Sweet, Sweet Pursuit: An AMBW Romance (Sweet Treats Book 3)
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Sweet, Sweet Pursuit
A Sweet Treats Novel
Nia Arthurs
First published in Belize, C.A. 2019
Copyright © Nia Arthurs
Cover Design: Oliviaprodesign
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
A Word From The Author
Also by Nia Arthurs
Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
1
“Call me one more time, Dylan. I’ll sneak into your apartment, cut off your wood and stuff it so far down your throat you’ll cough up your own kids.” Carrie’s hands shook and the phone trembled just as violently. “Do I make myself clear?”
She didn’t wait around to hear her boyfriend—ex boyfriend’s—reply. Carrie smashed her finger over the END button and tossed the phone into the empty passenger seat. With a moan, she draped her arms over the steering wheel, planting her forehead on the flaking leather.
This was it.
She was so freaking done with relationships. You’d have to tie her with rope and drag her kicking and screaming to another date.
That’s what she got for left swiping with some chump on the Internet who just wanted to get laid by as many women as possible.
“Stupid, freaking, can’t-keep-his-fly-up Dylan…” she mumbled.
It was her fault for being desperate. For missing the signs. For waiting to get slapped in the face with cold, hard reality before she got the sense.
But accepting sole responsibility for this mess irked her considering Dylan had enjoyed his nightly rubdown with other women and probably didn’t give a damn about ‘responsibility’.
The man-whore.
Carrie was lucky she hadn’t gotten AIDS or something.
She’d expected too much of him.
Or had she?
Guys cheated. She got that. Even then, Dylan should have had the decency to shoot straight with her instead of stringing her along. Anything would have been better than the way he’d chosen to play things.
At least she hadn’t gone and fallen in love with him.
She’d ridden that doomed train before and it had gone off the rails so many times that she’d finally learned not to buy a ticket ever again.
Blasting soca music shattered the night air and rattled her windows. Her head wobbled up just enough to stare at the boxy building lighting up the dark street.
She’d driven to Red Dragon, a club all the way in Ladyville, with the intentions of getting wasted and pretending, for one night, that she wasn’t a pathetic shlop.
But her body refused to move. She was stuck to the chair, to the pain, to the regrets.
Should she just give up on men altogether? Most of the guys she’d come across lacked honor, honesty and basic human decency. The harder she looked, the more disappointed she became.
Or should she hold out hope? Maybe call up Sky and Joana? Ask them how they landed an open-the-car-door, worship-the-ground-you-walk-on boyfriend?
Or maybe she should cuss them out for being luckier than her. For feeding the fantasy that she could find what they’d found too.
Joon Gi and Sun Gi had given her a reason to keep searching.
But two good eggs out of a bajillion rotten ones made them the exception.
A lump formed in the back of her throat, the kind that warned she was about to ugly cry. Carrie snarled at her elegant reflection in the car’s rearview mirror, daring herself to let the tears free. Dylan wasn’t worth crying over.
Pulling herself together, she dotted at the corner of her almond-shaped eyes with a manicured finger. Easing closer to the rearview mirror, Carrie mumbled, “I hope I didn’t mess up my makeup.”
It had taken forever to find a foundation that matched her dark complexion. Took her even longer to figure out how to use makeup. Thanks to her parents, she hadn’t been allowed to ‘modify’ her features until she’d left for college.
Now, she blinked her fake eyelashes and raked her nails through her thick black hair—courtesy of Mr. Pakistani on Albert Street who’d guaranteed her this was premium Brazilian.
She looked stunning.
Way too hot to be moaning over a guy who couldn’t appreciate her for the amazing woman that she was.
Tonight was about having fun.
No more whining over Dylan and his hump-everything-in-a-skirt ways. She’d found a bar outside the city so she could do what she wanted without running into anyone who knew her or her parents.
“Boom.” Carrie pumped her fists. “Let’s do this.”
She tore her arms off the steering wheel and forced her body through the car door. After pressing the alarm fob and waiting for the chirp, she strode forward.
It was another balmy, tropical night. The dew fell heavy on the coconut trees that stood sober and stalwart like grim soldiers. Stars twinkled in a sky that blanketed everything above, unobstructed by high-rises and banners.
Just across the highway lay virgin forests, untouched by resorts and corporations that turned the rest of the world into environmental hazards. Belize was a jewel of both culture and nature and she thanked God everyday she’d been born here.
The wind whooshed beneath her dress, shooting her short, black shirt to her waist. Carrie shoveled it down and tried to pin the silky material between her scrawny knees as she waddled inside.
The moment the door closed behind her, she felt a flash of warmth. It took a moment to adjust to the heat.
At least she was prepared with the sleeveless wraparound dress she’d chosen tonight. She probably would have died if she’d chosen the long-sleeved lace she’d been eyeing before she rushed through the door.
See? Sometimes you make good decisions.
She snorted and skimmed the room. The interior was classier than she’d expected. A long wooden bar stood to the left. Vinyl booths on a raised platform up ahead. A dance floor to the right.
The club was surprisingly crowded for a Tuesday night. Looked like she wasn’t the only one trying to escape her crappy life.
Misery really did love company because she was feel
ing better already.
Carrie dove into a free spot around the bar, ordered a beer and tipped it toward the black bodies writhing on the dance floor. May your one-night stands be pregnancy and STD-free.
Amen.
She tipped her drink back and tapped her fingers on the counter. The DJ spun the record and started playing ‘One Drop Honey’, one of the hottest soca tracks of the summer.
The dancers went wild.
Carrie listened to the lyrics with a growing scowl.
“Wine yuh waist.
Grind pan me.
Nobody need fu know you wid me.
Not mi wife or pickni…”
Nobody had to know, huh? Maybe the artist should get his behind cheated on and see if he felt like singing about it then.
The resounding roar of approval from all over the club told her that no one else was feeling as annoyed as she. Did nobody have a problem with the message behind the song? Was she just being sensitive?
Carrie drained her bottle and gestured to the bartender.
He slid another one over. Her second. How far would she go tonight? Work started at three in the afternoon. She had all day tomorrow to nurse a hangover.
Carrie popped the cap and tipped it to her lips just as someone crashed into the neighboring seat. A knee jostled hers. The beer sloshed over the rim of the bottle and splashed on her chest, right above her breasts.
A hand reached out and wiped the mess. Brown knuckles caressed her bust like it had any business being there. She swatted the offending hand away.
“What the hell are you doing?” Carrie glanced up, expecting to find a sleaze staring back at her, and big surprise, her eyes connected with a dirt bag in a suit.
She could smell the weed on him. His black hair was shaved low with enough markings to rival the arrow on Aang from The Last Airbender. His skin was a rich brown and a well-groomed moustache surrounded his thick lips.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” he said, his words slurred and slow. “I just couldn’t resist walking over and keeping you company. Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be alone in a place like this.”
“I like being alone so you can move along.”
“Then at least let me buy you a drink to apologize.” He swayed forward as if he didn’t speak English and hadn’t understood a word of her rejection. “What’s your name, honey?”
She scoffed. “What’s yours?”
The name’s Bo.”
“Short for Bozo?”
His eyebrows crinkled. “What?”
“Forget it.” Carrie rolled her eyes. “You’re too stupid to understand.”
Bozo winked at her. “That mouth of yours will get you in trouble someday, honey. But I don’t mind. You can call me anything you want tonight.”
She looked at him with thinly veiled disgust. Beyond the fact that he’d felt up her breasts, his clingy presence was suffocating.
Carrie debated putting him in his place but decided not to make a scene. It wasn’t worth it.
Disappointment slammed her in the gut.
Just like that, her drown-all-my-sorrows-in-liquor plan went bust. She’d been so excited to enjoy some solitude. Thanks to Bozo over here, she’d have to call it a night.
Carrie swung her legs over the bar stool and planted them on the ground. Bozo clamped his fingers around her arm and yanked her back. She yelped as his grip shot waves of pain over her body. Her heels skittered over the floor and she crashed into Bozo’s chest.
The scent of alcohol and weed on his shirt was almost overpowering. She gagged in her mouth, stiffening with fury as his hot breath hit her ear.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he whispered.
“Let me go!” Carrie tried to whip around and free herself, but Bozo draped his mammoth arms over her shoulders, chaining her to him.
Panic spiked her pulse.
Is this actually happening?
“I’d let her go if I were you,” someone growled.
Carrie looked up and found a tall, Asian man staring at them. He had short, black hair scooped away from his forehead, tan skin and eyes that were collapsed into two burning slits. He looked like Jin Goo from Descendants of the Sun.
A very pissed off Jin Goo.
She wanted to slink away in fear. And she was pretty sure the guy had stepped in to rescue her.
“Who are you?” Bozo spit.
Jin Goo’s lookalike stared pointedly at where Bozo held her. Though she hadn’t thought it possible, his eyes narrowed even more.
Bozo trembled in fear.
When his grip on her slackened, she shoved him away and took three giant steps to the right. Her heart thumped like crazy and if she weren’t so taken aback by someone actually coming to her rescue, she would have slapped Bozo for his impudence.
Bozo rose to his feet, staring Jin Goo down. “I asked you a question.”
Jin Goo ignored him and looked at her instead. “Babe, you okay?”
Her eyes bugged. Babe?
The endearment seemed to throw Bozo off-guard too. He stopped mid-stride and swung his head around to take her in. “Boyfriend?”
She blinked and slowly nodded.
Bozo started to laugh, so loud and abrasive, it drew the attention of all nearby.
Carrie’s lips curled up in a sneer. She stalked over to her knight-in-black-and-white-sneakers and threw her arms around his waist. Jin Goo didn’t miss a beat and drew her closer to his side.
“Babe,” Carrie crooned, “would you beat him up for me?”
“For you?” He took her chin and tipped it up. She got a good look at those eyes—now widened to their full range—and lost her breath. He smiled, a roguish sort of grin that told her he was enjoying this little game. “Anything.”
“You two?” Bozo snorted. “There’s no way you’re together.”
Carrie scoffed. First of all, that was racist.
Second, she was done with Bozo and his dumb conversation. Their onlookers were growing by the minute. This was becoming a spectacle and the longer Bozo got his moment to shine, the more his ego grew.
Carrie glanced up at her rescuer’s handsome face.
He blinked lazily at her as if unperturbed by the audience. “Should I really teach him a lesson?”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Carrie dug her fingers into his collar and tugged. “Let’s make out.”
2
Benson stared at the little thing in the tiny black dress, almost certain he’d heard wrong.
Let’s make out.
Did she seriously just say that?
He glanced over and noticed her dark fists twined into his shirt. She had one trim eyebrow hiked, awaiting his response. There was no mistaking it. This woman was serious.
At least she was waiting for his consent.
He eyed her, gaze drawn to her lips. Full. Light pink on the top. Brown on the bottom. Glossy.
It was an extremely sexy mouth.
Who was he kidding? Everything about her was sexy. The minute she’d strutted into the club tonight every guy in the room had taken note. Even now, they were staring enviously, wishing they could exchange places, wishing they could have her.
Not that Benson ‘had’ her. All he’d intended was to stop her from getting harassed. He didn’t tolerate the mistreatment of women. Not in his bar. And definitely not in front of him.
But things hadn’t gone exactly to plan. And now he had a dark chocolate minx clinging to his shirtfront and rising on the tips of her heels trying to bridge the gap between them.
“Psst, what’s the holdup?” And then she froze, her lips an inch away from his, her breath softly skirting over his mouth. Horror tightened her expression. “Wait, do you have a girlfriend? Oh my gosh!” Dark fingers slipped away. “I’m so sor—”
Benson smothered her mouth with his. The collision set off an explosion in his head. His heart bucked with excitement.
She tasted of something both sweet and spicy. Ginger—that’s what it was. He clas
ped the back of her neck and tilted his head to deepen the kiss. She accepted him enthusiastically, pulling him closer and flitting her tongue inside his mouth.
Sirens shattered in his mind. He wrapped his large arm around her waist and plastered himself against her to prolong a kiss that should have ended three seconds ago.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard gasps and murmurs. The fact that people were watching them had gotten increasingly less important with every stroke of her lips.
But the point had been made.
Let her go, Benson.
He pried back the fingers that had been digging into her waist. One by one, they came away like peeling paint, stubborn and unwilling.
They separated.
Her parted lips demanded his attention but he forced his gaze to her eyes. They sparkled, as if his kiss had made her come alive.
Benson was taken aback by the mischief in the expression. She was a wild one. Fire probably followed her everywhere she went.
Despite his rising interest, those flames made him wary. He’d been burned one time to many.
Stuffing his desire down, he pointed to the door. “Let’s go, babe.”
“Bye, Bozo!” She wiggled her fingers at the drunk and sashayed with him to the exits. Benson released her as soon as the door crashed behind them.
Moving to Buddy, the enormous bouncer that kept people in line, he whispered, “There’s a man in there that needs to be escorted out.”
Buddy nodded swiftly and disappeared inside.