disgruntled meow, then flicks her tail and heads back to where she’d come from.
“I thought we were cool,” I say.
“You’ve got some trust to earn back. She thinks you scandalized me this afternoon.”
