by Nia Arthurs
I still couldn’t believe Deacon called my father ‘Dad’. My mom adored him and my dad called him every week to talk about basketball and investment funds. He was more a part of our family than I was.
Which wasn’t a problem in the slightest.
At the end of the day, Deacon Hill belonged to me and only me.
My eyes greedily took my fiancé in. He wore a grey Henley that stretched taunt over his broad shoulders and a pair of shorts that showed off his muscular legs.
Female tourists and locals alike had been staring at us since we’d arrived, but I didn’t mind. Deacon was a feast for the eyes. He was mine and I still found myself breathless watching him.
Dad cleared his throat. “I know, son, but it’s still good to save. College is crazy expensive.”
“I’ve got that covered, Dad.”
“What if you and Angel have more kids?”
“I’ll take care of college for them too.”
“Yes, well,” Dad hemmed and hawed, “it’s still better to be frugal.”
I smiled proudly at the two most important men in my life.
Reid slapped his maraca against the table.
Make that three.
“Why are we talking about college and future children? Focus on the wedding planning first and then we can deal with the rest.”
Deacon pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. His breath nuzzled the sensitive skin there and I shivered as he said, “The island’s always going to be there.”
“The island’s where we met. Where we fell in love.”
“We fell in love at the shop,” he pointed out.
“You fell in love there. I didn’t.”
“Ouch.” Deacon pulled away and rubbed his chest.
I yanked him back to me. “Besides,” I walked my fingers up his chest, “we have unfinished business with that hammock.”
His eyes zipped to my father who was listening keenly.
Deacon coughed. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, sir.”
Dad studied us suspiciously.
I laughed.
My parents didn’t know that Deacon used to be a hitman or that he owned the island. Although, Mom did find out that he’d given me the money for the chemo. Which was how they’d started contacting him behind my back in the first place.
There were other things, private things that Deacon and I did, that they didn’t know and I wouldn’t make them any wiser on.
“Wherever you go, you’ll have babysitters.” Mom tickled Reid’s side. “Right, honey?”
The kid grinned, his cheeks and jaw sticky with strawberry ice cream.
“Let Gramma clean you up. Yes, I will,” she cooed while swiping his skin with a wet wipe.
Deacon took my hand in his and glanced at me, giving me that look. The man had an uncanny ability to communicate with his eyes—when he was pleased, when he was hungry for me, when he was regretting something he’d done in his past and right now… when he was grateful.
I squeezed his hand.
Deacon hadn’t just joined my family.
He and Reid had become my family and as our family grew, so would our love for each other. I believed in second chances. I believed in love and I knew that Deacon and I would be there for each other no matter what storms would come.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you.” I leaned my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the sight of my dad finally getting that ice cream in San Pedro.
THE END
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Love, Nia
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Also by Nia Arthurs
The Taming Series
Taming Mr. Jerkface
Taming Mr. Charming
Taming Mr. Know-it-all
Taming Mr. Darcy
The Richards Books
Call Me Torn
Call Me Broken
Call Me Lost
Standalones
Chasing Daniel
The Switch
Axle’s Secret
The Good Brother
Something New
Love In Many Shades Series
Cece & David
Cece & David 2
Cece & David 3
Cece & David 4
Lovesick Series
Play
Dance
Trust
Sneak Peek
Swipe on for a sneak peek of my upcoming novel.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1
Cobie
“What do you mean I won?” I yank the phone back as if it’s sprouted wings. 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 really got nothing better to do with her life now that she’s found Rick. The man pays her rent and utilities and treats her like a damn princess.
Now if only some rich guy would step out of the woodworks and pay my rent. He could go ahead and build my dream hair salon while he’s at it.
“Wait, wait!”
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 detangle from here.
“This isn’t a joke and I don’t know who Chandra is. 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 into my hand. My client eyes me from the mirror with that nosy look women 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.
“Not sure.” I shake my head. “Anyway, you were telling me about what your husband did last night?”
“Oh right.” Plump lips tighten and she dives right back into her story, waving dark hands around for emphasis. “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 detangle her hair and slather the locks in my special conditioner.
“I stopped it 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 when we were doing it 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 instead of running after a complicated romance that would only 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 rather than be crushed and moping after he dumps me.
Sympathetic to her plight, I put extra effort into washing out Jenifer’s hair and applying my leave-in conditioner. He curls pop when I run the Denman brush through them and it is so satisfying to watch.
Grabbing the bottle of 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.
CHONDRA: 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 first client.
I fling the door open.
It’s definitely not Ms. Shirley, my forty-year-old 4b/4c customer. But 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, “sir, 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 back 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 cups his muscular chest and shoulders. Black pants emphasize the lean, hard legs planted on the floor.
I slurp up my drool and gesture for him to enter. “Griffin?”
He nods. 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 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. “To mass produce 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 selling my products.” I point to the door and smile sweetly. “Have a nice day.”
Chapter 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 beating out to 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 ringing with sarcasm and her lips curving down in a sign that I’ve tried her patience.
“You must not understand. We’re prepared to pay a lot for your product.”
“And you must not understand. I’m not selling.”
I glance over her shoulder, studying the salon set-up 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. Do 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, but I can’t help but admire her spunk.
Since I’ve had this new body, all the women I’ve met seem to fall back or flirt 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.”