by Kennedy Ryan
“You said we shouldn’t get involved with other people,” Bridget says testily.
“No,” Dr. Packer replies. “I said you should be careful how it’s introduced to Simone. I admit Instagram isn’t the best way, especially given the past . . . drama that came through social media.”
Bridget clears her throat at the mention of all our trash strewn in the streets via her antics.
“But these photos could be interpreted as mere friendship, too,” Dr. Packer says. She turns her attention to me. “Is this just a friend, or is she someone we’ll need to introduce to Simone eventually?”
Here’s the moment of truth. I could deny it and get Bridget off my back. I could delay this and see Lotus discreetly—avoid this altogether for another few weeks.
Except I don’t want to.
I want to be more than friends.
Lotus’s sweet, husky words have haunted me since Saturday.
Don’t look away.
“We’re seeing each other.” My voice is strong and sure like my feelings for Lotus, and I’ll be damned if I’ll lie about them, about her, to satisfy Bridget’s misplaced, too-late possessiveness.
“I knew it,” Bridget says hotly on an expelled breath. “At the restaurant. You and her in the hall. I saw the way you looked at that little—”
“You will not talk shit about her,” I say with quiet fierceness.
Bridget blinks, her blue eyes startled. It’s silent for a moment while she and I assess each other, neither backing down.
“I think we take this one step at a time,” Dr. Packer says, snapping our stare-down. “Do we want to introduce . . . what’s her name?”
“Lotus,” I say.
“We have several things slated for today’s session,” Dr. Packer says, glancing at her notes and then back to us. “Do you want to add introducing Lotus?”
“Simone has a big recital,” Bridget says sharply. “Let her get through that before we give her unpleasant news like this.”
“It’s not unpleasant news. I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Are you fucking her?” she demands, eyes icy.
Dr. Packer’s gasp is the only sound in the room.
“That’s none of your business,” I reply, controlled in spite of the fury clawing at my belly. “And not appropriate for you to ask me here, or anywhere for that matter.”
I stand and head for the door.
“I’ll bring Simone in,” I say. “Since we’re obviously done here.”
Simone joins us and starts talking about dance and her new friends and all the things that seem to be going better in her life. It puts me somewhat at ease. It’s only when I feel Bridget’s baleful gaze on me every few minutes that I wonder if maybe we aren’t done here at all. Maybe the drama with Bridget is just beginning.
19
Lotus
“We have guests coming,” JP says, his tone distracted as he squints at the color swathe splayed across his large glass desk, an anachronistic concession to the modern era in an office peppered with French antique furnishings.
“Guests?” I flip through the fabric samples I brought for him to consider. “Who?”
“I think some of those housewives? Paul coordinated it. They’re coming under the guise of looking at dresses for an event. They’re always searching for pretty places to have their fights and keep it interesting.” He pulls a set of green-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and slips them on. “Where’s this one from?”
“There should be a tag.” I lean forward and flip the sample over. “Here ya go. B&J Fabrics.”
“It’s close, but a bit too yellow, non?” He levels a look over the fashionable spectacles and shudders. “You know how I feel about chartreuse.”
“Of course.” I pluck the offending fabric from his fingers. “Want me to mix a few colors and take something to our guy over on Thirty-seventh? He may be our best shot at a custom match.”
“Good idea.” He looks past me and smiles. “Ah, I wondered when you would descend, Vale.”
His assistant strides in, a study of Icelandic sophistication and cool efficiency.
“We are behind,” she reminds us unnecessarily. “The show is less than two months away.”
“Mon dieu!” JP presses a plump hand to his chest. “I had no idea! Did you know Fashion Week is so soon, ma petite?”
I return the twinkle-eyed grin he aims at me with a wry smile. Angels are already upholstering a seat in the VIP section of Heaven for what Vale endures with JP.
“I’d heard something about it, yeah.” I gather the fabric samples and kiss Vale’s powdered cheek. “I’ll go work on that production schedule due yesterday.”
“That was my next item of business.” Her expression softens and she nods to the vibrantly-colored fabrics in my arms. “Chartreuse may be the color JP can’t stand. Red is Paul’s. We better be in the black after this show. Much work to do.”
That’s my cue to scurry into my own cubicle. Each show is a massive undertaking, and the closer we get, the less time we’ll all have for anything beyond these walls. The week before the show, we’ve been known to camp out here, sleeping and neglecting everything personal, including hygiene, to get it done.
Two heads poke around the sleek divider providing a flimsy semblance of privacy to work.
“What do you two tricks want?” I glance from my laptop to Yari and Billie hovering at the edge of my partition.
“Um . . . we come bearing gifts,” Yari says, glee threading her words.
I hope it’s one of the matcha lattes I love from up the street.
“Not from us,” Billie all but squeals, and pulls a bouquet from its hiding place behind her back. “But we’re dying to know who sent these!”
Billie’s holding a small vase with a few lotus flowers in vivid hues of pink and purple and blue. I know how hard lotus flowers are to come by locally, and they’re nearly impossible to transplant. They’re a lot of trouble to get and only last a few hours. I consider the small vase with a ribbon tied at its neck and a sealed envelope attached. My friends stand with tongues practically hanging from their mouths. Obviously they’re not planning to give me much . . . if any . . . privacy.
Billie holds the flowers while I tug the envelope free and open the card inside. The barely-legible words look like someone flung them on the page.
Button,
I told you I hate texting.
Unfortunately, lotus flowers don’t live long cut off from the soil they’re planted in. This loses some impact knowing they’ll be wilted by the time you come to my place for dinner tonight. Oh. Would you come to my place for dinner tonight? I’d like to see you. I can pick you up from work. You can just text yes . . . or no . . . and what time I should come get you.
“Let me see your face.
Let me hear your voice for your voice is sweet and your face is lovely.”
– Song of Solomon 2:14
--Kenan
Oh, this is bad.
The breath being syphoned from my lungs. The involuntary grin kissing my lips. The fluttering under my ribs. All signs that Kenan, when he sets his mind to it, has major game.
“Who’re they from?” Yari demands, patience nowhere in her voice. “Are they from who we think they’re from?”
With one hand, I take my vase of doomed petals from her. With the other, I press the card to my chest.
“They’re from a secret admirer,” I say, turning my back on them to place the vase on the edge of my desk.
“You don’t know who they’re from?” Billie asks.
“No, you don’t know who they’re from,” I reply with a grin to rub it in. “That’s the secret.”
They both look like they want to strangle me. I sit back down and slip the envelope into my desk drawer.
“We know they’re from Kenan,” Yari says.
“No, you don’t know.” I return to my laptop. “You’re fishing.”
“Well we think it’s Kenan Ross,” Billie says, han
ds on her slim hips.
“Well you might be right.” I shoo them away with one hand. “We’ll talk about it later. If I tell you now, you’ll have a million questions I don’t have time for. I need to focus.”
“Good luck,” Yari says. “We have guests coming.”
“I heard.” My eyes snap to her face. “I can’t afford disruptions today.”
“I heard Paul talking about it.” Billie shrugs. "They think it’ll be good exposure for the brand.”
Most large fashion houses are barely profitable, if at all, because the sheer cost of production at this level is exorbitant.
“As long as the exposure doesn’t come this way,” I say. “And I can’t imagine why it should.”
“You leaving on time tonight?” Yari asks, already turned to walk away, and studying me over her shoulder. “You on the J with me at five?”
The vibrant spray of color in the vase coaxes a small smile from me, and I shake my head. “Nah. I got plans.”
As soon as they’ve both gone back to their desks, I grab the phone from my purse and text Kenan.
Me: Yes. Six o’clock.
Kenan: See you then.
Me: Am I allowed to text my thanks?
Kenan: No. Thank me later. ;-)
At the start of the day, it seemed to be flying by and too short to get everything done. With six o’clock and Kenan as my finish line, the day is officially taking for freaking ever to end. It’s only three o’clock when I check the time on my laptop and stand to stretch. I grab one of the flowers and press it to my nose, drawing in the sweet scent.
“Some of our team works over here,” I hear JP saying. “But all the sewing happens downstairs, and we keep the clothes for you to view down there, too. Follow me.”
That must be the reality TV cast. Thank God they didn’t make it to my area.
“Oh, here you are.”
I look up, stunned to find Bridget Ross standing at my cubicle.
“Can I help you?” It’s a question embedded with what the hell?
“I wondered if your office was up here,” Bridget says casually, strolling closer. She stares at the flowers on my desk before turning frosty blue eyes on me.
“Are you here with the crew?” I ask. “It’s Baller Bae looking at the collection?”
“Yes. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” She pauses significantly, running her eyes over my skinny jeans, ribbed tank top, and sheer cardigan. “I don’t get it.”
My patience is fraying.
Lord, grant me the serenity not to kick her ass.
With God on my side, maybe Bridget will make it out of here in one skinny blond piece.
“What can I do for you, Bridget?” I ask. “It was Bridget, right? We met the other night at the restaurant I believe.”
“You know damn well who I am,” she drawls with deceptive indifference. “Or at least you should since you’re fucking my husband.”
Lawd, don’t fail me now.
“I think you should probably go before you make yourself look even more desperate,” I tell her, I hope with some kindness and not the middle finger I want to shove up her nose.
“Sure you don’t want me to stick around?” She sits on the edge of the desk and caresses one lotus petal. “I could give you some pointers on how Kenan likes his dick sucked. We were together over a decade. Maybe save you a lot of time.”
I step close until I’m standing right in front of her. I carefully slide my flowers away from her touch.
“Why would I want advice from the woman who lost him?” I ask, my voice hushed. I don’t need a scene. I’m sure her cameras are within striking distance. I’m giving her as little ammunition as possible.
“You won’t be able to keep him,” she sneers.
“Well at least we’ll have something in common and maybe enjoy each other better next time, but for now, I repeat. Leave.”
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with,” she says, chin up, hair flung back.
“Oh, no, you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” I say, my tone soft with danger she doesn’t, couldn’t understand. “You should pray to God my kindness and patience don’t run out, or you will know.”
“Just remember I offered to help you get it right,” she says spitefully, standing to her feet.
“You can best believe when I am fucking your ex-husband,” I tell her, “you’ll be the last thing on our minds. Now get the hell out of my face, out of my office and stay out of my way.”
“I won’t let you ruin things for us,” she says, her voice vehement.
“You already ruined it,” I say pityingly.
And I do pity her. I’d hate myself if I lost a man like Kenan, lost a life with him. Desperation clings to her, and I wonder if she cheated on him and then woke as if from a dream to realize what she had done? What she had lost and squandered?
She stares at me and then at the flowers one more time. Something gives in her eyes, and the façade slips. She blinks overly bright blue eyes, turns, and leaves.
20
Kenan
I’m leaning against “the tank,” as Lotus calls my truck, when she comes out of the building. All the skinny individual braids are gathered and braided into two thick ones. She looks like a little girl, except for that ass and those breasts and her lips and every other part of her.
So just the hair pretty much.
I open the passenger side, but when she steps past me to get in. I grasp her elbow gently and turn her so her back is to the open door. I prop my arms against the car frame overhead and lean down.
“Hi.” I pitch the word low and dip to kiss the line of her jaw.
“Hi, yourself,” she says with a tiny smile. I mold my hand to her waist, my thumb barely brushing the underside of her breast
“Kenan,” she says breathlessly. “I can’t think when you touch me like that.”
I slide my hands into my pockets.
“Look.” I lean forward, hovering over her lips. “No hands.”
With the kiss, our lips are the only point of contact, our mouths linked by a single strand of lust. Our moans meet in the middle and syncopate. Inches separate us. My arms aren’t wrapped around her, but the passion of just our lips and tongues burns away the space between us, and I feel every inch of her.
“Not out here,” she says softly, ruefully, after a few seconds, and pulls back.
She’s right. I already have Bridget hashtag hunting on Instagram. I don’t need some photo to pop up and make things more complicated with Simone before they have to be. I’m dreading talking to Lotus about it, but she needs a heads up about what happened in the counseling session with Bridget. I don’t anticipate drama, but you never know with my ex.
I press my forehead to hers for the briefest of moments, but can’t resist sneaking another quick press of our lips together. I’ve been thinking about this all day. Shit, I’ve been thinking about kissing Lotus again since our last kiss ended.
She returns the press. Our mouths don’t open. Our tongues don’t tangle, but just that simple pressure feels incredible, like there’s something we exchange even through a touch this chaste.
I close the passenger door once she’s in and climb into the driver’s seat.
“My chef delivered dinner to my place,” I tell her, pulling out into the side street bordering the atelier, “I wouldn’t subject you to my cooking.”
She bends her head, biting into the curve of her bottom lip. “Kenan, there’s something I need to tell you.”
I stiffen and my hands tighten on the steering wheel at the sober note in her voice. “That’s never good,” I murmur. Sitting at a light, I turn to study her profile. “What’s up?”
“Bridget came to the studio today.”
“Bridget? As in, my ex-wife?” Shock and fury wrangle inside me. “Came to your job? What the hell?”
“Exactly. We got word that a reality show wanted to come through. That’s not unusual. Producers are always scoping cool se
ttings for the drama the casts get into. Fortunately, my drama with Bridget was just between us. She didn’t bring any cameras to my cubicle.”
A hundred scenarios run through my head, none of them making any sense. With each second, the flame under my anger turns up until I’m boiling mad.
“Green,” Lotus says.
“Huh?” I turn unseeing eyes to her. “What?”
“The light turned green.”
A honk from behind jars me out of my enraged stupor.
“Damn.” I plow forward, struggling not to take my anger out on the car. I want to slam the accelerator and gun the engine, channel all the power I won’t let myself expend on Bridget. “I’m sorry, Lotus. What did she say?”
“She accused me of fucking her husband and offered to teach me how you like your dick sucked.”
A growl rumbles in my throat. “What else?” I ask with a calm I’m far from feeling. “And what did you say?”
Louts opens her mouth, slams it shut, and looks out the window.
“Lotus? What else? I need to know.”
“Okay, damn,” she says grudgingly. “I told her that when I do fuck her ex-husband, she’ll be the last thing on our minds.”
Her words land like a hand on my cock. How could they not? I’m silent, marinating in the thoughts, the images her words evoke.
“Kenan, did you hear what—”
“Yeah, I did.” I slant a look, part lust, part laughter, over to her in the passenger seat. “Heard you loud and clear. When we fuck. Got it.”
“I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.”
“Uh, no.” I tap my fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. “I think it was . . . fine. What you said.”
“I couldn’t let her—”
“Of course not.”
“I let her think we’re already . . . you know. Active.”
“You make it sound like a check-up at the health clinic,” I say with a grin. “So, tell me, Ms. DuPree, are you and Mr. Ross active?”