Page 3 of Love & Vendettas
“We hustle hard with you all the time, Bossman,” Noble admits.
I nod my agreement because I know they do. While I may have hundreds of workers, contractors, and subcontractors in the streets and my other businesses, this is my crew right here. They are my family, and I trust them with my life.
“Wonder why she changed her mind?” Aris asks.
I know why. That’s a fact that I’m not ready to share with my team yet. Just like I’m not quite ready to trust them with what my interest in Ms. Hamilton is. I never make a business decision based on personal reasons.
Until tonight.
Shit just got real, and the game has changed.
2 – BAYLEIGH – MY KING
I climb the stairs of my twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion to the third-floor private suite that I share with my baby. It’s been a long day of consultations, along with returning to the home of an “unsatisfied client” who wanted to review some of the design decisions I made for her daughter’s bedroom.
She had been on board with the design when I sketched it and reviewed it with her on numerous occasions. She’d even had a hand in picking out some of the materials. When the design was complete, she was so in love with the damn bedroom until her daughter returned home and decided that she didn’t like it.
Apparently, the girly girl teen that she sent off to college had done a lot of changing out of her Mama’s eyesight while she was gone. Somehow, Mama missed the memo that went out that her twenty-two-year-old daughter was not into pastels, cashmere, silks, and lace anymore.
Her new flair was for leather, reds, and blacks, and all things metal. She wasn’t quite sure what to call the phase that her daughter was in. After consulting with the daughter, it sounded to me like she just wanted her boudoir turned into a BDSM dungeon for her boyfriend, who was also moving in. The boyfriend that she hadn’t told her parents was returning with her.
Before I created another design, I suggested to both independently and together that they needed to have a conversation. I told them both to call me after they did, and we could revisit the discussion at that time.
After that, I had to pick our youngest son, Zaccai, up from basketball practice because his best friend, whose parents' turn it was to run the carpool, had been sick that day. Zaccai hadn’tknown that the kid hadn’t been at school because they weren’t in the same classes.
I had just pulled up at the house when he called me, begging me to pick him up from basketball practice. When I suggested that he call his older brother, Zayn, he told me that Zayn was at his girlfriend’s house and wasn’t answering the phone.
I’d tried Zayn as well and got the same results. Then I called his girlfriend, Shana, who answered the phone. Zayn had fallen asleep, but she woke him up. As groggy as he sounded, I wanted to make him pick up Zaccai, but I didn’t want him driving my baby around when he wasn’t fully alert. Hell, I didn’t want him driving around without being fully alert.
So, I’d gone back to pick up Zaccai, stopped to get us something to eat, and decided to eat at the restaurant since it was just the two of us. I’d listened attentively to hear everything about my baby boy’s day before we finally returned home.
That led to an hour of helping him with his homework before I could take some me-time. I have approximately half an hour before my man, Zaire, walks through those doors.
I strip my clothes as I close the double doors that are two feet away from the stairwell and begin walking through our living suite to our sitting room, bedroom, walk-in closets, and finally to our en suite.
I adjust the nozzles on all six showerheads and wait for the bathroom to steam up. I take in my weary appearance in the mirror.
“Bayleigh, girl, you need a facial and a massage. You’re starting to look every one of your forty-five years,” I tell myself, taking in my high cheekbones and thick eyebrows.
“Damn, you need to pluck those eyebrows too. Starting to look like two caterpillars latched together on your face.” I run my fingers over my thick eyebrows.
Turning away from the mirror, I step into the slate-blue tiled shower and begin my ritual. I wash my hair, figuring that I’ll wear it out in its naturally curly state tomorrow. Looking at my legs, I make a mental note to schedule my bi-monthly wax appointment tomorrow for all the critical areas.
I wash my body thoroughly twice before I press my hands against the tiled wall. It’s time for Zaire and me to take a vacation. We’ve both been working way too damn hard lately.
When I step out of the shower, I wrap my hair in a hair towel before drying my body off, applying my moisturizers to my body and face, and then stepping through his closet and into my closet.
I find a long, white, silky nightgown that outlines all my curves and slip into it. I’m not going to wear any panties tonight. I’m tired, and I’m sure Zaire will be too. His morning started at four-thirty, and it’s well after nine now.
I move from the closet into my bedroom and stop.
Zaire is stretched out in the middle of our Alaskan King bed. I climb onto the bed with him, and he stirs enough to wrap me in his arms.
“How’s my king feeling tonight?”
“Much better now that I see you.”
“Thought you were asleep.”
