“What is a bud and breakfast?” she asked again, brow furrowed.
She was the third woman to join me at my table. The firstone was pleasant enough, but she wanted a wedding ring. The second match … Well, we didn’t make it the full half hour before she asked me to invest in her home health care business. She also wanted to walk down that aisle. I had already been someone’s husband, and I wasn’t interested in a repeat performance. My ex-wife had made my life miserable for five years. Not enough sex. Too much nagging. Every day fights. Lofty expectations that only applied to me, never her.
“Mr. Cross? Hello?” Third Date called again dramatically.
Ignoring her, I picked up my phone and sent a quick text to my niece:
Ask Bliss why she’s torturing me. And what the hell is this woman’s name?
It took a few seconds, but Taylar finally responded:
Yolanda. Can you at least try to act interested?
Leaning back in my chair, I shifted my attention back to the woman across from me. “Abudand breakfast is like abedand breakfast, except it’s cannabis friendly. We’re a smaller establishment, on private property. Our guests enjoy the freedom to indulge whether its smoking, vaping, or eating marijuana. Legally. We provide cannabis-infused meals, a complimentary weed bar with several strains, and smoking implements.”
It was a spiel I’d memorized for people like her, a log line of sorts. Usually, I was met with two very specific responses—judgement or intrigue. More times than not, I walked away with a booking, but sometimes I encountered undercover church ladies disguised as progressive.
“Is that all you do?” The judgement in her tone made me want to get up. “Because …” she shrugged, “that doesn’t seem like a lucrative business. Seems more like a little hobby to me. What exactly do you do all day anyway? Smoke weed with your guests?”
“Am I supposed to take that as a serious question?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, tracing her finger over the small plate on the table. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot? I’m just … nervous. I’ve never done anything like this before.”
Rubbing my beard, I counted to ten slowly.Ten more minutes. “Can I ask what you do?”
Her shoulders fell, and I figured I’d hit a nerve. “I work for my father.” She scratched the back of her neck. “He’s the senior pastor of Ram in the Bush Tabernacle. You might know him. Bishop Floyd Matthews.”
Suddenly, everything made sense. Looking at her, though, I wouldn’t exactly classify her as an undercover church lady. More like an entitled, pampered princess who didn’t think twice about using her last name or her father’s standing in the community to demean others she deemed beneath her. She was the exact type of woman I’d avoided at all costs. I’d met a few of those throughout my life. Had family members that behaved that way, too. “Ah.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Are you judging me?”
I raised a brow. “Like you judged me?”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t judging you. I don’t even drink alcohol, so I know next to nothing about marijuana. The Bible implores us to be sober-minded.”
“1 Peter 5:8. I know scripture. I know your father, too.”
Ole’ Floyd was the poster boy for “once was blind but now I see.” The fact that people in our old hood seemed to gloss over the fact that he was once the biggest drug dealer in our hometown of Ypsilanti, Michigan was comical. But I would never forget the havoc he caused, and all the livesruined by his quest for money. Knowing Yolanda was the bishop’s daughter only further cemented that this was no match made in Heaven.
“And, yes, you were judging me,” I added. “You’ve made assumptions about me from the moment I told you about my business.”
“I didn’t mean to come off that way,” she said. “I’m?—”
“I know. You’re sorry.” I dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table for the waitress, then finished my beer. It was my second one in the last hour, not nearly strong enough to deal with this bullshit. Before I could make my hasty exit, though, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, then at Taylar, who seemed to understand that I was hanging on by a thin string.
Tay
Please don’t get up and walk away like you did the last woman.
Tay
I have done several weddings at her father’s church.
Tay
Come on, Uncle Spencie. This is my business. Don’t be mean.
“I do apologize.” Yolanda shifted in her chair, drawing my attention back to her. “So you own a weed business?”
