by Nia Arthurs
I watch her hair swish from side to side. Watch the gentle sway of her hips.
That dress…
Damn.
This won’t work.
I need Venus Miller out of my head.
Two
Venus
Eight Years Later
“How are you still Cupid?”
Kayla glances up at me as the door smashes against the wall of her office. She’s got her glasses on the tip of her nose and a not this again expression on her face.
I stomp into the room. Flop into her couch. “I paired Holly and Rasheed this week. Victor and Amy last month. Haus and Amanda. Frederick and Lucy. I’m on fire. How are you still Cupid?”
“Venus, take deep breaths.”
I narrow my eyes at her here kitty, kitty tone. “You’re distracted. You share a bed with a super hot, super ripped billionaire who’s blowing your mind every night. If there’s any time to dethrone you, it’s now.”
“Huh.” Kayla smirks. “Plotting against me?”
“Hell yeah.”
“Nice to know what you’ve been doing.”
“Well, I know what you’ve been doing…” I arch an eyebrow.
Kayla blushes. She’s got light brown skin that exposes every thought in her head and this time I can tell she’s thinking of Brendon Humes—corporate heir and her outrageously doting boyfriend—naked.
“Or I should say who you’re doing.”
She waves away my teasing with a hand. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
“About Brendon?” I ease to the edge of my seat. “If you’ve got details, feel free to share.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not Brendon. I’m talking about work.”
I groan in disappointment. “Tease.”
She pretends not to hear me. “It’s not just the quantity of matches that count.”
“Then what?” I huff. These past few weeks, I’ve been schmoozing my butt off, helping clients, recruiting new ones and doing everything I can to force Make It Marriage HQ to acknowledge my greatness.
I’ve heard nothing from up top.
Zero.
Zip.
It’s like a conspiracy against me.
“It’s not quantity, it’s quality.”
“Quality?” I flick a curl out of my eyes. “Who determines the quality of our matches? We treat everyone as equal whether they’re black, white, rich or poor. It’s why I signed on to this gig.”
“True, but the high-profile cases…” She lets her words drift. Stares at me like I’m expected to piece the puzzle together.
And I do.
My lips part with a gasp. “Normal people. I’ve only been matching regular, everyday folks.”
“You want attention?” She snaps her fingers. “Recruit and match someone high-profile. It’s free advertisement. Corporate loves the attention and the good press. Wala.”
I smack my forehead. “It’s been staring me in the face all this time.”
Kayla shrugs, eyes sparkling.
It’s good to see her doing that.
Sparkle.
She used to have a thing for power blazers and pitiful, woe-is-me, the-world-sucks expressions.
Now, well… she still rocks power suits, but it’s not armor. It’s just a fashion choice.
And I like that.
I like when women express themselves however the hell they want.
I don’t like being passed over by said woman in the purple power suit when I’ve worked my butt off.
“But where am I going to find someone high-profile?”
“I thought you had a few high-profile guys on speed dial? Ask one of them.”
“They don’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because…”
“Because?” She eyes me. “They’re eligible men, aren’t they?”
“Yes, I’ve confirmed that.”
“You’ve con—” Kayla frowns. “How?”
“What?”
“You’ve…” She makes a motion with her hands. Clicks her teeth together. “You know?”
“Yeah.”
“All of them?”
I think about it. Nod again.
“Oh?”
“But they’re itch-scratchers.”
Kayla snorts. “Itch-scratchers.”
“Great in the bedroom. Not so great in relationships.”
“Wow.”
There’s no judgment there.
Well, maybe a little.
Kayla tries, but she doesn’t understand me. The restlessness I feel. The chaos in my head. No one got it. No one could quiet the noise.
Except…
I huff. Drum my fingers against the arm of the chair. My nails make a skittering sound against the fabric. I got them done yesterday. In pastel blue. Goes amazing against my cocoa-complexion. Balances the red in the undertones of my skin.
“What about that guy?”
“What guy?”
Kayla taps her silver nails on the desk. “The one you recruited years ago when you first joined the agency. The one who’s a famous painter now.”
My body stiffens.
My heart beats out of time.
“What’s his name?” Kayla murmurs. Tilts her head down. Dark hair flows to the shiny surface of her desk.
Troy.
“Troy.” She snaps her fingers. “You said he’s like a brother to you.”
Lies. He’s not my freaking brother.
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“He’s already engaged,” I whisper. Spit the words out. They’re bitter against my tongue.
“Oh. Bummer.”
She has no idea.
I push up, out of the chair. “I’ll handle it myself.”
“Are you upset?”
“No.” I realize how brusque I sound and soften my voice. “Thanks for the tip.”
“If you need help, I can ask Brendon if any of his friends—”
“Save it. I’ll beat you on my own.”
“I’m rooting for you.” Kayla pumps her fist and slants me a sincere, enthusiastic smile.
Yeah, she will.
Freaking sweetheart.
I slink back to the office I used to share with Hilary—who up and got married last year (little backstabber)—and lock the door behind me. Free from prying eyes, I let out a breath and wilt.
Troy.
Just thinking about him tears me up inside.
Those dark eyes. That brown hair. The rugged jaw. Those soft lips—
I’m not doing this.
Not today. Not ever.
I’m over him.
And, clearly, I wasn’t someone he needed to get over.
Troy moved halfway across the country after my eighteenth birthday and rarely spoke to me after.
I saw him once… at Papi’s funeral.
And again, last year when he announced that he was engaged to some trust fund baby with an appreciation for the arts.
Yeah right.
I googled her. Stalked her Insta and YouTube channel. It was all Gucci this and Prada that and look at me I’m so beautiful.
She doesn’t have a sensitive bone in her body.
Appreciation for the arts my backside.
The only thing Brook Van-Strusser has appreciation for is Troy’s—
My phone buzzes.
It’s my brother.
EVAN: Ma said stop by the house.
ME: I’m busy.
EVAN: She said you tried that excuse last time.
ME: Not an excuse. It’s the truth.
I chew on a nail.
My chest feels like someone is sticking their hand in and churning through blood, vessels and arteries.
Troy does this to me.
I slap my chest.
The phone chirps.
EVAN: Your funeral.
I sigh loudly.
My brother’s annoying, but he’s not wrong.
No one gets summoned by Mom, ignores it and lives to tell the tale.
I haven
’t seen my family in a while.
It’s not that I’m avoiding them.
Okay, so we live in the same city and I rarely point my Uber driver to the suburb where I grew up, but that’s not on purpose. I just…
Things are different now. Mom and I have never seen eye-to-eye, but it got worse when Papi died. My grandfather was the only adult who shot straight with me.
No matter what I did, he never jumped on the Venus is a Screw Up wagon.
After his funeral, I couldn’t bring myself to come around the house anymore. It hurt too much. I missed him.
Still do.
EVAN: Why haven’t you been answering my calls?
I trot around to my desk and fold myself into the chair.
My phone buzzes again.
EVAN: I’ve got news.
Since I’m not in the mood to work, I humor him and dial up his number.
Evan answers on the first ring. “She’s alive.”
“Very funny, Evander.”
My brother groans.
I grin triumphantly. Mom loved ancient history and mythology growing up. She chose Venus—after the goddess and Evan, short for Evander—a cultural hero in Roman mythology.
Growing up, Evan hated his full name. It got so bad, he printed letters every year to remind his teachers that he preferred the shortened version.
I think the animosity towards his name is stupid. ‘Evander’ sounds cool, but it comes in handy when I’m on ‘annoying little sister’ duty. Helps me put him in his place without much effort.
“Keep talking smack and I won’t tell you the news.”
“What news?” I plant my palm on the desk and swing my chair around.
Make it Marriage is located in an old business district. Mom-and-pop shops flood the streets. Skyscrapers pepper the horizon, but colorful fabric awnings hover nearby like a warm blanket.
“It’s about Troy.”
I freeze.
The air gets hot. Heavy. Smothering.
The phone almost slips from my fingers.
Why is this man’s name popping up everywhere today?
I clear my throat. Hope my voice doesn’t give my feelings away when I say, “What about Troy?”
“He’s coming back.”
“Back?” I slam my heels into the ground just as my heart slams against my ribs.
“Back home.”
“When?”
“Today.”
“Why?”
“That—I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
My eyes squeeze closed. “Is he… already married?”
“No.” A pause. “I really shouldn’t be doing this.” Evan sucks in a deep breath.
My knee jitters. “What? Evander? Just freaking tell me.”
“Evan.”
“Evan.”
“Now say ‘Evan is my hero’.”
“I’m not saying that.”
The phone rustles.
“Tell me.”
“She broke off the engagement.”
The floor falls away beneath my feet.
Evan sighs. “Troy’s wedding is cancelled.”
Three
Troy
I tug my shirt over my head. Drop it to the ground. Listen to the fabric pool in satisfaction.
Brook used to hate that. Used to yell at me—‘why can’t you put your damn clothes in the hamper like a normal human being?’
But Brook’s not here.
So I drop my shirt on the floor like a freaking animal.
It feels good.
Feels way too good.
To the point I’m wondering what I was doing with her for so long. What I was doing proposing to her. What I was doing getting married to her.
I knew we weren’t that compatible, but she was freaking gorgeous and the sex…
Lust clouded my judgment.
My bare feet pull against the warm, hardwood floors.
Another thing Brook would have complained about.
She liked tiles. Marble. Glass. Granite.
No hardwood.
It was too… warm.
Too… earthy.
She preferred cold and uncomfortable furniture. Stiff couches. White rugs. Pretty to look at, not so satisfying to touch.
I toss my bag on the couch. The rest of my stuff will be here later, but I’ve got enough essentials to take a shower.
I need one.
I’ve been sweating all day. Moving. Making calls.
Starting over is a lot more hectic than I thought it would be.
But in some ways, it’s easier.
Or maybe it’s where I’m starting over.
Back home.
People that I love all around.
Venus’s face comes to mind.
I shake my head. Push it off. It’s been eight years.
Things have changed.
I’ve changed.
Whatever obsession I had with her back then is gone now, tamed by my maturity and life experience.
I hop in the shower. The water’s warm.
I tilt my head. Let the stream gently massage my neck and shoulders. Close my eyes.
There’s a picture on the back of my eyelids. Brook under some guy on the bed—our bed. The pure Egyptian cotton sheets pulled to her chest. Sky-blue eyes sliding to the ground.
She got caught.
Bareback.
Red-handed.
Embarrassing.
For me.
I’d known she was acting shady, but I shrugged the feelings off. I believed her when she said he was just a friend. When the texts rolled in at three a.m. and she swore it was spam.
I’m an idiot.
At least I got out before we got married.
That would have been a disaster. Chained to her in the eyes of the law. A messy divorce. A public laughing stock.
I shudder to think of it and grab the soap to get my mind off it.
After my shower, I wrap a towel around my waist. Cinch it firm. Head outside with a hand fluffing my hair and the other browsing my cell for a text from Evan.
He said he’d stop by after work.
Hope he gets here soon.
I’m in the mood for a drink.
Catching up with my best friend is long over-due. We’ve kept in touch, but the visits cross-country weren’t as often as either of us would like.
I take another step.
Stop short when I hear a soft, feminine gasp.
My eyes barrel up.
Right into a pair of deep brown irises.
My heart jumps to my throat.
I’ve got to be dreaming.
That can’t be…
It’s… Venus.
I blink a couple times, but she’s still there. Staring at me.
She looks different in person.
Not that the pictures I happened to peek at over the years weren’t gorgeous.
But up close…
Some things haven’t changed. Same warm brown skin with red undertones. Same mischievous twinkle in her eyes. Same lips. Cupid’s bow—thick at the top, full at the bottom.
Damn, those lips.
I lick my own, a desperate attempt to calm down.
Her reddish-brown hair looks softer. Longer.
My fingers twitch. The old urge to run my fingers through her curls is still there, still alive and kicking.
Venus tilts her head. Her lips inch upward as the awkwardness of the moment tinges with something else. “You work out?”
“What?”
She juts her chin forward. “You’re jacked. You didn’t used to…” She stops. Shakes her head. “Wow.”
I stare at her.
My heart’s beating like crazy.
Blood’s rushing south fast.
I scramble to make sense of Venus. Here. In my house.
While I’m naked.
I shuffle back. “What are you doing here?”
Brown eyes slam into me. “Heard you got dumped.”
“What?” My eyebrows hike.
“Evan told me the wedding’s off.”
My eyebrows scrunch. I told Evan the wedding was canceled, not who called it off. The bastard assumed.
Not that I’ll be correcting the assumption.
Brook begged me to keep her cheating a secret. Claimed it would ‘ruin her image’.
And I know she’s all about appearances.
I shake my head. Focus on Venus. “How’d you get in?”
“Front door was unlocked.” She steps closer. The scent of her—something light and flowery—messes with my head. Makes my stomach tighten. Makes my heart flutter.
It’s still happening.
She still gets me light-headed.
Damn.
I take another step back.
There’s only a towel between her and what my body wants to do.
More space.
I need…
“Welcome home, Troy,” she says.
I stop and stare at her.
She blinks thick eyelashes. Watches me with a small, uncertain smile. “I missed you.”
Damn. That look. Those eyes.
Nothing’s changed.
Nothing’s freaking changed for me.
But there’s no way in hell I’m entertaining thoughts of sleeping with Venus Miller.
She may be gorgeous. Dark eyes. Long legs. And—
Not helping.
Clothes. I need to take her clothes off… no, put mine on.
I need clothes on.
Talking to her naked isn’t helping.
And if she sees what’s going on under this towel…
I’m like a teenager again.
Can’t even control myself.
It’s freaking pathetic.
I’m thirty-three years old. I built a graphic design business from scratch. I’m an acclaimed painter with work featured in art galleries all over the country. I’ve fallen in love. Proposed. Gotten cheated on.
Life’s slapped me in the face more times than I can count.
I’m old enough to know better.
I’m not giving in to the spell of the little girl who used to put make-up on me.
“I’ll, uh…” I swallow. Clear my throat. “Give me a minute.”
“Wait.” She surges forward. Touches my arm.
It’s a slight graze, but it sends warning bells stampeding through my body.
Five times five is twenty-five.
Damn. Do I really need to resort to this again?
Venus slants a lock of curly hair behind her ear. “Can I get a hug?”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
