by DL White
The Kwanzaa Brunch
DL White
Introduction
A fated brunch and an unlikely Cupid…
Sienna Charles is tired of the same old, same old. Same old job, same old city, same old friends. Same old men. Just when she’s relegated herself to living Groundhog’s Day romance edition, Booker LaSalle swaggers into her life, courtesy of an open position at Precision Software. He’s new — to the company, to the city and, most importantly, to her.
Booker LaSalle is making a new life for himself. He relocated to an Atlanta suburb, leaving a stressful job and an ex-wife behind for a great job with growth potential. He’s turning over a new leaf — no more falling for the first pretty woman that crosses his path… like the witty, gorgeous and obviously interested analyst at Precision. Everything about her tempts Booker to throw that “new leaf” plan out of the window.
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
Author’s Note
Hello to my new and seasoned readers! It’s a joy to be bringing a book to you this month! It took every ounce of fight, but I finally have my holiday short for 2019! She almost didn’t happen, but I hope you adore Sienna and Booker because these two would. not. die.
A note that if you haven’t read Unexpected, this story is going to spoil it for you! If you care about that sort of thing, go back and read it first. Meet Anthony and Faith and more importantly, Will and Saidah. (And since I get questions about how to pronounce her name, it’s SAY-DAH or SAH EEH DAH. Either way works.)
Forge ahead if you don’t mind, but you have been warned if you wanted to read the happy ending for yourself!
It is my deep wish that everyone has a pleasant, peaceful, happy end to the year and that plans for a productive 2020 are underway. I honestly have no idea what’s coming from Books by DL White. It’ll be some hotness, though, so BRING IT ON.
Please enjoy this tongue in cheek, light Kwanzaa romance. As always, if you loved it, drop a good word.
Merry Chrismahanukwanzaakah!
DL White
1
Sienna
* * *
Beee-boop. Beee-boop. Beee-boop. Beee-boop.
Aggressive lyrics and hard, driving beats from Complex Magazine’s year end hip hop round up blasted through my headphones while I glared at the blinking, warbling object perched on the corner of my desk. My office line had been ringing nonstop for the past half hour.
I rarely picked up the phone, a well-known fact at Precision Software. Sales analysts were support staff, not customer facing, and the staff I supported would rather email or leave a voicemail. If they wanted to chat — which was rare, and that was fine — they knew how to find my office.
Anthony Thomas, lead sales consultant with the biggest customers and most complicated account profile, got great joy out of doing the opposite. He’d rather call than email and would keep calling until I picked up. I only put up with him because his wife was one of my best friends.
And because she was a chef. Not “a person who likes to cook” or that messes around in the kitchen. Faith was Le Cordon Bleu-Paris trained, and I was a big fan of a well-cooked meal. I could count the curves Faith had put on my hips since our college days.
Beee-boop. The phone lit up again like Christmas.
I seethed, punching the button to open up the line. “No,” I barked, yanking off my headphones and slipping the telephone headset over my ear. I maneuvered the microphone, so it was in front of my mouth, the better to snap at him about blowing up my phone.
Anthony wasn’t discouraged, as this was the standard Sienna Charles greeting. “You don’t even know what I’m calling about.”
“It doesn’t matter what you’re calling about. Did you forget where my office is? Or what that interoffice chat bubble means on your desktop? Or how email works? I’m busy.”
Anthony laughed, his cackles climbing to that pitch only dogs could hear. “You’re so funny when you try to be hard, Sienna. For real, though. Are you coming down to—”
“Definitely no. Make that hell no.”
“Come on. You know she does it to be nice.”
“Do I look like a person who cares about that woman being nice? I fell for the bullshit last year and frankly, you’re still on punishment because you didn’t warn me about her.”
Her was Zoraya Mason, the new CEO of Precision Software. She took over the company a year ago, after her father, Ezra, stepped down because of health problems. She brought her shiny new MBA and modern business strategies to Precision and implemented a host of changes, one of which was a Diversity and Inclusion Committee. While I applauded the observance of cultural and religious holidays represented by the staff, our new chief executive was overly eager to be one of the gang.
She wanted everyone, from the Vice President to the janitor to call her Zoraya, or Zo. She’d had her title removed from the website, her nameplate and her business cards. Zoraya loved employee gatherings and insisted on bringing a dish to contribute to the table.
But wherever her Black Girl Magic shone, it wasn’t at the stove. Or the oven. Not even the refrigerator. The woman could not cook.
But she really wanted to and always tried. Trying not to hurt her feelings about it stressed me out.
“Zo has every department breathing down my neck right now. Her roasted goose frappe or whatever the hell she brought in for this fake woke Kwanzaa Brunch ain’t it, Chief.”
Anthony laughed again. “Hey, don’t hold back. Tell us how you really feel, Sienna. You ain’t got to eat, just come down. You know she’ll be looking for you.”
“And watching to see if I eat any of what she brought.”
Like her food would pass these lips.
“I don’t even know why you’re fighting this. Zo will come find you. And I’m not lying for you again, like I did at the Bashover.”
I moaned aloud, recalling Zoraya’s attempt at a lighthearted Passover gathering, featuring her inedible Matzo Ball soup. It was a river of dough. Anthony had been grilled about where his friend was and asked to encourage—more like bully — me to come down and support our Jewish employees.
“Fine. I’m not eating anything. I might have some punch, if it’s store-bought. I’m not drinking anything served out of a bowl with orange slices in it. There’s no telling what animal did the backstroke in that thing when no one was looking. Then I’m sneaking out, and you will not give me shit about it.”
I pouted, gliding my fingers along the thin, sleek keyboard to lock my computer. “And Faith owes me pecan sweet rolls for this.”
“I’ll alert her to your demand. Meet you down there,” he said, then hung up, cutting off any further argument.
Rolling my desk chair back, I stood, surveying the small but tidy office that I called home for fifty hours a week. The desk and single guest chair took up most of the closet sized room. Two monitors flanked the laptop locked into the dock at the center of the desk. An external keyboard, wireless mouse and desk phone took up nearly every inch of space left, so I used a side table to hold files, notepads and a collection of pens.
Posters, black art, and popular, snappy sayings covered the walls. The room was a study in my personality—techy with a sharp tongue and take no shit attitude.
I tapped the silver-plated lamp that I preferred over the fluorescent bulbs, then grabbed the hoodie that I kept folded over the back of my chair and pulle
d it on before stepping into the hallway.
I grumbled, like the overworked corporate drone that I was, but the past ten years at Precision hadn’t been bad. Competitive salary, good people — chummy CEO who tries too hard notwithstanding — great benefits and amenities, all housed in an updated state-of-the-art building. Like a lot of software companies that popped up in the dot-com era, employees spent a great deal of time at work and the higher-ups believed in making that time as painless as possible.
I’d worked my daily routine down to rote, scheduled tasks, and now the process was a lot of the same thing every day, day in and day out. It was… comforting.
Eh, not really. I loved my job, but I was bored, and not just at the office. I’d had the same friends since undergrad at Albany State, lived in the same condo, shopped at the same neighborhood grocery store and ate at the same restaurants. I’d dated the same man ten times over; if not the same man, the same type of man. The definition of insanity was doing the same thing again and again, expecting a different result.
I was tired of the insanity.
I passed the break room, which housed a fully stocked vending machine and always smelled like burnt coffee, then waved at a few of my associates in the bullpen, an open office environment with low cubicle walls and bright overhead lights. It would not be unusual to see a beach ball bouncing from desk to desk or a meeting being held around the billiards table while a game was in progress.
Rounding the corner, I entered the elevator lobby and punched the button to call it. When the doors slid open, I stepped inside. Then I turned and assumed the position: arms folded across the chest, feet planted apart, stoic game face on.
Zoraya was not going to guilt me into eating her horrible ass food today. Bring it, Black Barbie.
2
Booker
* * *
“So, the company does this kind of thing often?”
I lumbered down the hall next to Anthony, my trainer at my new gig. Anthony was short and had that happily married, my wife cooks every night belly paunch, so he was moving slowly, more wandering the hallway than walking. He didn't seem to be in a hurry to get down to the main floor for this brunch everyone had been talking about.
“This kind of thing, like the Kwanzaa brunch?” He shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “We didn’t used to, but the new CEO is still trying to win us over. I guess the folks like it. We get paid to eat, especially since she has us in here the day after Christmas.”
He threw a glare in my direction. “I’m normally on vacation, but she’s changing some things up and we need to catch up. You need to be out in your territory in January. First quarter is when business spend the most money.”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember you saying that a few times.”
I rubbed dry palms together, eager to finish my training and conquer this new position. Precision was a powerful player in Business Management applications, and I was chomping at the bit, not only to blow this new job out of the water, but to make my mark in a different city. Double-X Systems, Tara Lasalle and Baton Rouge, Louisiana, were in my rearview mirror. It was full speed ahead, a whole new Booker Lasalle, from here on out.
I had lived in Atlanta long enough to sign the lease on my apartment, stock the cabinets with a few groceries and report to work. Training had been a long haul of endless days and paperwork, so a break for lunch and some social activity was most welcome. Not that Anthony wasn’t personable, but I wanted to look at someone else’s face for a change.
We rounded a corner to the elevator lobby and Anthony punched the down button. After a few moments, the doors slid open. A sour faced woman stood in the middle of the cube, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“Ay, fam!” Anthony yelled. Of course, he knew her. Anthony knew everybody. He stepped into the elevator and held out a fist for her to bump it. “Make room! Damn.”
She stepped aside with a grumble of “whatever,” and uncrossed her arms, giving his fist a bump to complete the gesture. Her hoodie had large white block lettering that read FUCK IT, WE’LL DO IT LIVE, which made me laugh while increasing my appreciation of the atmosphere at Precision. They clearly didn’t stifle an employee’s personal sense of style.
I stepped in and shuffled to the other side of the elevator, putting her in the middle.
“You mad?” Anthony asked her, grinning.
“Nope,” she answered, too quickly and sharply to not be upset. “I just hate office politics and schmoozing when I have shit to do. I’m backed up on accounts I need to update before we switch over to your new profile. I’m in the middle of month end and Zo has the finance manager on my ass about quarter close and year-end reports. She wants them before the first of the year. We never have to provide reports before the year is out—”
“You’ll be fine,” Anthony soothed. “It’s not like you’ve never written a report before. It’s an hour off. Bets on what Zo brought?”
“Only if we’re betting food,” she replied. “A Dulce de leche cake from your wife says whatever she brought is disgusting. I’ve already won.”
“You know, I don’t think Faith wants to be involved in our bets anymore. It creates work for her.”
“That means you lose to me too often. She should make you be her sous chef or something.”
“So I can mess it up?” He giggled. “And get on her nerves and get banned from the kitchen? Might be a good strategy.”
“You have no skin in the game, Anthony. You bet wild because it means nothing to you.”
I leaned against the wall of the elevator as it slowly descended, catching a few people on each floor, and watched the volley of these two, mesmerized. Her tongue was sharp, and she was quick-witted. Her voice struck a husky tone that rubbed me in just the right way. So did her deep brown skin, almond brown eyes and coke bottle shape — enough to grab onto and then some. Her short cut, dark at the roots, and platinum blonde toward the blunt ends that hung over her eyes was striking against her skin and a noticeable contrast to thick, plum colored lips.
Not that I was paying attention. I had a text message inbox full of angry diatribes as a lesson to never dip my pen in company ink ever again.
But I at least wanted to properly meet this woman.
I eyed Anthony over her head, but he was oblivious, deep into shit talking. He really wasn’t going to introduce us?
I stuck my hand out, loudly clearing my throat and interrupting their banter. “Hey. I’m Booker LaSalle,” I said, directing the rise in my voice to her, but cutting my eyes at Anthony. “I’m new to Precision. Anthony’s training me.”
She paused, her wide eyes rolling up to mine in surprise, like she hadn’t noticed that I had been standing beside her the entire time. And maybe she hadn't, because Anthony’s personality was large and just this side of overbearing.
“Hey,” she said, giving me firm pumps and then a squeeze before she let go. “I’m Sienna. I’m an analyst here. I didn’t think I had seen you around here, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself by asking if you were new.”
“Sienna hides in her office. She barks loud, but she doesn’t bite, so don’t be scared.”
“Shut up, Anthony,” she snapped, huffing and rolling her eyes. I choked back a laugh.
The elevator thumped, emitted a muted ding, and the doors slid open. The cafeteria, a café and the social center were on the main floor. We followed the crowd gathering around the reception desk. Instead of the normal sign-in sheet and harried front desk staff, there was a steaming crock pot, a few stacks of paper cups and a tray of cookies.
People milled around, sipping what smelled like hot apple cider, and wandered toward the cafeteria, its double doors propped open. A sign hung above the entrance, decorated in festive holiday colors.
Happy Kwanzaa from Precision Software!
“Here we go.” Sienna’s shoulders squared up, her lips pressed into a tight line.
“Aight, so… what’s the deal?” My gaze bounced from Antho
ny to Sienna and back. “Y’all seem scared or something.”
“You’ll see,” said Anthony. He seemed to enjoy the anticipation a little too much. I was learning to be wary of that twinkle in his eye. The crowd thinned, and we neared a table.
And paused.
“Hm…” I scrubbed a palm down my face. Then gripped my chin and stroked the unshaven hairs that had sprouted on my chin. “What… I mean…”
“Exactly,” said Sienna. “Just… what.”
3
Sienna
Booker’s eyes were wide, full of what I surmised was fear and loathing.
I stood between him and Anthony, struck speechless by a four-story red and green mottled monstrosity. It was so overwhelming; it had a buffet table to itself. The dull roar of conversation around us ground to a halt as more people entered the room and stopped at the table.
“Holy…” muttered one of the engineers.
“Oh, dear God!” Yelped Regina, the receptionist.
“Ooh, look at everybody checking out my Kwanzaa cake! I was up all night working on this thing!”
Zoraya shuffled through the crowd to the front of the room in a red and green print dashiki dress and red patent leather sandals, her hombre bob lace front perfectly laid. Her lips, shellacked in Stunna red by Fenty Beauty, bent into a wide smile, beaming every ounce of the pride she must have conjured up to cart four tiers of brown, red and green cake into the building.
“I found this recipe on the Food TV site and decided to experiment,” she gushed. “The base is Duncan Hines yellow cake. Then there’s an apricot jam filling and chocolate frosting. And, to be holiday appropriate, I dyed the seeds and popcorn that decorate the outside.”
