by Arthurs, Nia
In other words, he’s a smart aleck.
He’s also the only friend I’ve kept up with since graduating.
A fact I’m sure he’s regretting right now.
“Damn it, Teale. I’m not a realtor. You couldn’t have gotten someone else to do this for you?”
“No one else would have been as efficient.” I offer him my hand. “I appreciate it.”
Brendon slaps my palm away. “Don’t thank me. I’m charging you extra.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”
We head inside.
The blast of cool air is an immediate relief.
Workers scurry back and forth. Their shoes echo against the white tiles. White walls. A roaring fountain hangs from halfway up the ceiling.
It’s gorgeous.
A few people shoot me curious looks, but most ignore me. They have no idea I’m the new owner of this building.
I prefer it that way.
Nothing’s going to change here except for the top floor housing my company, so there’s no need to make waves.
Brendon presses the elevator button. Glances over. Pushes up his glasses. “So what made you finally bite the bullet?”
“I’ve been talking about establishing headquarters for years.”
“Yeah, but it was all smoke. You never meant it.”
The elevator opens.
We step in.
I slip my hand into my pocket. “Nice to know you’ve always had faith in me.”
“Come on, Teale. You’re a drifter. You don’t stay in one place for long.”
“Maybe I’ve never had anything to anchor me down.”
“Now you do?” He blinks, grey eyes curious.
“Maybe.”
“A woman?”
“Too early to mention.”
He sighs. “I hope she knows what a mess she’s taking on.”
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?”
“Partner,” Brendon corrects.
“Bro, I respect you, but I don’t like you like that.”
He rolls his eyes. “I should’ve never invested in your company.”
“Complain to the millions I made you.”
The elevator stops on the correct floor.
Brendon slants me a quick look of disgust before moving forward.
I smirk. Follow him in.
The hallway is built like the lobby—lots of white tiles and white walls. There’s a glass door at the end of the corridor. From here, I can see through to an office.
Brendon stops in front of the door and presses the buttons on the security pad. He nods at me. “This floor is free and move-in ready. You gonna hire soon?”
“I’m waiting for my team to decide if they’ll join me here or stay where they are.”
I’ve got about ten freelancers on payroll, but my core team is made up of five people. The beauty of programming is that it can be accomplished from anywhere in the world as long as you’ve got a laptop and good internet connection.
“I don’t need them to be here, but it’ll be nice.”
“Cool.” Brendon leads me forward and points out the rest of the set up.
I take pictures along the way.
He catches me and stops. “What are you doing? I already sent you photos of the place.”
“These are for posting,” I say, eyes on my phone.
“To social media?”
“That’s right.”
Brendon grunts in disapproval. “Aren’t you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Stalkers.”
“Nope.” I post another photo and add an emoji.
Brendon’s disdain for social media is an argument I’m used to. The curmudgeons of the tech world consider ‘selfie-culture’ nothing but vanity, but I’ve gotten where I am today because I use it as a tool.
Social media’s the window to the soul—or at least, what the soul longs for.
Connection and affirmation.
With a twist.
Almost everything online is a screensaver hiding the truth.
People aren’t posting their ugliest selfies. Their darkest days. Their lowest moments.
No one wants to admit that they’re behind payments on that Escalade. No one wants to show the fragile relationship hiding behind the perfect, I’m-so-in-love smiles.
Every unflattering aspect of their lives is swept under the rug and every secret desire, every hope of what they wish reality would look like, is what they offer the world.
I spend hours on social media, which inspired my first project.
The app I developed my sophomore year of college was sold to a company for six figures.
Each subsequent project added an extra zero to the numbers on the check.
The secret to my success? Simple.
Programming is a series of ones and zeroes, but people are much more complicated. Understand the masses, give them what they want, and then you’ll make it.
Easy, right?
Or maybe I just got lucky.
Dad would definitely say I got lucky.
In no world would he have given me that credit. I can see his angry eyes now. The bushy eyebrows slanted down in that perpetual screw you gaze. The scowl on his lips that got harder and deeper whenever he saw me excelling behind the computer instead of underneath a barbell.
If it was Ollie, he’d be jumping for joy.
Call him a real man.
But a guy like me who hunkers behind computer screens and dives into code for hours on end?
Dad would call that a sissy.
No matter how much money I made.
I push the bitter thoughts from my head.
Focus on the present.
The future.
I’m looking forward to this new phase. I don’t like idling for long. This industry moves too fast and my attention span shrinks too quickly. The sooner I can get this place up and running, the better.
Brendon’s phone lights up.
His eyebrows lower. “Uh-oh.”
“What?”
He turns the phone around. Shows me the name blaring on the screen.
Ariya
“How did she know I was with you?”
“Pick up. Maybe she’s calling for another reason.”
“Ariya only calls me for two things—to bug me about you and to bug me about money. And I already gave her extra allowance this week.”
I laugh. Ariya’s spoiled and proud of it. Brendon’s guilty of keeping his little sister in that state anyway, so he’s got no right to complain.
“Call her back when I’m gone,” I say.
“You’ll break her heart.”
“You asked me to.”
He nods, pleased. “You remembered.”
I take one last surveying glance around the room. I can already envision everyone here, working on our next project. Excitement boils in my gut.
Later, when I’m grueling through a code with a snag at two in the morning, high on caffeine and sleep depravation, I’ll rue the day I ever decided to accept another challenge.
But right now, at the beginning—before the set-backs and the problems that will, undoubtedly, arise mid-project—I’m looking forward to it.
That’s been a theme in my life. I call it The Blank Page. I have a crazy obsession with the starting line. The anticipation. The excitement. The thrill of the unknown.
Maybe that’s why few women have been doing it for me lately.
I crave a challenge.
It also explains why Zania’s newfound hatred for me is such a turn-on. It’s been a while since someone’s tried that hard to resist me.
I look forward to breaking her down.
Speaking of…
“I’m hosting a launch party,” I blurt in the quiet.
Brendon stops in his tracks. “You’re what?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
I shrug. “Because…”
“Because?” He looks personally offended
. “You don’t even have staff yet.”
“Details.” I wave my hand. Brush off the technicality.
Brendon purses his lips. Brown eyes narrow. “Who is she?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The girl you’re trying to get with? Is she a caterer?”
I laugh because he knows me too well. “Pastry chef.”
“That was my second guess.”
“I need a reason to work with her.”
“Hence the sudden desire to buy the building and set up HQ?”
“Convenient timing.”
“Like hell.” He rubs his hands through his black hair. “I’d say don’t do anything stupid, but I already know that’s kind of your thing.”
“Think happy thoughts, Brendon. When have I ever let you down?”
He eyes me, but he has no comeback. I might be loose when it comes to women, but I’m serious about work. I wouldn’t have gotten this far if I’d been a screw up with my business decisions.
“This is a good thing for us.”
He sighs. “When do I meet her?”
“It’s your first time asking for an introduction, you know that?”
“It’s your first time dropping this much cash for a one-night stand. I’m assuming she’s more than that and I’d like to know who finally tamed the beast.”
I grin. “Soon.”
His phone rings again.
He glances down. Grimaces. “Ariya.”
“Answer,” I insist.
He picks up. “What do you want now?” Pauses. Gives me a look that says told you. “No, Ariya. I don’t know if Teale’s in town. Even if he is, he’s probably working.” Brendon lifts a finger in a wait gesture and strides quickly to the door. His voice gets fainter until he turns the bend.
When he’s gone, I rock on my heels and grin in victory.
My eyes scan the white walls.
A blank page.
I’m about to make something beautiful.
I have to.
There’s never been a game I don’t win.
Never been a project I haven’t turned into a success.
Never been a woman I want that I don’t get.
It’s time Zania learned that lesson personally.
10 Zania
“Personally, I don’t think our agency is the best for you.”
I gape at the woman holding me in silent contempt. She’s got dark hair, eyes, and skin, so I’d assumed that—even if she delivered news I didn’t want to hear—she’d be kind.
Kind? Where.
There’s a whole lot of scorn poking through the phony veneer of politeness she’s struggling to hold on to, as if she’s truly insulted by my request, no, by my very presence in her posh, downtown office.
“Is this a joke?”
“I’m sorry, Zania, but I’m completely serious.” She offers me a smile tainted with pity. “Our matchmaking agency is renown for its clientele pool. Not everyone who applies is accepted. We take this very seriously.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
It’s also why I scraped my emergency money together and paid for this ridiculously expensive consultation.
My hands had shaken so hard when I clicked the PAY NOW button, transferring the funds to the Make It Marriage account, but nothing risked, nothing ventured, right?
Wrong.
I risked a lot and here I am—a big , fat door to the face.
“I understand how you feel.”
“Do you? You read minds now?”
The sarcasm flies way over her head. She flips her glossy, black hair over her shoulder. “There are other routes you can take. An online marriage site for example.”
I glance at my watch. “It’s only been five minutes. You barely glanced at my form. How exactly did you come to the conclusion that I’m better suited for online match ups?”
“Thank you for coming down here…” She presses three, manicured fingers to the plastic flap covering my application. Slides it over. The whisking sound is loud in the silence.
I’m expected to take my application back.
I know that.
But I don’t.
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask.
She blinks slowly. “What?”
“Cut the corporate-approved platitudes and shoot straight with me.”
A glimmer of humanity peeks out of her cold brown eyes that don’t match the polite smile on her lips. She folds her hands together and appraises me. “Okay.”
“Is the reason I’m being rejected because I’m black?”
She tips her chin back. Laughs.
It’s the last thing I expect her to do. I’m not sure whether to get offended or laugh with her, so I keep talking over the rolling sound of her chuckles. “I read an article that said women of a darker complexion get passed over a lot in these kinds of arrangements.”
As much as Chandra thinks I’ve hit my head and lost my mind, I’m going about this arranged marriage business as carefully and methodically as I can, given the time constraints.
It was yet another reason I chose this agency that claimed to accept all races and didn’t discriminate.
But maybe I got suckered.
And if that’s the case I’m leaving a very scathing review and expecting my money back.
The agent calms down. Wipes at a tear.
I roll my fingers on her glass-topped table. “Care to share the joke?”
“I’m sorry. You’re the third woman that’s asked me that this week.”
The statement gives me pause.
I thought I was the only black woman willing to pay for help finding a husband, but I guess I’m wrong.
“Zania, objectively—one woman to another—you’re beautiful.”
“Uh, thanks.” The compliment is sincere, which is exactly why it makes me so uncomfortable.
Something tells me this cold woman subscribes to the compliment sandwich philosophy.
My muscles tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Is it the fact that my father’s in jail then?” I mumble.
The serious expression returns. She leans forward. “Do you talk to him?”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
I squirm. “Will my answer affect whether you accept me or not?”
I don’t like to talk about my father.
I don’t like to think about him at all.
In my head, my mother hooked up with a random guy, got pregnant and died in childbirth without ever identifying the punk.
That’s the story I give out now. I only admitted the truth to the agency because I didn’t want it to pop up and become a problem later on.
“Not really.”
“Then I’d rather not discuss him.”
“Did you have any other father figures in your life?”
“No.” I purse my lips together.
“Who raised you?”
“My grandmother.”
“And what did she teach you about relationships?”
“Nothing much. Except that sex before marriage is a sin.”
“I see.” She jots something down on a notepad. “And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Have sex before marriage.”
My mind flashes to Teale.
The hotel bed.
My legs spread apart.
His body pressing into me.
Heart thudding, I nod.
“So I’m guessing losing your virginity was a very traumatizing experience for you, given your upbringing.”
Traumatizing… no.
In the moment, it was nothing but pleasure.
After… yeah. It hurt like hell.
Emotionally.
But that’s mostly because I felt like I’d been used and discarded.
Not that it’s any of her business.
Irritation bubbles in my chest. “What is this? A therapy session?”
“You’re desperate.”
He
r words drill into my body. Tears past skin and bone to my soul. “Excuse me?”
“You asked me to shoot straight.”
Yeah, but not that straight. “True...”
“We’re rejecting you because you’re desperate. There’s no way in hell we can find you a match in three months. No one can do that. Even real life doesn’t work that way. Love at first sight is rare and half those marriages break apart when the couple realizes they mistook infatuation for a lasting commitment.”
“Oh.”
“But,” she pulls my application back in her direction, “I’m into it.”
“Into what?”
“Your story.” She arches an eyebrow. “I want to give you a happy ending. It’s why I got into the matchmaking business in the first place.”
She’s so brusque, I can’t imagine a generous side of her even exists.
A hand extends over the desk. “Kayla Montgomery. Nice to meet you, Zania.”
I’m still suffering from Kayla-enforced whiplash so it takes my arm a couple seconds longer than usual to connect with my brain and shake her hand back.
“Alright.” Kayla rises. The soft fabric of her silky, baby blue blouse smacks against her chest. Upright, I get a full scan of her stunning blazer and tailored pants.
She gives me Chandra vibes. A stylish woman. A corporate black Barbie doll.
“I’ll look over the requirements and connect you with matches that fit what you’re looking for.” Her voice is calm and professional, like she’s talking about matching me with the right mattress.
Not a person.
A lifetime partner.
My husband.
It hits me, in that moment.
This is really happening.
I’m really doing this.
Kayla walks me to her door. “I’ll be in touch, Zania.”
“Do you know when…?”
She slants me a cutting look. “These things take time.”
“Right.”
“Throw that three month date out the window.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes.” She smiles slightly. “But I’ll try my best to match you with someone as fast as possible. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be love at first sight. You might get your wish after all.”
“Has that happened before?”
“What?”
“Quick engagements.”
“Once or twice… out of thousands.”
“Nice odds.” I clutch my purse. “Thanks for being honest.”
She tilts her chin up. Stares at the ceiling in thought. “I believe that anything can happen in this crazy world.”