“Do you need anything else?” a dimpled Latino waiter asked.
“Just your smile,” Saraj flirted.
His eyes darted toward the kitchen before quietly saying, “That could be arranged.”
Saraj’s pouty lips smiled before he lightly tapped the table. “I’ll leave my card. Use it.”
“One to-go box and the check, thank you.” I slowly moved my head, blocking the waiter’s view of Saraj, and smiled brightly at the waiter.
He nodded respectfully. “Of course.”
Saraj ogled the man, who headed back toward the kitchen. “Now,that’sthe type of man you need on your arm. You’ll get the Latino crowd too. Interracial romance is hot.”
I quirked a perfectly waxed brow. “Are you getting him for you or for me?”
“Both, if I have my way.”
“I have a man I could ask if I really thought I needed one,” I commented as I gulped down the rest of my cocktail. The alcohol loosened my tight lips.
Saraj leaned closer. “Isthisman the reason you’re distracted?”
Propping my elbow on the table to rest my chin on my hand, I glumly replied, “He’s driving me crazy, and I hate it.”
“This sounds good. What is he doing?” He took a long sip of his drink, paying rapt attention. In the years we’d known each other, I was rarely affected by a man besides my ex-boyfriend. Saraj had been a friend of mine since that one marketing class back in college. He helped me promote my book two years ago, and together, our careers soared. He now assists other authors with their social media presence and teaches them how to monetize their passions. I remained his number one client and primary focus.
“Nothing. He’s someone I used to know. We spent New Year’s Eve together in Montego Bay and haven’t heard from him since.”
“He ghosted you?” He whispered like Canaan had committed murder.
“No, technically,Ighosted him first. I left while he still slept.”
The lines on his forehead increased. “Then why are you caught up?”
“Not caught up . . . just . . .” I rolled my eyes, trying to find the right words to describe my jumbled feelings.
Saraj smirked. “Caught up. It’s been weeks. You’re sprung if you can’t get him out of your head. That pipe must have been good.”
I groaned and closed my eyes. “Too damn good.”
“He might still be down if you reach out. You disappeared first.” Saraj clapped his hands in delight. “Yes, yes . . . Call him, apologize, and convince him to take a few selfies or something. Make it Instagram official. Pretend to break it off by the end of the summer. And then do a book on enjoying the single life after a devastating breakup. Readers will be invested. People eat that stuff up. Think Usher andConfessions. That album broke records because Chilli broke up with him for cheating right before he released it, and the album wasn’t even about their relationship. It was all about the perception.”
Continuing to lean on my elbow, I shook my head vehemently. My brown blunt-cut wig swung with my motions. “Don’t think it’s a good idea. We hate each other.”
“Ooh. No wonder the sex was good. That’s an even better show.ThePleasures ofAngry Sex. Kensie, youhaveto get him.” His eyes brightened, and he jotted down more notes on his screen. “What’s his social?”
I reluctantly went to his Instagram page and passed my phone to Saraj.
Saraj’s eyes rounded. “You did Canaan Jackson?” He bounced in his chair. “Oh my geez, this is about to besolit.” Saraj was probably wilder than me, which is saying a lot. Yet, he attended Lakewood Church faithfully and refused to speak God’s name in vain or curse.
“You know him?”
“Duh . . . I follow anybody hot. Canaan Jackson is Insta-Platinum with his twenty-plus-million followers. He’s the darling of the city. Not many men in NASCAR stand to inherit a billion-dollar empire from their rich daddy and represent Houston at the same time. You have to reconnect with him. Apologize. Give him some more. Whatever you need to do.”
“No . . . no . . . No, Saraj. I can’t.” I couldn’t imagine calling him, especially now that I knew Canaan was a billionaire, a fact I’d been unaware of until this moment. I knew he came from money, just notthatmuch money. He’d messaged me on IG with his number, and I hadn’t replied. I refused to further engage with him after our hours-long sex-fest. We’d only stopped sexing long enough to walk to his luxurious suite and eat sushi and Tres Leche cake. My pride wouldn’t let me reach out for many reasons, but the main one was that I didn’t appreciate feeling unsettled. “A billionaire? No wonder he thinks all women want him. I’m not about to add to the thirst.”
“Kensie, this isn’t the time to be you. Do youunderstandhow just a few hugged-up photos with him will raise your profileexponentially?”
“We will find someone else. He’s my college roommate’s ex, anyway.”
