by Arthurs, Nia
Forever Loving You
A Grudging Hearts 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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
(V1)
Get Another Sweet Love Story Free!
Hello there! As a special thank you for buying this e-book, I want to send you another one completely free of charge! You can get it by clicking below.
Direct Link: Click Me!
When you subscribe, I’ll also send you updates when new books like this are available. Happy Reading!
Contents
1. Cobie
2. Griffin
3. Griffin
4. Cobie
5. Griffin
6. Cobie
7. Cobie
8. Griffin
9. Cobie
10. Griffin
11. Griffin
12. Griffin
13. Cobie
14. Griffin
15. Cobie
16. Griffin
17. Cobie
18. Griffin
19. Cobie
20. Griffin
21. Cobie
22. Griffin
23. Cobie
24. Griffin
25. Griffin
26. Cobie
27. Cobie
28. Griffin
29. Cobie
30. Griffin
31. Cobie
32. Griffin
Epilogue: Cobie
A Word From The Author
Also by Nia Arthurs
Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
1 Cobie
“What do you mean I won?” I yank the phone as if it’s sprouted wings.
Glare at the screen.
Skim my eyes over the unknown number once more.
Tentatively, I hug it back to my ear and pin it there with my shoulder while I use my other hand to spray my client’s hair with water.
“Is this a joke?”
A man’s voice rumbles into my eardrums, smooth as buttery chocolate. “No, Ms. Simmons. This is not a joke. You’ve been named the winner of Winthrop’s Fresh, New Product Line.”
“Who hired you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did Chandra put you up to this?” I tug the wide-tooth comb a little too roughly through my client’s 4b hair as I imagine my best friend’s mischievous grin.
4b hisses and spins to glare at me. “Ow!”
“Sorry.” I scrunch my nose and gesture for her to turn back around.
She’s still staring evilly in the reflection of the un-framed glass mirror, her almond-shaped eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
I smile sweetly, but inside I’m glaring right back.
If you’d detangled at home, I wouldn’t have to spend so long doing this, you tender-headed little…
“Ms. Simmons?”
“I’m still here.” I huff into the phone. “Look, I didn’t sign up for any contest and why would a big franchise like Winthrop be interested in someone like me? Tell Chandra she should try a little harder next time. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“What? Chandra?”
“I’m hanging up.” I roll my eyes.
My best friend’s got nothing better to do with her life now that she’s found her Prince Charming.
Last month, Rick—Chandra’s boyfriend—invited her to move into his castle… I mean villa. He treats her like a princess. No work. No bills. No stress.
She’s living the life and she’s bored to tears.
Now me?
I’m up to my eyeballs in natural hair all day and night trying to make ends meet.
If only some rich guy would step out of the woodwork and pay my rent. He could go ahead and build my dream hair salon while he’s at it.
“Wait!” the guy yells.
I clamp my lips together.
My smartphone is pressing into my ear and I’m almost finished moisturizing my client’s curls. I’ll need both my hands to de-tangle from here.
“This isn’t a prank. My name is Griffin Bech and I’m with Winthrop Marketing. We’re interested in developing your natural hair products.”
Winthrop Marketing?
Would some punk Chandra hired to fool me be this thorough?
I shuffle one foot in front of the next. My flip-flops skate against the exposed, cement floor. Wiggling my block-white toenails, I consider the fact that Chandra might have nothing to do with this call.
“I’d need to meet with you anyway,” Griffin Bech says. “How about we finish this discussion face-to-face?”
“Yeah… I mean… sure. Should I meet you or—?”
“I’ll come to you.”
“Great.”
We hang up and I let my smartphone slide to the table. My client eyes me in the reflection of the mirror with that nosy look people get when they smell a good story.
I’m too shaken to say anything because, honestly, I’m still not sure what happened.
I never signed up for a competition.
Maybe it’s a mistake?
“Was that good news?” 4b asks.
I shrug.
Shake my head.
“Anyway, you were telling me about your husband?”
“Oh right. Last night.” Plump lips tighten. “So we’re in bed, in the middle of it, you know, and he just yells ‘Mariana’. Right there in my face.” She taps her chest. “My name is Jenifer.”
I bob my head at the right moments, half-listening as I de-tangle her hair and slather the locks in my special conditioner.
“I stopped right there and addressed it, but he didn’t apologize. In fact, he got angry with me.”
“You’re kidding.”
“He told me every man fantasizes about another woman in bed.”
“What a jerk,” I murmur.
Her voice cracks. “I told him I’d fantasize about Channing Tatum and he said go ahead. He seemed totally unbothered. Do you think he’s cheating?”
I shrug.
The answer to that is ‘probably’. More than likely. Yes.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the gossip that passes through every hair salon I’ve worked at—whether it’s a fancy one with proper equipment or one like mine—in the corner of a tiny apartment—it’s that all men are vermin.
Every woman has the same story—she’s been cheated on, used, abused, manipulated or hurt in some way or the other.
Which is why I have no interest in dating.
Zero.
I never want to become one of the clients in the chair, gushing about how my man’s done me wrong.
Chandra’s route is the only ‘love’ I’d consider. My best friend settled for a rich man she’s mildly interested in instead of running after a complicated ‘passionate’ romance that would hurt her in the end.
If I ever get with someone, it’ll be for a shallow reason like money. At least then I can leave the relationship with some kind of benefit r
ather than be crushed and moping after he dumps me.
Sympathetic to Jenifer’s plight, I put extra effort into washing out her hair and applying my leave-in conditioner.
Her curls pop when I run the Denman brush through them.
They’re healthy.
Bouncy.
Shiny.
It is so satisfying to watch.
Grabbing the bottle of virgin coconut oil, I slather the fragrant liquid in my hands and slide my fingers through her wash-and-go.
“All done,” I declare with a smile.
Jenifer rises and glances at herself in the mirror. “I don’t know what voodoo you have in that bottle, but I’d pay good money to get my hands on it.”
“It’s a family secret.” I wink.
She takes her wallet out of her purse. “Thank you so much, Cobie. Me and my curls always feel refreshed after a visit with you.” She hands me the money. “See you in six weeks.”
“Bye.” I escort her to the door and then sink into the ratty sofa that I’ve pushed aside to make room for my clients.
I’m expecting three more ladies to arrive today.
Plus Griffin Bech.
Restless, I pull out my phone and text Chandra.
ME: Did you sign me up for a Winthrop competition?
I set my phone down while I wait for her reply and clean up my ‘salon’. Thick globs of conditioner have plopped on the floor, so I mop that up and reorganize the desk filled with mouth clips and a variety of combs.
My phone vibrates.
I pick it up and read my best friend’s reply.
CHANDRA: You’re welcome.
Gritting my teeth, I start to call her back when a knock sounds at the door. I glance at the afro-themed clock on the wall. It’s a little too early for my next client.
I pad to the door.
Fling it open.
Gasp in shock as I fall into a pair of chocolate-brown eyes.
“Mr… Bech?”
He nods.
I’m stunned silent.
The man standing across from me is way too fine to be working a desk job at Winthrop Corp.
I narrowly stop myself from blurting, “GQ auditions are that way”. Thankfully, I keep my mouth shut and allow just a tiny bit of drool to dribble from the corners.
Tall? Yes.
Dark? Yes.
Hot Enough To Melt An Ice cream Cone With A Look? Yes, yes, and yes.
He stares at me with a confident gaze, one that drills right through my eyes with the purpose of scanning my soul.
Unlike most of the men who slug through this neighborhood, he’s dressed formally in a white shirt that hugs his muscular chest and shoulders. Black pants stylishly frame the long legs planted on the floor.
I slurp up my drool and gesture for him to enter.
He does.
Long-legged strides carry him inside.
Soulful brown eyes slide over my apartment.
There’s not much to look at—kitchen filled with outdated appliances, flat-screen on the wall earned from knocking someone out at a Black Friday sale, and my shelf of products.
“I’m sorry about earlier. On the phone.” My voice draws his attention. His gaze slams into mine and knocks the breath out of my chest so my next words falter a little. “I was… uh… my best friend signed me up. I think. I’m not exactly sure what happened. Can you explain what this is all about?”
“Two weeks ago, we received your application and sample products. Our team analyzed your proposal and the decision was unanimous.” His voice is deeper in person than it was on the phone. There’s a crispness to it that tells me he’s being especially professional right now. “We’d like to work with you, Ms. Simmons.”
“Right, but… work with me on what?”
An eyebrow arches. “Producing your hair products. We’d like to buy the rights to your Hot Curls Line.”
“There must be some mistake.” I steel myself against his insanely good looks and bark out, “I’m not selling.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry you came all this way.” Looking so hot and fly. “But I have no interest in working with your company.” I point to the door and smile sweetly. “Have a nice day.”
2 Griffin
Cobie shoves me out of her apartment and slams the door in my face, all before my mind processes her rejection.
One minute, I’m staring at the exposed brick walls in her living room and the next, I’m out in the hallway where one of her neighbors is blaring a rap song that expounds the titillating details of a drunken hookup.
“What just happened?” I glance behind me as if the ghosts that haunt this rundown apartment can answer.
No one but the rapper bothers to respond.
“She don’t know I got tested.
Positive.
I’ma still do it and reel it in.”
I rub my forehead.
Turn briskly away.
Spin back to her green door with the peephole and the rusted metal. Fisting my hands, I knock again.
The rapper congratulates me.
“Yes, yes. I’m in.
I’m doing it.
She’s gonna say I’m the winner after I spit in it.”
I have no plans of spitting in Cobie, but it’s the thought that counts.
The door swings open.
Cobie folds her arms over her chest when she sees me standing there. For a moment, I’m transported back in time to twelve years ago when I was an acne-prone, overweight kid standing before the most popular girl at school.
Invisible.
That’s how I felt then.
Now, I’ve got her attention.
She’s looking at me, even though she can’t recognize my face.
And I’m grateful for that.
I look drastically different than I did when we were in high school.
Cobie… looks the same.
Same wild, untamable mane of curls.
Same smooth, cinnamon-colored skin.
Same warm brown eyes with an underlying hue of amber that glowed or simpered depending on her mood.
My gaze catches on her mouth and lingers.
Same plump, luscious lips. Brown Cupid’s bow at the top. Seductive pink at the bottom.
I used to dream about tasting those lips and there they were, so close…
“Ehem.” Cobie thrusts both eyebrows high. “What do you want?”
Digging my fingers into my laptop bag, I shroud myself in professionalism and play off the fact that I just checked her out. “To talk.”
“We did that already. I politely kicked you out. Remember?” She tilts her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm and her lips curving down in a sign that I’ve tried her patience.
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. We’re prepared to pay a lot for your product.”
“I thought I made it clear. I’m not selling.”
I glance over her shoulder, studying the ‘salon’ in the corner of the apartment. From our brief conversation, I gather she wasn’t aware of the competition. It’s understandable that the news hasn’t sunken in yet.
I need her to work with us.
This is more than worry about failing the first project I’ve headed at the company. Cobie looks like she can use the money.
Why is she being so stubborn?
“If you’re concerned about losing the rights to your product, don’t be. We’re willing to work with you as well as give you the credit for the original recipe. I can’t guarantee that we can leave your name on the bottle, but I’ll see what I can do about the fine print—”
“That recipe is my family’s legacy. You think it has a price?” She tosses her head, a proud look in her eyes.
I step forward.
She remains in place, her gaze blazing into mine without flinching or backing down.
I’m annoyed, yet I can’t help but admire her spunk. Since I’ve had this new body, all the women I’ve met either squirm or simper when I move near.
/> There’s never been one who stared me right in the eyes like they want to fight.
“This is not an attempt to steal your family’s legacy.”
“My mother developed these hair products to help people in our community. I don’t know of any corporation who gives a flying butt crack about helping anything outside their own bank account.”
My lips twitch. “A flying what?”
“Cobie!” A voice cuts through the tension. Draws both our gazes away.
An older woman with luminescent brown skin, a flared nose and wide, red-stained lips sashays near. Her long, floral skirt flips and dances with each step. She drags a teenager behind her.
Cobie releases a frustrated breath. “That’s my next appointment.”
“Hello!” The woman smiles.
The air fills with the scent of spicy perfume.
She stops and stares at my face.
Her mouth trembles.
Jaw drops.
“Damn, boy. What soap opera did you escape from?”
She doesn’t wait long enough for me to figure out if that’s a compliment or an insult.
Without missing a beat, the stranger wags a wrinkled finger in Cobie’s face. “Good for you. I’m sure you’ve been dry as the Sahara down there. You know what they say about the scrawny ones?” She winks and points to my pants. “It’s a lie. The muscled guys are the good time.”
Cobie cringes. “Ms. Shirley. Hi.” She checks her watch. With the downward tilt of her head, brown curls feather her cheeks. “I didn’t expect you until later.”