His eyes flicked to mine for a split second. That brief spark made me want to roll my eyes. That smile kept getting to me, kept kicking my guard into a dropped position.
“Check this.” Omari stood up and came behind my chair. He leaned in close enough that the faint scent of his Dior Sauvage enticed my senses, making me acutely aware of the dangerous warmth of his chest as it pressed against my shoulder. His lips did a thing with my ear, almost touching, almost crossing the line. “We start by recreating a couple of Francisco Philippe’s Calla Lily Vases.”
“None of those are alike …”
“Exactly.” His hands fell onto my shoulders, a sudden, warm pressure, as if asking for confirmation. When I didn’t call him out, he kneaded the tension away. “Just a couple, so it doesn’t seem like we’re working a shady designer brand sweatshop. See?”
I had questions but folded my arms and dipped my shoulders away from those hands. They had a magnetic pull. But momma was not to be played with. “Look, I’m gonna go ahead and work on this project with you because I’m a professional, and I need money. But let’s get one thing straight: keep your paws at home. Don’t accidentally graze my arm. Don’t get all up in my personal bubble. I need a five-foot radius and receipts on every reproduction.”
“You want a contract?”
Hell no.Another man already had me wrapped up in a contract, and all the verbiage was making me develop a tic. “Ineed you to understand that if you screw me over, you’ll find yourself lost in a swamp. No paddle, no GPS. And I’ma tell the gators where you’re hiding. You feel me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t even chuckle.
washington
. . .
Last week, Madison stormed out of Dooky Chase and my life. Contract be damned. If I had any sense, I would’ve used her furry-red handcuffs instead of a stupid dating scheme to get her attention. Those cuffs brought us years of pleasure. Good times. But the night they broke? Lord have mercy.
Madison was drunk. Not tipsy. Not I-can-still-walk-in-heels drunk. Nah, she was New Orleans-half-a-hand-grenade-deep drunk. Woman could only toss back a glass of wine. That night, she’d stumbled into my arms in lingerieafterI had already put her to bed, still intoxicated. She was clutching one half of those busted cuffs like she was ready to perform a miracle. Damn things were dead to the world. She must’ve accidentally broken them in a drunken, violent fit to open them and get to me. Lust and frustration were no joke.
She had gasped.What are we gonna do now?
Since she was one of those crying drunks, I did the noble thing. Kept my mouth shut. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t say,Maddy, you’re acting like somebody shot your dog. And I sure didn’t follow up withHello? You still got a whole man here willing to acquiesce to any of your demands.I let her have her moment.We buried those poor, fluffy cuffs with a prayer, candles, and slow jams. Then we celebrated. Horizontally.
The next day, I bought her another pair. And she deserved them.
Man, I miss my life.
It was the first day of spring in New Orleans, and it had a half-wild, half-hungover kinda beauty. The Quarter was still shaking off Mardi Gras. Beads dangled from balconies like forgotten sins. Street performers were already out, sliding trombones through the mid-morning light. And I was showing up at Gaston DuVall’s French Quarter Jazz Brunch alone.
I adjusted my linen blazer and strolled into the courtyard restaurant. Tables sat tucked beneath banana trees. Mimosas flowed. Louis Armstrong’s “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” drifted on the breeze. As the live band played, I answered,Nope.I miss Madison.Had she blown me off?
“Washington!”
I turned. DuVall, wearing gold, waved me over as if he owned the place. The two guys at his sides were finance suits, or maybe professional talkers, judging by the number of hand gestures.
He clasped my hand. “Didn’t think you’d show up solo. Where’s that firecracker of yours? Bridget missed her at the auction.”
Madison always said that if the woman didn’t attend an event to gossip and sip champagne, she was getting Botox. In front of Bridget, mybébéwas all tight-church-lady smiles. Nothing more. “Maddy will arrive soon.”
Before I could change the subject, DuVall nodded past me. “Speak of the hurricane.”
I cut through the courtyard, my eyes on Madison in a red pantsuit. She spoke with a server, hand on hip.
“Hey,” she murmured, voice tight but guarded as I gestured her toward a table away from the crowd.
“You’re late, Madison. Why?”
“I … uh.”
I pulled another chair from the table, closer to the entrance, under a canopy of trees. I didn’t want anyone to bother us while I pressed her. “You know what? I don’t need you stumbling over words. Next time you have excuses, that’s an infraction, Maddy.”
“Okay.” She sat.
Too simple. I went heavy on her. “And next time you ghost me, I’ma bring the red cuffs.”
