by Imani King
I take a deep breath.
Then I’ll do it myself.
I was surprised at my determination and decisiveness. I was even more surprised to realize that there was no bitterness in my resolve. Where had all of this strength come from?
I glance back at my mother. She traces the side of my face, smiling. “You’ll be a great mother. I remember you taking care of Reggie when you were only three years old. I remember you came running to me when Reggie had eaten sand. You were so concerned that you tried to telephone the doctor yourself when we refused to take him to the doctor.”
I giggle despite myself. “I did not.”
“You did too, and I couldn’t have been more proud. I immediately thought, this girl has a great capacity for love, and even more than that, she takes care of her own. I know that you don’t know yourself right now, Tachell, but you can trust your heart because it is good.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, throat tight.
My mother gets up from her seat. “Now, you run off to bed. Tomorrow is your first day back, and it’s gonna be a good day. I’m going to finish up here and then get some rest myself. Goodnight, baby.”
I gulp as a warm, wonderful ache fills my chest. “Goodnight.”
Chapter 8
I stab at my scrambled eggs and glare at the paper.
PRESTON EASTERBROOK’S RELUCTANT, PREGNANT BRIDE
Lord, what drivel. I roll my eyes like I haven’t read the stupid thing at least three times.
Okay. Maybe it was more like ten but who was counting? Not me!
“Give it a rest, Tachell,” my mother calls from the kitchen.
I cross my arms over my chest and turn to Sondra. “How does she know?”
“She’s your mother. It’s her job to know.”
“I guess but…it’s uncanny.”
“Hey, you do not mess with the bond between mother and child. It’s sacred, and like many sacred things, it’s some seriously powerful shit.”
I adjust my grip on my fork and glance at the article. Stupid magazine…
Immediately, I hear a voice from the kitchen. “Tachell, eat those eggs before they get cold!”
I drop my fork. “Alright. She’s psychic.”
“I’m not psychic, I’m your mother.”
I jolt up in my seat to find my mother standing right beside me. Damn, could she teleport too?
“Now, I’m doing this for your own good girl,” my mother says as she grabs the paper and rolls it up.
“Hey, I was reading that!”
She shakes her head, chuckling. “You’ve read it many times already, honey. You’re not gonna find new words in there.”
“That’s a good point,” Sondra says with a mouth full of egg.
“That doesn’t matter! It’s about me!” I explain, reaching for the paper.
My mom holds it just out of my reach. “That’s where you’re wrong. This article’s not about you. It’s about selling newspapers. They’ll say anything.”
I pout. “So I didn’t charge headfirst like a bull into a wall of paparazzi to get away from the fantastically handsome billionaire who’d just proposed to me?”
“I wasn’t there, so I can’t say what you did or didn’t do,” my mother continues slowly, “but I know that whatever you did, you were true to yourself.”
“Wow, way to evade the question mom!” Sondra declares with approval.
My mother scowls in her direction. “Stop talking with your mouth full, and you,” she says, turning to me, “finish your eggs before they get cold.”
I sigh. “Yes, mama.”
I know it’s just scrambled eggs, but these are really good. And they’ll give me lots of energy for today. Apparently. I’ll probably need it. I had a bad feeling that that wouldn’t be my first run-in with the paparazzi.
I shake my head in disgust. “What kind of person writes stuff like that?”
“Vultures,” Sondra replies—after she swallows her food. No one gets away with disobeying my mama. “And unfortunately, you’re the newest strip of rancid meat.”
“Nice metaphor.”
“Hey, it’s accurate. And at least those headlines are better than the ones in The Rooster.”
“The Rooster?”
“So named because they ‘Give People a Wake-Up Call!” Sondra explains. “It’s a conspiracy theory tabloid.”
“Do I even want to know?”
Her lip twitches as she leans over. “Tachell, your future husband is an alien and your baby is half lizard.”
My fork clatters to my plate. “What?”
“Yep. And it teleports out of your womb at night and messes with the stock market.”
“Well, I think the baby gets its teleportation powers from grandma, not the aliens.”
Sondra laughs. “Yeah, well, the source of the powers doesn’t matter. What matters is your baby will become the new dark lord in charge of the lizard cabal. Oh, you don’t know about the lizard cabal? They run everything. However, no one knows, because they have mind control powers. But if you wear special sunglasses, you’ll be able to see the truth. Or maybe that was the plot of a movie?” She drums her fingers on the table. “Damn, what movie was that?”
I start laughing. Sure, Sondra could be intensely weird at times, but I’d found myself in an intensely weird situation and I needed to somehow take the edge off. “Sorry, I have no idea what movie it was. You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Oh, right. Amnesia.” She snaps her fingers. “It was definitely a B movie. I’m thinking late eighties, early nineties. We watched it together, and you totally liked it. There’s an infamous line in there about bubblegum. When I remember the damn name, I’m getting it and we’re watching it together.”
I can’t help but laugh again. “So the baby I’m having now was prophesied in B movie over two decades ago? That is impressive.”
“Yep. That’s just the kind of shit that goes down when you marry into the Illuminati.” She leans forward and whispers, “beware of triangles today on your date.”
I feel my cheeks warm up. Not because she mentioned triangles (who the hell cares about triangles?) but because she’s making whatever this is with Preston seem really serious.
I don’t think the thing with Preston is serious.
However, I also don’t think it isn’t serious.
I…am seriously confused by the entire thing. Yesterday, a man came to our door and handed me a note saying that Preston wanted to meet and instructed me to call his secretary to set up a time.
I’d called and the secretary had seemed a little too happy to hear from me.
When is a good time? I asked.
Whatever is a good time for you, she responded.
You can just fit me in at any time.
You can choose to meet him at any time.
Even right now?
Yes, she answered without hesitation.
I’d gripped the phone as I tried to process this information. If all of this was true, why wasn’t Preston currently talking to me? Why was I making plans with his secretary? I almost asked her, but this entire thing was already way too surreal.
Tomorrow at noon, I’d said.
Great! He will pick you up at your place at noon. Preston is looking forward to seeing you.
And then she’d hung up.
I shook my head. “It’s not a date. He’s just taking me out for lunch.”
She raises her eyebrows skeptically and looks down at my stomach. “Uh huh. And I’m sure he was just taking you out for coffee, before.”
I squirm in my seat. “Maybe we did get coffee. I don’t remember.”
“Honey, that doesn’t matter. The point is he got you more than just coffee.”
“You may be right—”
“May be? You’re pregnant!”
“Alright, alright. You’re right, but today it’s just lunch.”
She sighs. “Well, that may be true. Preston’s probably trying to take things slow so he doesn’t fu
ck it all up again.”
Now we were talking. “How did he fuck it all up the first time?” I ask.
“By being a dumbass,” she eloquently states.
“Can you maybe be a bit more specific?”
“Oh, I most definitely can. But if I do, you might not give him a chance.”
“A chance to do what?”
“To make it up to you.”
I frown.
“You like Preston right now, don’t you?” she continues.
I shut my eyes. Yes. I more than liked him. Man, I never thought holding someone’s hand would mean so much, but I guess it was all about context. When a hand reaches out to you in a world of darkness, it becomes your entire world. My body was still reacting to that powerful sensation.
And maybe, just maybe, it was also reacting to something else. Something more. Something I couldn’t yet remember.
“So…you want me to give Preston a chance?” I ask slowly. “In the hospital, when Reggie suggested I marry him, you called him an asshole.”
“Well, he is. But he’s also a little bit more.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Look, Reggie was talking about forcing you to marry a guy you hated out of honor or some shit! Of course I had my girl’s back. But now that you’re ready to make a decision for yourself, I want you to make the one that’s best for you. Not the one that you think is best for you.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She sighs. “Sometimes, your perception of someone can be skewed by your memories of them. They might have done something bad out of a misplaced desire to help. And, even if they were right, it wouldn’t matter. The damage had already been done. They weren’t going to be forgiven.”
My heart starts beating frantically. “Okay, seriously. What did he do?”
She reaches out and holds my hand. “Let’s just say that when it comes to you, he is a possessive control freak. It’s something you’re gonna have to work on with him. Luckily you’re a strong woman who sets clear boundaries and doesn’t take anyone else’s shit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be sending you out there alone to be romanced by Prince Charming. But the truth is, you can take care of yourself, and you’re good for him.”
“I’m good for him?” I think back to that horrible article. The man was born a billionaire, and through his business acumen, had turned those billions into several more billions. He was sexy, smart, and confident. I’m pretty sure most people would think it was the other way around—that he was good for me.
Sondra stands, grinning. “Yeah. Can’t you tell? The guy wants nothing more than to serve you. He’s completely lost without you. Now, let’s get you ready for your hot, sexy “lunch” with New York’s most eligible billionaire bachelor!”
Chapter 9
The phone rings two seconds before the clock struck twelve.
Preston is downstairs. He wants to know if I can buzz him in. No, I tell him, amazed I can speak—hell, that I’m still standing—with my heart beating a thousand beats per second. I’ll be right down.
Even though it was noon instead of midnight, I felt a little like Cinderella when I get into the elevator. Well, if Cinderella wore a tight cream dress from Saks (alright, actually it was from Randy’s Threads, but it had originally been from Saks) instead of a ballgown, and practical Mary Jane clogs instead of glass slippers. I absently touch my princess-like ringlets. Sondra had spent two hours straightening, curling and pinning my hair in place. She could give any fairy godmother a run for their money—surely no one else would be able to endure such stubborn tresses without magic.
My breath caught when I reached my humble lobby.
Sure, fairy tales may possess an irresistible air of romance, but when you reach a certain age you start to appreciate more practical things. Like a gleaming black limo instead of a horse-drawn carriage that could randomly revert back to a pumpkin at any moment. And, hands down, Preston Easterbrook beats any Prince Charming.
There’s nothing stuffy about the strong build of his body, and nothing refined about the heat in his dark blue eyes as he takes in my curves. I don’t know how I could have called him an angel before. Yes, he might be a heavenly being, but he was one who reveled in the fall.
My stomach flips as I teeter in my Mary Janes.
Thank God I didn’t wear heels. Pretty sure I’d be in the middle of a face plant right about now.
Cool wind caresses my skin as Preston opens the glass door. He’s almost close enough to touch. The space between us is minuscule but seems nonexistent. Goosebumps flare over my skin as my heartbeat quickens.
“Are you ready?” he asks, running his fingers over my bare shoulder.
Right here? Right now? I can’t believe I’m saying this but…hell yeah!
I nod vigorously.
His lips curl into a small, knowing smile. “Good. You’re going to…enjoy you lunch.”
I think I’m going to enjoy “lunch” too. I hope we get there quickly!
But then, instead of…having lunch…we actually takes me to lunch.
He holds my hand as we start down the steps that lead to the street. A line of serious bald men in suits and sunglasses stand guard. Why do they need to stand guard, you ask? Well, because the paparazzi are here in full force.
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “They can’t follow us where we’re going.”
There’s about fifteen seconds of shouted questions and a flurry of flashes before we get to the limo.
I hug my arms, sliding across the black leather seat so he can get in after me. The door shuts softly behind him, and tension I didn’t even realize I carried leaves my shoulders.
Finally, I can breathe.
Preston’s warm hand rubs the back of my neck. “I’m sorry about all this.”
I bite my lower lip. “Do they always follow you around?”
“No. Unfortunately I was seen having lunch with a famous actress a few weeks ago. Of course, the lunch was about the New York penthouse she was interested in renting from me, but the paparazzi are convinced we were having an affair.”
My hand moves to my stomach. “Were you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Was I what?”
“You know…having an affair with her?”
His eyes move down my body slowly. I can see them visually undressing me—feel, almost, how he’d slide his thumb under the low scooped neck of my dress and beneath my bra strap. How he’d kiss my collarbone, then move up to the side of my neck to that place where my rapid pulse was giving away just how much I wanted him.
“Are you jealous?” he asks, smiling. And as he does, his face takes on a sinful expression so at odds with his beautiful demeanor that I can’t make sense of it—make sense of him.
“So what if I am?” I reply shortly, straightening my back. “A few days ago, you proposed marriage.”
“And before that day, you refused to return my calls. You refused to see me at all.”
“Well, that’s probably because I saw you with the actress and I didn’t think you were serious.”
“No. I met the actress for the first time two weeks ago.”
“And the two of you had lunch?”
Alright, there are two kinds of jealousy: righteous jealousy and batshit jealousy. Let’s just say that the wings of the latter were about to take flight.
“She wanted to fuck, but I didn’t take her up on it. And you’re right to be suspicious, because normally I would have. However, I haven’t exactly been myself these past few months.”
My mouth is suddenly dry. “Why?”
“Because I’ve spent a large portion of my life either ruining or running away from the only thing I ever did want. Then, I had it. And even though it was only for a moment, I couldn’t go back.” His penetrating gaze locks onto me. “Maybe that’s what I was afraid of all along. Not just failing, but changing. Because it is true. Once you’ve tasted perfection, you never want anything else.”
I’m breathing
like an old dog on a hot day. Sexy? Hell no. But I’m too far gone to think about sexy. I’m ready for…
He turns his head. “Kind of like eating at this restaurant. It’s my favorite place to get lunch in the city.”
What?
Lunch?
Who cares about stupid lunch!
The limo stops.
He pops open the door, steps out, and offers me his hand like he hadn’t just intentionally gotten me all hot and bothered before we ate some stupid food.
“Ready?” he smiles.
Hesitantly, I take his hand. The sensation of his skin against mine is electrifying.
Alright, I still don’t think I had a good reason for hating Preston Easterbrook so much, but I am beginning to understand one thing.
The man is very, very dangerous.
The waiter knows Preston. He apparently also knows me, too.
“Tachell!” the little balding man with a combover exclaims. “You are even more beautiful than the papers say!”
I let him kiss the back of my hand, flashing a nervous, toothy grin that could probably be described as anything but beautiful. The papers had described me as many things. A gold digger. An alien breeding cesspool. But mostly, they called me—
“You truly are modern day Cinderella!” the little balding man says again. “My daughter is rooting for you. She will be so mad when she hears you came in while she was at school. You’ll have to come back again this weekend.”
Preston shakes his head. “Always the businessman, Jean-Claude.”
Jean-Claude shrugs. “Hey, who isn’t a businessman when the bottom line is love?”
Preston laughs. “The food is really good here. I wouldn’t subject you to this nonsense if it wasn’t.”
Jean-Claude dramatically throws his hand over his chest. “Oh, Mr. Easterbrook. You wound my heart.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Is my table open?”
“Yes,” Jean-Claude winks. “Right this way.”
The restaurant doesn’t look like much. The walls are filled with retro posters of Operas like La Boheme and Madame Butterfly. Christmas lights twinkle from the ceiling, and each antique table features a candle and a white rose. I order a salmon over salad. Preston gets the bouillabaisse. When Jean-Claude is done taking our orders, Preston pulls out some lavender and places it in the vase next to the rose.