by Naomi Chase
As she passed the open doorway to Brandon’s home study, she stopped.
After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and stepped quietly through the door. With the flip of a switch, cool white light washed over the room. In contrast to the mahogany and brass-studded leather that characterized his office at the law firm, Brandon’s home study featured a sleek, ultramodern decor that included a steel-and-glass desk, Deco lighting, contemporary artwork, and a glass-topped drafting table piled with legal tomes. The first time Tamia visited the condo, she’d teased Brandon about having an identity crisis because his study looked like it had been designed by an architect rather than an attorney.
Smiling at the memory, Tamia wandered over to a wall that held an assortment of photographs. In one picture Brandon posed with a group of his fraternity brothers—all sported wide, mischievous grins that left no doubt they’d recently been up to no good. In another photo, Brandon was flanked by Be-yoncé and Jay-Z during some celebrity fund-raiser event held in New York. Brandon and Bey, also a Houston native, had supposedly been friends for years. But the most riveting photograph on the wall—and one that attested to Brandon’s elite social status—featured him with his parents and President Obama at the inauguration two years before.
Tamia had been blown away the first time she saw the picture. She’d gushed over it, asking Brandon a thousand questions before he’d laughingly steered her away from the wall and ushered her out of the office. Even now, several months later, she still felt a quiet sense of awe as she lingered over the photo, mentally inserting herself between Brandon and the president.
Someday, she told herself. Someday she and Brandon would become a formidable power duo like Bernard and Gwen Chambers. Barack and Michelle. Bey and Jay.
Smiling at the thought, Tamia sauntered over to Brandon’s desk and sat down. She ran her fingers over the smooth glass surface, careful not to disturb anything lest he think she’d been snooping through his things. She’d never invade his privacy like that.
But just out of curiosity, she opened the top drawer of his desk and peeked inside.
There were small boxes of ballpoint pens, stapler refills, paper clips, pushpins. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Moving to the next drawer, she saw a hodgepodge of manila file folders, a case of blank CDs and flash drives, software instruction manuals, and an old dog-eared copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X, which Brandon had read so many times he could recite passages in his sleep.
As Tamia closed the drawer and reached for the last one, her cell phone went off on the desk.
She jumped guiltily, then chuckled under her breath and reached for it.“Hey, baby,” she greeted Brandon warmly.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I was hoping you’d call tonight.”
“Why? You miss me?”
“Badly.”
He chuckled.“I miss you, too. What’re you up to?”
“Oh, not much.” Grinning impishly to herself, Tamia rose from the chair and headed out of his study, turning off the light as she went.“So tell me about your day….”
Chapter 32
Brandon was in his hotel room, stretched out on the king-size bed, a half smile on his lips as he listened to Tamia ramble on about the evening gowns she’d tried on at the Galleria after work. Every so often he’d tune her out, his gaze straying across the room to the television set tucked into an elegant wooden armoire. The playoffs were on. Game four between the Heat and Celtics.
It was a good game, from what he could tell. But he couldn’t really concentrate, his attention divided between Tamia—and the woman occupying the room next to his.
“… just didn’t look right on me,” Tamia was saying, her voice penetrating his thoughts like a bad cell phone connection that had suddenly been restored. “So I went to the Carolina Herrera store—”
“Baby,” Brandon gently interrupted.“I think you’re stressing way too much over this. You’re gorgeous. Anything you wear is gonna look incredible on you. So just pick a damn dress and be done with it.”
She snorted.“Easy for you to say! All you have to decide is whose tux you feel like wearing—Armani, Versace, or Brioni.”
Brandon chuckled.“That’s not the point.”
“I know.” She sighed deeply. “I just want to make a good impression on your parents.”
“Then just be yourself.” Whoever you are, a small voice added cynically.
“You’re right,” Tamia conceded with another heavy sigh. “I’m making this too damn difficult.”
“You really are. It’s not like you’re going to the Oscars—it’s a dinner party.” He paused. “Now, if you show up in some hoochie getup, I’ma have to pretend I don’t know you.”
Tamia let out a peal of laughter. “So you got jokes, huh? Okay, just for that, I’m getting the most expensive dress I can find—thank you, sugar daddy!”
Brandon burst out laughing.
There was a knock at the door, barely audible over the blaring television in the background. Still grinning, Brandon grabbed the remote control and turned down the volume, then got up and made his way across the room.
When he opened the door, Cynthia was standing there.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
“Hello?”Tamia prompted after several seconds of silence. “Brandon? You still there?”
“Sorry,” he murmured.“I had to get the door.”
“Who was it?” she asked.
Brandon hesitated, staring at Cynthia.“Room service.”
“I thought you already had dinner.”
“I did. I got a craving for … chocolate.”
“Chocolate?” Tamia echoed, sounding amused. “Kinda late for that, isn’t it?”
“Naw,” Brandon drawled, eyes roaming across Cynthia’s face.“It’s never too late for chocolate.”
She blushed and glanced away.
“Well, let me run,” he told Tamia. “I’ll call you tomorrow night—same time, same place.”
“Looking forward to it,” she purred.“Enjoy your chocolate dessert.”
“Mmm.” His mouth curved wryly. “I’ll probably regret it in the morning.”
Tamia chuckled.“You only live once.”
“So true, so true.”
“Good night, baby.”
“Good night.” Slowly he closed the phone, gazing down at Cynthia.“Wassup.”
“Hey.” She hesitated, then held up the iPad she’d been clutching to her chest.“I just finished a draft of the memo we were discussing earlier. Thought I’d show it to you, get your feedback.”
Brandon nodded, stepping aside.“Come in.”
She wavered, glancing at his chest and bare arms. He wore a wifebeater over his suit pants because he hadn’t gotten around to showering and changing for bed yet. The way Cynthia was staring at his biceps made him feel like the juicy slab of prime rib he’d just devoured for dinner.
“Coming?” he prompted when she didn’t budge from the doorway.
She swallowed visibly. “Actually, uh, I could just give you the iPad and let you read the memo on your own.”
“In that case, you could have just e-mailed it to me.” He gave her a knowing look.
She blushed, biting her lower lip.
“I didn’t know whether you were online or not.” She glanced pointedly at his closed laptop on the desk.
He tipped his head, lips quirking.“Okay.”
They stared each other down in the silence that followed.
Gently he took the iPad from her.
After hesitating another moment, she cautiously entered the room.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he invited, closing the door behind her.
She eyed the rumpled bed, then hastily pulled out a chair at the desk and sat down.
Smiling inwardly, Brandon walked over and set the iPad and his cell phone on the desk. As he turned and moved toward the bed, Cynthia gave him a questioning look.“I thought you were going to read—�
�
“It’s been a long day,” he interrupted, stretching out on the bed with his arms folded behind his head. “I think we’ve earned a little downtime, don’t you?”
She hesitated, her eyes skimming the length of his body before she quickly averted her gaze.“Sure. I guess.”
He grinned at her halfhearted tone. “You need to relax. Put your feet up, watch the game. Help yourself to a beer from the minibar.”
“No, thanks.” She smiled ruefully. “I think I had one too many glasses of wine over dinner.”
Brandon wiggled his brows suggestively. “So that means I can take advantage of you?”
They both laughed.
When the moment passed, they were still staring at each other.
An animated exclamation from Marv Albert drew their gazes to the television, where LeBron James had just dunked on a hapless defender. Upon seeing the instant replay, Brandon and Cynthia roared with admiration.
“Dayum!” Cynthia exclaimed, shaking her head in awed disbelief.“That boy’s got skills!”
Brandon smiled. “They don’t call him King James for nothing. Even if he was wrong for bailing on the Cavs the way he did.”
Cynthia grinned, drawing her knees up under her chin. “Well, traitor or not, he still puts on one hell of a show. This game looks good.”
“Told you.”
But as she watched the television, Brandon found himself watching her, silently studying her appearance. Her hair was still pinned up, and she wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a bulky Howard University sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and thick, fuzzy socks—the kind that had rubber soles to prevent skidding. The overall effect should have been frumpy, but instead she reminded Brandon of the proverbial naughty librarian. Any moment now he expected her to pull off the nerdy glasses, shake her hair loose, smile provocatively, and perform a sexy striptease.
He gulped hard at the imagery.
Cynthia turned her head, catching his transfixed gaze. “What?”
He blinked.“What?”
“Why are you staring at me like that?”
He chuckled grimly, shaking his head. “You don’t wanna know.”
She frowned self-consciously, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
“I’ve never seen you in those before,” Brandon remarked.
She shrugged.“I don’t really need them. I only wear them at night when I get home. I get eyestrain from all the reading we do at work, so I like to give my eyes a rest at the end of the day.”
Brandon nodded, only half listening to the explanation. He’d been watching her mouth as she spoke, his mind recalling images of a plump red cherry nestled between her lips, then a long brown cigar as she gently sucked on it, drawing smoke into her lungs before releasing the fragrant, sensual curls into the air between them. He felt himself growing hard, swelling inside his boxers. Suddenly the room felt too warm.
Abruptly he got up and moved to the minibar. “I need a beer.”
“I’ll have one, too,” Cynthia blurted out.
He chuckled softly, glancing over his shoulder. “Changed your mind?”
She met his amused gaze.“A woman’s prerogative.”
His smile faded, pulse thudding at the implication.
What else has she changed her mind about?
Turning away, he swiped two frosty beers from the mini-bar, twisted the cap off each bottle, then walked over and handed her one. Their fingers brushed during the brief exchange, electricity crackling, stares locking.
He clinked his bottle against hers.“Cheers,” he whispered.
“Cheers,” she whispered back.
They drank slowly, never taking their eyes off each other.
Instead of returning to the bed, Brandon pulled out the second chair at the desk, turned it around, and nimbly straddled it, positioning himself so that he and Cynthia were facing each other, separated by mere inches. He heard her breath quicken, saw her pupils dilate behind her lenses.
Inwardly he smiled, draping his long arms over the back of the chair with his beer bottle dangling between his fingers.
“So,” he drawled lazily,“what’s up with you and that dude you’ve been seeing?”
Cynthia gave him a surprised look. “How do you know about him?”
“Tamia told me. Said she ran into you one night and you were meeting him for drinks.”
“Ah.” Cynthia nodded, her mouth curving sardonically. “Of course she told you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she probably couldn’t wait to run home and inform you that there’s another man in the picture. Because she’s so worried about me and you.”
“And she has no reason to be?” Brandon gestured to the space between them, the air pulsing with sexual tension.
Cynthia dropped her gaze without responding.
“So what’s his name?” Brandon asked.
She hesitated.“Shane.”
“Shane?” Brandon snickered.
“What’s so funny about that?” she demanded defensively.
Brandon shrugged. “I’ve always thought that was a funny name, especially for a brotha.”
Cynthia arched a brow at him.“Look who’s talking about someone else having a white-boy name.”
Brandon grinned, raising his beer bottle to his mouth. “I guarantee there are plenty more brothas named Brandon than Shane.”
Cynthia grinned.“Maybe so, but what about your brother and sister? Beau and Brooke? Can you say whiiite?”
Brandon laughed, choking on his beer. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then jabbed a warning finger at Cynthia.“Look here, woman. I’m getting tired of you talking smack about my family. First you called my parents bougie, now you got jokes about my siblings’ names. Don’t make me start talking about the bishop.”
Cynthia’s grin evaporated.“What about the bishop?”
“Don’t make me go there.”
Her eyes narrowed.“You’d better not—”
“‘And the Lawwwd speaketh from the glor-i-ousss hea-v’ns—’” Brandon began in perfect mimicry of her father’s theatrical baritone.
Before he’d even finished, Cynthia threw back her head and howled with laughter, the sound quickly joined by Brandon’s. They laughed so hard they nearly dropped their beer bottles on the floor.
“You ain’t right, Brandon Chambers,” Cynthia gasped, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.“Making fun of my daddy like that!”
Brandon grinned unrepentantly. “And there’s more where that came from if you keep talking ’bout my kinfolk.”
She exhaled deeply, trying to catch her breath as she grinned and shook her head at him. “You fight dirty, you know that?”
“You have no idea.” He winked at her, taking another swig of beer before returning to the original subject.“So what does Shane do?”
Cynthia smiled wickedly.“Besides me?”
Brandon stared at her, and she laughed.“I’m just kidding. I know what you meant. Shane is an economics professor at Rice.”
Brandon nodded slowly.“How’d you meet him?”
“We were introduced to each other through a mutual acquaintance who thought we’d be compatible.”
“Are you?”
“Compatible?”
“Yeah.”
“Definitely. Shane’s a great guy.” She looked amused. “What’s with the Twenty Questions?”
Brandon shrugged.“I’m just curious.”
“Just curious, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Cynthia smiled enigmatically. “Well, you can satisfy your curiosity when you meet Shane on Saturday. I’m bringing him to your parents’ dinner party.”
Brandon raised a brow. “Who said you could bring a date?”
This time Cynthia stared at him until he laughed.“Relax. I’m just kidding. I look forward to meeting Shane”—he couldn’t resist emphasizing the name in a mocking tone—“so I can let you know whether I think that nigga’s good enough f
or you.”
Cynthia guffawed, rolling her eyes heavenward.“Now you sound like one of my brothers.”
“I wish I were,” Brandon muttered under his breath before draining his beer and setting the empty bottle on the desk.
Cynthia eyed him curiously.“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you wish you were one of my brothers?”
Brandon just looked at her.
She’d been sitting with her knees tucked under her chin. Now she lowered her legs to the chair, folding them into a half-lotus position as if she were preparing to meditate—as she did every day for twenty minutes. Brandon knew because he’d stumbled upon her when he entered her office late one night. He’d pulled up short at the sight of her seated on a mat on the floor, her back ramrod straight and facing the door, her skirt hitched up around her smooth, toned thighs. She’d glanced over her shoulder, looking annoyed by the interruption until she saw him standing there, saw the way he was staring at her bare thighs. He’d mumbled an apology, offered to come back later, and beat a hasty retreat. It was the last time he’d gone into her office after hours without knocking first.
Cynthia was watching him expectantly. “Hello? Did you hear what I—Hey!” she protested as Brandon suddenly reached over and pulled her glasses off her face.
He peered through the lenses.“Wait a minute. These don’t even have a prescription.”
“Yes, they do!” Cynthia insisted. She tried to snatch the glasses out of his hand, but he laughingly held them out of reach.“I told you I hardly need them. It’s a mild prescription!”
Brandon snorted.“Only if mild is another word for nonexistent.”
Cynthia jumped out of her chair.“Give those back before you break them!”
Brandon was on his feet, laughing and backing away as she came after him. “Hold up. You know what I think? I think these glasses are a prop.”
Cynthia stopped midcharge, hands on hips as she scowled at him.“What the hell are you talking about?”
Twirling the stem of the glasses between his fingers, Brandon grinned at her. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. You knock on my door at eleven o’clock at night to show me a memo you could have just as easily e-mailed to me—a memo we won’t even need until we get back home. So you obviously just wanted an excuse to come over here.”
