Tara: Trust me. You don’t want any of this.
She sends a picture of her, Ethan, and Vincent in bed under a blanket. For three sick people, they sure look happy.
Alan: #notsorry for not being my twin’s plus one at her own dinner party . Got too much street cred for that.
“You know I’m the one who ordered that and had it sent to you, right?” Hunter, one of my guests, yells from across the room. He’s Ethan’s personal assistant, and when we first met, I promised to introduce him to my colleague, Cody.
I grab the bottle, walk over and fill their glasses. “Well done, Hunt.” I put the bottle down to give him a high five. Cody drinks his in one gulp and lets out a loud giggle.
Dinner’s over. We had the food I ordered, including dessert. We’re currently on our second bottle of red. My guests have gotten cozier with each passing second. There’s practically no room between them, and I give myself a mental high-five for my amazing matchmaking skills.
I dim the lights and return to the kitchen, busying myself with cleanup. I turn up the music to give them privacy, even though I have the feeling they will be leaving soon. I check my phone again, then remind myself that there’s no game tonight. The Mischiefs won the last one, and according to my dad, they are going to the conference finals. If they win that series, they will move on to the NBA Finals, and hopefully bring another championship to the city of New York.
I was irritated two years ago when they won. The city was not only flooded with people, but with trash. Major streets were blocked off and the subway was packed with fans. And worse, my daytime TV lineup was interrupted for the stupid parade.
“You two want some more of this dessert?” I give the cupcakes the side-eye, knowing full well I will eat most of them if they don’t.
“No, chica,” Hunter says. “I’m watching my figure.”
“Looks pretty good to me,” Cody responds.
“Well, one of you take them home because—” My words are interrupted by a loud, determined knock. No one rang the bell, and for a split second, I think it’s my mother bulldozing her way into my Friday night. Then, I think better of it. Mother wouldn’t waste a Friday on one of her kids. She’d spend it with friends unless they bailed on her.
But she’s been trying. You won’t let her in.
The unknown guest knocks again, and I put down the plate and walk to the door. I look through the peephole but don’t see anyone. Thinking it’s one of the kids from across the hall playing a prank, I walk away, only to hear the knock again. I open the door to check the hallway, and Colt jumps in front of me from the side of the wall. I gasp and put a hand to my heart. He laughs, wraps his arms around me as if it’s his right and pulls me into a hug. I hate to admit it, but he smells great. His body is a wall of muscle, and I want nothing more than to lean into it all night, but I pull myself away and make the horrible mistake of looking into his face. His hair is still a curly mess, and I reluctantly admit that I’m glad he didn’t cut it. My fingers are dying to run through it and fix it, but I’m pretty sure it’s untamable.
“Queen Victoria.” He takes my hand and wraps it around one of his huge ones. I try to pull away, but it’s no use. He puts our joined hands on his chest and says, “My Lady.” He drops my hand and does an exaggerated and awkward bow. “I have come to conquer thy heart and thine lips.”
He bows again, and he loses his balance, almost falling over. I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle my laugh.
“Shakespeare, my lady.” When he gets to his full height, he gives me a salute.
“I’ve read all his work, and he never said anything like that.”
“Are you going to let me in?” He cranes his neck to look inside my apartment before walking a few feet down the hall and returning with a bouquet of flowers. He pulls out a red rose and hands it to me. “For my lady.”
I move aside and let him in. We walk past Hunter and Cody, who are now holding hands on my couch. They are so busy gazing at each other that neither of them is phased by the almost seven-foot-tall man in the house. He puts the flowers on my table and stares at me. Unable to look into his eyes for a second longer, I look away and say, “I’d offer you some wine, but Mama might not approve.” He tilts his head to the side and waits for me to say more. “Devil’s milk,” I remind him.
“I’ll tell Mama you remembered. She’ll be pleased.” He winks at me and looks around my kitchen. He takes my hand and pulls me into his body. “I’ve been thinking about this since the last time I saw you, even though you haven’t texted me back in days.” Soft music plays and he sways slowly with me in the kitchen, making me forget about my guests until one of them clears their throat.
“Vickie, thanks for dinner, but we’re going to go. Hunter invited me for a drink at his place.” My guests hug me and practically run out of the apartment.
“You sure know how to clear a room,” I tell Colt. He looks around my place, running his hand on my counter. He even opens my fridge and looks inside. It’s as if he’s trying to learn as much about me as possible. “Do you want some dinner?” He walks behind me and puts his hands on my hips. He kisses the side of my neck, and I almost combust in my kitchen.
It’s been months since I’ve enjoyed the touch of a man, and it wasn’t that memorable the last time it happened. I lean into him and tilt my head to the side to give him better access. I tell myself that it’s not the man that’s causing the erratic beating of my heart or the dampening of my panties. It’s just a need for the human touch. I crave to be touched, and Colt has good hands. Strong, firm hands.
“Yeah, I want dinner. I’m starving.” His hands come to my shoulders and slowly travel down my arms, almost making me shudder. I pull away, breaking the spell he’s trying to cast on me. It would be too messy. He’s friends with my sister. He’s famous, and pictures are taken of him every time he leaves the house. He’s a father to a small boy, and there’s no part of me that wishes to date outside of my race. Relationships are messy enough. Why add complications when they can just as easily be avoided? But dinner with a man? I can do that.
I pull out the roasted chicken from inside the oven and put it on the table. And because I know he’s on a strict eating regimen, I get the shaved Brussels sprouts and offer them to him. I offer to heat it for him, but he declines and proceeds to eat practically an entire chicken while I indulge in another glass of wine.
“How did you know I’d be home tonight?” I ask.
“Stopped by to see Ethan, and he mentioned feeling bad about canceling. Now, I feel bad that I wasn’t invited.”
“Couples only. And me, of course.”
“Why of course? Because you don’t do the couple thing?”
