He replied calmly, “Or you canbe the fierce woman I know you are and lookat this as an opportunity. Of all the spas inthe world, we end up at the same one inMontego Bay, miles away from home, and we’re bothnaked.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Okay, that’s lame. Disagreeing with the truth for the sake ofnot agreeing with Canaan, when I prided myself on beingindependent and strong.
“So, the boldness you present to theworld is only a façade for your book?” Canaan asked,observing me.
“You know about my book?”
He smoothly replied, “Your pretty smile caught my attention while browsing books oneday. I read some of it. I can admit youkept my attention.”
I lowered my eyes, assessing the manI’d grown to hate over his mistreatment of myex-roommate. To be fair, he was a man Ihadn’t seen in years except through an occasional socialmedia post. A man who’d grown impossibly sexier ashe neared thirty. A man who aroused all my senses,including the sixth one, the moment our eyes connected inrecognition.
“Come on, Kensie. Fuck whatever you think of meand give in to your urges. We’re in aspa on the last day of the year, needing tounwind, and there’s nothing more relaxing than a goodorgasm.”
“With the right person,” I added, returning my otherarm to block my breasts from his hungry gaze andkeeping my lower half tilted away.
“I’m exactly therightperson who’ll make you come hard.” Canaan touchedthe junction of my arms, barely hiding my breasts, andhe commanded softly, “Let me see you.”
His gentle yetfirm tone evoked my most primal instinct, and I loweredmy arms. My breath rattled, watching the fire build inhis eyes as he admired me. He leaned forward andslowly pulled my nipple into his mouth.
Knock. Knock.
“Kensie?”
Startled, I shook the memories of Canaan and looked out of the window at Saraj, my friend and manager.
“Were you on a call or something? We’re about to lose our reservations, and if I have to wait any longer, you’re paying for my meals for the next month.”
I spoke through the closed window. “I already pay for your meals.”
“Well, I’ll eat double. Now, get out of the car.” He impatiently shuffled from foot to foot and pressed his wool hat down more securely over his ears.
“Go inside and get warm. I’m coming.”
Saraj hurried inside, and I flopped my head against my seat. I was frustrated that I hadn’t gotten Canaan Jackson out of my mind. It didn’t help matters that his popularity in the racing world increased with every appearance. His face had been everywhere on the local news, ESPN, and the internet lately in his quest to be the first Black man to win a NASCAR and a Formula One race. Or that I sincerely doubted he’d given another thought about me except as another notch. I didn’t even want to acknowledge the guilt of sleeping with my best friend’s ex. An ex she never really got over, even though Emme was engaged to a man who treated her exceptionally well and was someone everyone adored. Yep. The New Year’s Eve I spent fucking Canaan Jackson was going to my grave. Hopefully, the toe-curling thoughts of him would die sooner rather than later.
Chapter 2
Canaan
“Coming in third isn’t good enough if I’m going to make it in a Formula One race. I’m lucky that Ferrari is even considering bringing me on the team midseason.” After a strenuous workout in the complex’s state-of-the-art gym, I stepped off the elevator to my penthouse condo overlooking Memorial Park in downtown Houston. I opened the door to destruction. My latest fling had ripped my leather sofa with a knife, and feathers covered my hardwood floor and the overturned coffee table. I shrugged dispassionately, went to my refrigerator, and grabbed a Beck. My maid service would be coming in later this morning, and Ms. Murielle, my private chef, was used to the antics of my so-called women.
I looked around at the proof of why I ended things yesterday when she started bugging me about spending Valentine’s Day together, since I didn’t spend New Year’s with her. Dahlia had been too clingy and expected more than I would give after a few months of dating nonexclusively. My only regret was that she knew my code and fucked up my place while I flew back from training in Phoenix. I hoped she didn’t take her anger to social media. The last thing I needed was another mark against me after sleeping with the wife of one of my sponsors, who neglected to tell me that I worked for her husband. My crew had to break up the fight between her enraged husband and me during practice before my race in Vegas last year.
“Glad I don’t have to remind you,” Pops replied wryly. “There’s not enough of us out there, and you can’t afford to run another race like you did. You don’t need them to have another reason not to give us a chance.”
“Pops, can you give me a break?” I’d just been chewed out by my crew chief and best friend, Malcolm, for having slower times in Phoenix than my last competition. After losing the Las Vegas Motor Speedway in October, I had remained there to regroup. I exercised and practiced driving nonstop during the holidays, right through Christmas. Emotionally and physically drained, I decided to take a short break, bring in the New Year at a spa, and relax in Jamaica. Maybe with a woman or two. Maybe not. I had become comfortable with being alone.
Relationships were complications I didn’t need in my already-hectic life. Exhibit A: My destroyed living room and whatever other damage I hadn’t yet seen. Except I couldn’t stop thinking about Kensie Garrett. I hadn’t expected ever to see her again. And I surely didn’t expect to find her incredibly arousing and bring in New Year’s with my former archenemy in my bed.
I never cared for the outspoken Kensie, who had a couple of classes with me before I started dating her roommate, Emme. Kensie and I argued almost every time I was in the apartment she shared with my ex-girlfriend. She didn’t trust me and made it clear that she hated men like me who used their looks and money to get whatever they wanted from women. Although she spoke the truth, I didn’t like that she called me on my shit and dismissed her as an angry woman destined to be alone. I’m not proud of what I used to think about her or of how I criticized her for speaking the truth. Chalk it up to immaturity.
Several years ago, I read her entire book and thought it was funny, entertaining, and insightful about the complex relationships between Black men and women. Her degree in sociology and psychology had paid off. I’d seen some of her interviews and social media posts and found myself entertained by her humor and directness about love. Admittedly, I thought she’d grown into one sexy woman, much different from the awkward girl with glasses too large for her cute face. If she weren’t Kensie Garrett, I would’ve messaged her for a date. So, one glance at her voluptuous body once I realized who’d fallen into my bed, and I was all in, at least for the rest of the day and night.
By morning, she’d slipped out of my private suite while I slept, though we’d made plans to spend the day together. We never exchanged numbers, and I was surprised that she left without saying goodbye, never to be heard from again. I thought we had fun in and out of bed, realizing we loved Doechii, Kendrick Lamar, jerk chicken nachos, andFresh Princereruns. I should’ve been happy that she wasn’t the type to think that because we brought in the year together, that meant something. Yet, I couldn’t deny that I was bothered that, weeks later, she hadn’t tried to connect.
“Canaan, are you listening, boy?”
“Yes, sir.” I quickly downed the rest of my beer and tossed it in the trash as I refocused on my grandfather.
