“No, no, I heard you. I’m just thinking,” he says, and I actually believe him, the way he tosses a slightly dismissive hand at me.
This goes on for another excruciating two minutes until I lose my patience. “Okay, I’m going back inside, where—”
He claps his hands—finally—looking at me with solution-shaped stars in his eyes, and I’m here for it.
But then he says, “I’m going to help you.”
It’s my turn to be confused. “With what, exactly?”
“I’ll beyourdating coach. For free,” he clarifies, since my “love life” and my “brooding era” are apparently messing up this project that he really wants to include in his portfolio.
The funny thing is, he’s absolutely serious. In a matter of seconds, he’s on his phone, pulling up the calendar app, skipping past June and calculating that Ebony and I have ninety-six more days working together—so, roughly, three more months—until the wedding. Or, as he calls it, D-Day—the D standing for divorcétante.
“So, what’s the plan, coach?” I laugh.
Vincent fishes a pen out of his interior coat pocket and positions it behind his ear, getting into character, and the curiosity is killing me. Mostly because I’ve seen the sheer number of men falling all over themselves for Vincent. He must have a secret strategy.
“Step one. You’re going tobethere for her,” he says, cryptically.
At this point, I’m hoping the B stands for something else, likeblow jobs—anything besides merely existing.
I open my mouth to protest, then immediately close it again.
“Don’t give me that confused, deer-in-headlights look. I said what I said.” Vincent clears his throat. “We all overheard her dealbreakers, her preferences. I looked him up, by the way. Leslie Brown isfine as hell. Married, though, so you don’t have to worry. But my point is, he just hand-delivered the ultimate cheat sheet. Not that I think you should use it like a checklist.”
I tip my head to either side. “Okay, I’m listening…”
“I mean, you already know the things that she wants that you’ve already got: you’re a clean, decent-smelling, gray-eyed, Spades…novice, at best—”
“Now, wait a minute.” I laugh, personally affronted. “I may not be the champ, but I’ve always got books.”
Vincent rolls his eyes, fluttering his long eyelashes. “Save it for the divorcétante. Barking up the wrong tree here, hon.”
I flex my restless fingers, still wrapping my mind around everything.
“Remember, she’s about to go on dates, but she’ll learn really fast that most of these men can’t tell their mate from their mama.” Vincent snaps twice, like I need to clock it. “All you can do isshowher that you’re the best man for her. There is no alternative.”
“Absolutely.” I nod a few times, mentally pumping myself up as we start walking back toward the terrace.
“Learn what’s important to her.”
Inwardly, I’m listing all the things that I know matter to her, like her family and her girls, her business, and now her new series. I’ve watched every video, and it’s clear how much it means to her. I know she’s rediscovering herself.
“This really helps,” I say, and I’ll admit, I’m feeling lighter somehow. “Thanks, man.”
“Nuh-uh, don’t thank me just yet. Work on being cute, consistent, and committed.” Vincent dips his chin as we reach the steps. “And hone those magic fingers of yours.”
I start to respond and nearly choke when I see the long, smooth brown legs at the top of the stairs. Her musical laugh echoes as she walks toward the hearth room, then she follows Manny and a few of the landscapers until she’s out of sight.
I all but move on autopilot into the ballroom, the wordsnothing’s changedrepeating in my head while the rest of me pulses with the desperate urge to hone my magic fingers and show her just how much I’m the best man for the job, seven days a week—not just on Missionary Mondays.
Damn.
Chapter Eleven
Exes Mark the Spot
Ebony
