Straight from the Hart
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Quote
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
AUTHOR’S NOTE
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONNECT WITH TRACIE
STRAIGHT FROM THE HART
Tracie Banister
“It’s love that makes the world go round.”
-W.S. Gilbert
STRAIGHT FROM THE HART
Copyright © 2021 by Tracie Banister All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual locales or events is entirely coincidental.
This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, by any means, without the written consent of its author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover Art designed by Lyndsey Lewellen.
Formatting done by Wild Seas Formatting.
CHAPTER 1
The halftime buzzer sounds and even though I’m standing in the tunnel that leads away from the basketball court, it’s every bit as ear-piercing here as it would be if I was sitting out in the stands of the Staples Center. But that’s okay because the blaring noise lets me know my client will be here shortly.
“Start the clock,” I tell my assistant, Cole, who immediately taps the timer app on his phone.
“Fifteen minutes and counting. Think we can pull this off?” He raises a professionally-sculpted eyebrow in question.
Cool as the grated cucumber mask I love to get whenever I have time to go to the spa, I reply, “Of course. All of the key players are in place and know what they’re supposed to do, and I have the sequence of events timed down to the last second. Best of all, our client’s wife has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen. This will be the surprise of her life! Heads up,” I command when I see a group of super-sized men in royal blue jerseys and long, baggy shorts with red stripes down the sides heading toward us.
Most of them jog past us on their way to the Clippers’ locker room to talk strategy for the final half of the game with their coach, but the man with a white number sixteen emblazoned across the material covering his chest stops right in front of me. He’s breathing hard from all of the running up and down the court he’s been doing for the past hour.
“We’re up . . . eighteen . . . points,” Jamal pants the words, clearly very proud of his team’s performance.
Cole offers him a courtesy high five while I enthuse, “That’s great!” because it really would have thrown a wrench in the works if the Clippers were having an off night and its star shooting guard wasn’t in the right headspace for what I’ve got planned. Jamal’s attitude is all-important right now, and I need him to exude as much charm, positivity, and love as humanly possible. I also need him to not be so sweaty and gross because even when your man is a professional athlete, BO is a major turn-off.
“Jersey.” I point at the garment made of mesh material that’s clinging to his well-muscled torso, and he whips it off over his head.
“Power Shower.” I extend my arm to the side and Cole hands me a large canister of the product that users swear will “bust the stink,” which I pass along to Jamal. “Apply generously to all exposed skin,” I instruct, then my assistant and I take several steps back so that we’re out of the spritz zone while our client douses himself.
Sniffing one of his pits afterward, Jamal says, “This smells good.”
“Then it’s doing the job we need it to. Pat yourself dry.” I take a folded towel from Cole and shove it at Jamal’s naked pecs, which hit me at eye-level. The man is seriously tall even by basketball player standards. I’m five-ten in my red croc stilettos, and he’s still got a good seven inches on me.
When he’s done, Jamal tosses the used towel over his shoulder, expecting someone else to pick it up, and grabs a clean jersey from Cole. Once he’s fully outfitted again, he turns toward me for a final inspection. “How’s the hair, Vanessa?”
I smirk because he has no hair, having recently shaved off the ‘fro he’s been known for since he played college ball with the Wildcats. “You’re pretty as a picture, which is good because this will probably go viral. Are you ready?”
“You know it. Put me in, coach!”
I love his confidence and know he’ll have his wife, as well as the eighteen thousand people filling this arena tonight, eating out of his very large hand.
“All right. Let’s do this!” I clap my hands together just like jocks do when they end a huddle, and Jamal and Cole follow suit. Go, team!
The three of us relocate to the mouth of the tunnel where we can see the Clippers Spirit dance squad finishing up a routine with the requisite booty popping and hairography. These women are every bit as athletic and hard-working as the Clippers themselves; they just wear and get paid a whole lot less.
As JLo’s “Medicine” comes to an end, the ladies strike a sassy final pose in their red faux leather hot pants and belly-baring jackets, and the arena erupts with appreciative applause. The dancers wave and blow kisses to the audience before leaving center court to sit cross-legged in a row on the sidelines. Normally, this would be when a special form of entertainment would be brought in or people would be pulled from the crowd to participate in a ball-dunking contest, but we’ve got something much more compelling on the agenda.
“Clippers’ fans,” the announcer’s amplified voice booms out of the arena’s speakers, “put your hands together and welcome back to the hardwood number sixteen, NBA All-Star MVP, Jumpin’ Jamal Curtis.”
“It’s go time,” I say, giving my client an encouraging pat on the back before he rushes forward to take the handoff of a microphone from a member of the Staples Center floor crew.
Amid the enthusiastic hooting and hollering of the people packing the stands, Jamal hustles out to his designated spot on the large basketball outlined in black on center court. When he reaches it, he brings the mic up to his mouth and says, “I want to thank you all for being here on this very special night. One year ago today, my
baby . . .” He gestures to a curvy, dark-haired woman positioned in the middle of the row of Spirit team members. “. . . and I got married. Well, we eloped really because it was a spur-of-the-moment thing we did when I had a day off in Memphis between games. So this is our anniversary.”
While the audience cheers, the sound of a cork popping on a bottle of champagne is played and a fancy graphic complete with colorful digital confetti starts flashing “Congrats, Cristela and Jamal!” on all of the jumbotron’s screens.
“Crissy, would you come up here?” Jamal asks his wife, and she immediately pops up, looking nervous, excited, and a little shell-shocked. When she reaches Jamal’s side, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her much-shorter frame to his side.
“I was told the first anniversary is paper, so I wrote a check . . .,” he trails off, cueing two members of the Clippers’ staff to walk out with a big presentation check made of paper-faced foam board. Taking his wife’s hand and gazing into her eyes, Jamal says, “My anniversary gift to you is a million-dollar donation to the Cure Alzheimer’s Fund.”
“Ohmigod!” Cristela claps her free hand to her mouth in disbelief, then drops it a few seconds later to say, “I can’t believe you did this! It’s the best, most generous—” She gets so choked up she can’t complete the sentence. When she’s able to continue a few seconds later, I can see from the close-up of her face on the jumbotron that her eyes are glistening with unshed tears. “I’m sure this money will help a lot of people who are suffering with this illness, like my abuelito.”
Which is precisely why I suggested Jamal donate a sizable chunk of his Clippers change to this cause. It hits very close to home for Cristela since her beloved grandfather was diagnosed with the progressive brain disease a few years ago. This gift is infinitely more meaningful than the standard, yawn-inducing anniversary gifts (flowers, chocolates, candlelit dinner) Jamal had in mind when he first came to my office a month ago. Not that all of those things can’t be romantic when done properly, but I think an occasion as momentous as an anniversary calls for more.
Clutching Cristela’s hand to his heart, Jamal says, “This is just my way of saying thank you for the last year and for being my wife. Marrying you was the smartest decision I ever made, and if I had to do it all over again, I would. In fact, how’d you like to renew our vows?” he queries with an affectionate smile.
“You mean, here?” A befuddled Cristela glances around at their surroundings, then turns back to her husband to ask in an exaggerated whisper, “Now?”
“Seems like the perfect time and place to me. What do you guys think?” Jamal motions at all of the spectators in their seats, and they jump to their feet with a collective roar of approval.
“It was just the two of us and a couple of strangers for witnesses the first time we got married, and I know you felt like we missed out on something by not having our families and friends there. So I’d like to rectify that. Come on out!” he calls back over his shoulder and a group of people begins to stream out of the tunnel on the visiting team’s side.
“Papá! Mamá! Florentin!” Cristela exclaims when she sees her parents and younger brother, who are leading the charge. “Tía Edmee? Tío Oscar?” Her eyes grow wide with surprise as she recognizes the faces of relatives who don’t live in the States. “Abuelita!” she squeals with delight when her grandmother comes into view and runs over to greet the hunched over old woman with what looks to be a bone-crushing embrace.
In all, there are nineteen members of Cristela’s family here, the majority of whom Jamal flew in from her parents’ home country of El Salvador on a private jet. Getting travel visas for all of these folks was no small feat, but my team and I somehow managed to pull a rabbit out of a hat and it was worth all the time and effort to see how happy Cristela looks. So happy that she’s full on blubbering now. Good thing the members of Clippers Spirit wear waterproof mascara and she’s not an ugly crier.
I hate to cut this family reunion short, but watching a bunch of strangers sobbing and hugging each other isn’t much of a thrill for the crowd and I need to keep this thing moving. “Send in Aubrey and the rest of the wedding party,” I tell Cole, and he quickly texts my order.
“Seven-and-a-half minutes,” he reports on the current status of our countdown clock. When our time’s up, these nuptials need to be over so that the basketball game can resume. The Staples Center management team was adamant about us not going one second over their allotted time for mid-game entertainment.
Aubrey, who’s my other right hand, brings out the officiant, along with the groom’s parents, siblings, and grandparents while Jamal’s teammates and the Spirit squad join the party on center court. After pressing a red bow tie into Jamal’s hand (it’s the best way I could think of to turn his uniform into formalwear!), Aubrey gently extricates Cristela from her family so that she can put a bridal veil on her head and give her a beautiful bouquet of white izotes (the national flower of El Salvador) and blue delphiniums—their long stalks are wrapped in red sweatbands, which complement the blue ones already on Cristela’s wrists. And yes, I was very proud of myself for coming up with this clever, little touch specifically for the bride.
Despite Aubrey doing her best to get people to branch off to create groom’s and bride’s sides, the families, along with the other members of the Clippers and Spirit, just mill around, bumping into each other and looking lost like a flock of inebriated sheep.
“This is turning into a giant fustercluck,” Cole observes, using a word he learned from Gossip Girl. He’s been binge-watching the show on Netflix recently and likes to think he’s Serena van der Woodsen.
I’m itching to get out there and restore order myself, but I’m the face of Straight from the Hart and that face, along with the copper-colored hair that’s a trademark of my famous family, is instantly recognizable, which is why I do what I do—curate unique and memorable romantic experiences for couples—as discreetly as possible. I work behind-the-scenes, creating, planning, executing, and most importantly staying out of sight on the big day/night so that whichever half of the duo has hired me can take credit for giving their significant other the world’s most amazing first date, birthday, anniversary, proposal, wedding night, vacation, etc. Fortunately, I have a well-trained team to step in and take control when need be.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Help her!” I give Cole’s bread-deprived body (he’s attempting to do Whole30 again) a push toward the problem.
Springing into action, my ever-efficient assistant hurries out to the basketball court and makes quick work of getting everyone organized. Soon, families and friends are in their proper places, and Jamal is standing at the top of a makeshift aisle with the dark suit-clad officiant while the cameraman who is feeding images to the jumbotron is stationed opposite him where he can capture the bride being escorted to the vow renewal by her father.
The arena goes quiet as everyone waits for the “Wedding March” to start, and I hold my breath in anticipation. This is it. My crowning achievement of the night. The huge, romantic gesture that will make Jamal look like a hero in his wife’s eyes.
Speaking into the microphone, he declares, “I have one more surprise for you, Crissy. Do you remember the song you insisted on playing on your phone when you walked down the aisle at the County Clerk’s Office?”
She nods emphatically while Cole sneaks up next to her and sticks a mic in her hand so that she can reply loudly enough for everyone to hear. “It was ‘Un Amor Que No Te Dejará Ir’ by Francisco. You know how much I love his music.”
“Yeah, I do.” A sly grin spreads across Jamal’s face. “Drop it!” he shouts, and the opening bars of their wedding song begin to play.
But it’s not the Cuban-American artist’s recorded voice singing the lyrics; it’s the man himself who swaggers out onto the basketball court. And if you’re wondering how I convinced the diehard Miami Heat fan to belt out a tune at a Clippers’ game, it was actually quite easy since I’ve always been
good at identifying what a person needs, then making it happen. Francisco’s popularity with the ladies took a hit a few months ago when a pair of sisters announced they were both pregnant with his child (ooops!). I suggested that serenading a happy couple who was recommitting to each other in a very large, very public venue might go a long way toward improving Francisco’s image and restoring his heartthrob status, and he saw the wisdom of my proposal.
Alas, I wasn’t as successful in getting him to wear something red, white, and blue for this performance (I didn’t think a pocket square was too much to ask!) because he didn’t want to “betray”
Releasing her father’s arm, Cristela chucks her bouquet at a Spirit squad member and runs straight at Jamal, catapulting herself into his arms and planting a NSFP (Not Suitable for Public) kiss on him that continues while Francisco wraps up a shortened version of his song. Their make-out session finally ends when the officiant quips, “I think the kiss-the-bride portion of the ceremony has been taken care of. How about we move on to the vows?”
The bride and groom unsuction their lips and Jamal lowers Cristela to the floor so that they can promise to love, honor, and cherish each other for a second time. The buzzer signaling the end of halftime goes off just as the newly remarried pair begins their walk back up the aisle, hand-in-hand, with their friends and families waving sparkly, red, white, and blue streamers. I would have rather given them confetti sticks or rose petal poppers and I offered to provide the man power for a very quick clean-up, but my hands were once again tied by the party-pooping Staples Center bigwigs as they didn’t want to be held liable if some player slipped and fell on a stray piece of paper or flora during the last half of the game. Sigh.