On the screen, she softly shakes her head, a warm smile coloring her cheeks, and all over again, I’m mesmerized.
“That was just food for thought.” She shakes her thoughts loose. “But no worries, I’ve got another date soon, and a mixer—”
Dom locks his phone, ending the video, like he senses my mind warring. Like he knows I’m replaying Vincent’s words in my head, trying to decide my next move.
When the opportunity presents itself, be therefor her.
Except I don’t want to wait anymore. Ican’twait any longer.
“I’m good,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, it’s not a lie.
I’ve felt stuck, trapped in this endless loop with no way out. But watching her in her element—surrounded by friends and followers, excitedly getting ready for a date, and even after a setback, knowing she’s still looking ahead—something’s clicked. It’s having an eye-opening effect on me. The blindfold is off, and now I need to decide what I’m willing to change to move on, too.
And I am. It’s time for me to stop reliving an ancient fling and get a damn life.
“You’re sure?” Dom asks. “Because—”
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get back to Siah. He’s probably looking for us.”
We move through the foot traffic path back to the lat pull-down machines, spotting all six-foot-hulk of him in the middle of a set. Dom quickly claims the machine to his right, and I hang back, then work into the rotation. When Josiah stands to switch out with me, I nudge his shoulder with mine and quietly say, “Send me Alexis’s phone number.”
On the way home, I’m on top of the world. Even with the thick Ellswood humidity, the windows are down, and nineties hip-hop is blasting into the warm summer air. It’s Saturday night, and I’m not ready to call it a day, so I swing by Madison Manor to check on the landscaping progress and secure the building. But when I pull around the back, I notice the late crew have left some of the lights on, so I figure, two birds, one stone.
A Tribe Called Quest’s “Scenario” is buzzing in my head as I park, and I walk around back.
“Whoa!” I slow my pace, unsure where to look. They’ve done a stellar job.
A couple of days ago, there was patchwork sod and flags marking the areas for plants and trees. Now, the courtyard leading up to the terrace is a lush, fragrant, green sanctuary with towering, spotlit magnolia trees casting warm, dappled shadows over the sprawling lawn. Bougainvillea and wisteria vines are draped elegantly over wrought-iron trellises, showcasing their violet and pink blooms. Path lights lead up to the pristine gardens, overflowing with a variety of gardenias, azaleas, and hydrangeas, adding more vibrant bursts of color. And even on the terrace, tall boxwoods and sculpted topiaries lend a sense of refined luxury to polish off this worldly escape.
“Phew, they’ve outdone themselves,” I muse, climbing the steps to the ballroom entrance. After fishing out my keys, I unlock the door and enter.
Tools are all over the place, and I briefly consider tidying up for safety reasons. Instead, though, I leave them so on Monday the guys can pick up where they left off.
It’s a decision I immediately regret after I shut down the ballroom lights and stumble over an extension cord, sending me tumbling to the ground in cloud of curses.
And that’s when I hear the footsteps.
Rather, fast-clicking heels on the move.
“Ebony?” I call out, concerned.
Except since I’m grumbling from the pain, it comes out a husky, gritty, barely decipherable growl with more bass.
The comedy of it all is that from my vantage point on the ballroom floor, I get to witness Ebony in the hallway—with zero grace, purse and jingling keys in clenched hands—hauling it toward the front door before she meets a similar, floor-eating fate as I have.
Fortunately—or, unfortunately, I’m not sure—I’m able to peel myself off the ground and lunge out of the shadows in time to experience the visible terror on her beautiful face as she crawls and unleashes an ear-piercing scream into the air. It’s still pinballing around the alcoves of the foyer as she slowly faces me, then deflates with relief.
“What the hell? Linc, you scared the crap out of me.” Terror and levity twist the soft lines of her face. “And what are you doing here on a Saturday night, anyway?”
“Oh my goodness…” I’m bent over in stitches, mentally replaying that military crawl. “It would besoover for you if this was a horror movie.”
Her eyes narrow with indignation, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I thought for sure I’d be a final girl. I can’t believe I’m a faller.”
We both erupt into laughter this time.
Ebony sits up, shaking her head, I’m guessing at her abysmal survival skills.
“Yeah, sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you, Ebony Grace Livingston, would not make the final-girl cut,” I say, still chuckling as I take her hands, prepared to pull her to her feet when I notice that not only is one of the heels on her black pumps broken, but her leg is bleeding. “You’re hurt.” The words come out barely above a whisper.
