“Ah, yes,” Asha mused, smiling. “The dark, dashing billionaire with royal blood. How’s that relationship going? Has he bought her an island yet?”
“Not yet,” Samara said with a chuckle, “but Lexi says Summer seems really happy with the guy. Not only does he wine and dine her and whisk her off for romantic getaways around the world. He also makes her laugh, gives her the emotional support she needs and apparently rocks her world in the bedroom.” Samara grinned. “She says he’s passionate and intense and overprotective to the point of being chauvinistic. And she loves that about him, thinks it’s sexy and exciting. Lexi expects to answer her phone any day now and hear Summer squealing that she just got engaged.”
“Good for her,” Asha said warmly. “I know Lexi is disappointed that things didn’t work out between her sister and Percy, but I’ve always believed that everything happens for a reason. As your beloved grandmother was fond of saying: When one door closes—”
“—another door opens.” Samara smiled poignantly. “I was just saying that to the girls last night at the party. It made me think of Grandma Dubois. I miss her.”
“So do I,ma chérie,” Asha admitted. “Your grandmother and I had our differences, but now that I’m older and wiser, I realize that she only wanted what was best for me. She made so many sacrifices for me, and you were the apple of her eye. She would have been so proud of the women we’ve become. And it would have brought her to tears to see me sitting here like this with my beautiful daughter and granddaughter.” Asha gave a soft, shaky laugh. “Goodness, I’m getting a little teary-eyed myself.”
Samara lifted her head from her mother’s knee to smile up at her. “Have I told you lately how grateful I am to have you in my life?”
Asha’s expression softened. She reached down and gently cupped Samara’s cheek in her palm. “Thank you for giving me a second chance to be the mother you’ve always deserved.”
Now it was Samara’s turn to get misty-eyed. She turned her face into her mother’s palm and kissed it, then smiled at her.
Asha smiled back tenderly.
The sentimental bonding moment was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.
Asha beamed. “That must be Stan and Prissy. We invited them over for a potluck dinner.”
Samara lifted a brow. “Potluck? But Frizell has the day off, so does that meanyoucooked?”
Asha laughed. “Heavens, no. I’m notthatdomesticated. Prissy’s bringing the food. You know how much she enjoys feeding us.” Asha rose from the chair, shifting her sleeping granddaughter to her shoulder. “Why don’t you answer the door while I take Milan upstairs and make myself presentable.”
Samara grinned, surveying her mother’s decidedly unglamorous appearance. Few people would recognize the famous fashion designer in her husband’s loose-fitting white button-down shirt worn over black leggings. But even without her stylish clothes and expensive makeup, and even with her hair pulled back into a simple twist, Asha still looked beautiful.
As she headed up the staircase with Milan, Samara went to open the door. She grinned broadly at the husband and wife nuzzling on the doorstep, each carrying two large aluminum pans covered with foil.
“Hey, Aunt Prissy and Uncle Stan,” Samara greeted them cheerfully.
They pulled apart and grinned at her. “Hey, baby girl.”
“Come on in,” she said, opening the door wider.
Prissy Wolf kissed her cheek as she bustled inside the house with her pans of food. “Where’s your mama?”
“Putting Milan down for her nap.”
Stan Wolf leaned down to kiss Samara’s forehead and wink at her. “Where are the fellas?”
“Out back playing basketball.”
Stan grinned. “Oh, it’s on.”
Prissy laughed. “Better bring that food into the kitchen first,” she admonished over her shoulder. “Oh, and Mason’s coming, Samara. He was right behind us.”
Samara looked outside. Sure enough, a black Lamborghini was roaring up the driveway.
She grinned, watching as the sleek Italian sports car skidded to a stop just inches behind Stan’s Lincoln Navigator. The door of the Lamborghini lifted vertically and then out stepped Mason Wolf, star wide receiver of the Atlanta Falcons.
Like the other Wolf men, Mason was a towering hunk of masculinity with broad shoulders, gorgeously chiseled features and dark chocolate skin. His black hair was braided into neat cornrows that were easier to maintain during football season, and he sported immaculately trimmed sideburns that tapered down into a precise goatee. He was wearing black Timbs, dark Seven Jeans and a fitted white shirt that hugged his muscle-sculpted chest and some serious abs.
He was texting on his phone, a wicked grin playing at his lips as he sauntered up to the house with that long-legged Wolf prowl.
Samara called out teasingly, “Better put that phone away before you walk into something.”
Mason glanced up at her, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Wassup, beautiful.”
