Vincent doesn’t even try to make an exit. No, he stands there, ramrod straight, the smug bastard. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
Yeah, you did.
Ebony slides off me and stumbles backward, her chest rising and falling, doing nothing to convince anyone that we weren’t just going at it in this billiard room with the door wide open and the walls paper thin.
“I was, uh…just checking on the progress with the chandelier crystals.” She nods—too many times, unnaturally—as she turns to me. “There’s a guy in Dawsonville, right, Linc?” She gives me a wide-eyed, pleading look.
“Right, yeah.” I start to stand, then settle back on the desk, dropping my hands into my lap. “I’ve got a same-day service appointment to repair the chandelier, the weekend of the second,” I say, my voice rough and gravelly to my own ears. “He’s supposedly an incredible artisan. Came highly recommended.”
This is embarrassing.
“My, that soundsexpensive…” Vincent gives a single, deliberate nod, clearly enjoying our discomfort, while reminding mebeautiful things cost money. “Maybe you can go with him, Ebony. We need that precious chandelier to be perfect for the reception, and someone should take care of that beauty while he drives,” he says, looking unmistakably at me.
Nice one, coach.
She swallows hard, her hands restless. “Uh, yeah, I’ll think about it.” And then she turns on her heel.
The moment she leaves, Vincent flashes me a downright sinister grin. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Fifteen
Mixed Up
Ebony
I’maddicted to kissing LincolnBridges.
There, I said it. Because…
Lord,help me!
We’ve been sneaking into every room of Madison Manor for the last three weeks, finding little corners to steal moments in the shadows, a mess of lips and tongues and hands, like teenagers. I can’t explain it, except to say it’s a relentless pull. Just this overwhelming force that draws me to him.
Let’s say the florist I wanted was booked, but after some calls and scouring the interwebs, I find a website with tiered cakes, lush flower arrangements, and charming sunset wedding photos—and the owner is available. Or I learn my favorite bakery shut down six months ago, but after chatting with the owner on a divorcétante post, she’s now working exclusively with me. In my mind, I deserve a little reward, right? Next thing I know, I’m slipping into the billiard room, closing the door behind me, and suddenly Linc and I are lost in each other, lip-locked, inching toward more.
So far, it’s just been kissing and a little—okay, alot—of recreational dry humping.
But the desire to take things further? It’s there, constant, like a little red devil tapping me on the shoulder, telling me how good it feels.Take whatyou want,it says.Be bad. Everybody’s doing it…
Ugh.
And that’s the cycle—bursts of productivity followed by mind-numbing kisses, leaving me wanting more. But there’s no lasting peace because I’m already thinking about the next one.
Just shameless.
Today, Linc finished up the stained-glass window repairs and needed to make an “important phone call” outside in one of the gardens—ofcourse, due to the noise levels. Couldn’t have been because he knew, thirty seconds later, we’d be dipped behind a hydrangea bush, sucking face and avoiding bee stings.
Nope.
Regardless, Linc’s still heavy on my mind as I leave work early, battling traffic and drizzle to get home and change for tonight’s mixer. It feels strange, spending the afternoon making out and climbing Mount Bridges in the billiard room, then somehow planning to walk into a room full of suitors like I’m ready to give them any sort of real shot. But there’s no time to overthink. This is my last scheduled event with Leslie, and maybe I’ll cancel the concierge service after this. Maybe.
But right now, I’ve got to send Hailey and Donovan a quick progress update and a to-do list, and shower, within the next ninety minutes.
“Serena, turn on my Melanin Magic playlist.”
A smooth neo-soul rhythm fills the air as I kick off my heels and settle at the dining table, quickly pulling out my laptop from my tote. I check a few emails from Mom about the cotillion that will not go away, and one from Savannah, rescheduling our next appointment, before drafting a new message to Hailey and Donovan. My fingers move rapid-fire over the keys, first providing the probate court hours to submit documentation and the fee for the marriage license. Then I update the seating chart—Hailey’s bougie, drama-magnet friend Reneehasto be moved away from her ex-husband and closer to Nora Whitfield.Shocker. Next, I report that all vendor selections are finalized and attach the signed agreements, relieved this email is moving faster than expected. Finally, I’m sharing vow-writing ideas and gift suggestions for the couple, plus thank-yous to the wedding party, when my phone buzzes across the glass surface of the table.
I glance at the screen. I’m jarred.
