by Pamela Yaye
Yasmin was singing along with Anthony when she heard someone clear his throat. Her eyes shot open. Without her glasses, all Yasmin could make out was the shape of a man. Squinting, she pushed back her chair and sprang to her feet. Where the hell was Niobie? And who was this man in her office, smelling like soap and baby powder?
Rashawn took his time appraising Yasmin. Her twists were pulled up off her face and drew attention to her delicate cheekbones. The charcoal-gray suit gave her an older, more mature look, and though he liked the way it fit her, he wished she was wearing something that showcased her sexy arms and legs. When she ran her fingers through her hair, he caught a breath of her perfume and forced his hands into his pockets. He didn’t know Yasmin well enough to touch her, but hell if the desire wasn’t crushing. “I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. There was no one out front.”
“It’s no problem at all,” she lied, grabbing the stereo remote. But instead of turning off the CD player, Yasmin increased the volume. The music blared so loud her ears throbbed. Grimacing, she marched over to the bookshelf and jabbed the power button. Smoothing a hand over her blazer, she gave the stranger a shaky smile. “I’m sorry about that.”
“It’s no problem. These things happen, right, Doc?”
Yasmin retrieved her glasses from the end table and slipped them on. Now that the room was in focus, she was able to match the voice with the face, and what a face it was. Heavy eyebrows, sensuous mouth, built-to-last physique. Her usual calm deserted her as she stared at Rashawn. He was more handsome than she had remembered.
He wore large diamond studs in each ear, a wide-link chain on his neck and a platinum watch encrusted in diamonds on his wrist. A large tattoo of a cross with two daggers knitted together covered his arm. Only the strong survive was written in fine, black script. Faded blue jeans hung from his waist and his sneakers were spotless.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Yasmin said, pulling her gaze back up to his face. The man had sleepy, bedroom eyes. Eyes so deep and mysterious a woman could easily get lost in them.
“I’m glad to hear that, because it took a lot of work tracking you down.” His eyes bore down on her, robbing her of speech. “When you didn’t return my calls, I didn’t know what to think. Thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Yasmin laughed. It was either that or confirm his suspicions.
“Nice setup you got here,” Rashawn said, noticing the framed diplomas, leather furniture and flower-filled vases. A saltwater aquarium filled with vibrantly colored fish and seashells sat against the far wall. The fish tank gave the otherwise ordinary room a much-needed punch of color. “I just bought a house in Clearwater. Maybe you can help me decorate.”
Locking a smile into place, she leaned against her desk. The man had a killer voice. It was heavy with masculinity and touched with just the right amount of sensuality. Getting rid of Rashawn wouldn’t be easy, but her last session of the day was about to start and she wanted to read over Mr. Gallagher’s file. “I wish we could talk further, but I’m expecting my next client any minute now. It’s his first time here and I want to be prepared when he arrives.”
“Cool. Don’t mind me.” Rashawn stepped back, stretched out on the tan-colored couch and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”
“You’re not Brody Gallagher.”
“I know, his assistant made the appointment on my behalf.”
“I see.” Yasmin swallowed. She could do this. She was a trained professional, equipped to help clients resolve their personal issues and achieve self-awareness. It didn’t matter that Rashawn had a dreamy voice and rippling muscles. This was business and Yasmin refused to let anything stand in the way of doing her job. “I need a few minutes to get myself together and then we can begin.”
He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest. “Like I said, Doc, take as much time as you need.”
Yasmin was behind her desk, gathering assessment forms, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, glancing at Rashawn, who was still lounging on the sofa.
Her assistant came in, an apologetic look on her face. Niobie Slade had been with her from the first day she had opened the doors of A Better Way Counseling Services three years earlier, and though the twenty-three-year-old single mom still had a lot to learn, Yasmin could always count on her to be affable and efficient.
“Yes, what is it?” she asked, trying to squelch her frustration. Niobie had a penchant for see-through tops, miniskirts and stilettos and, though Yasmin had spoken to her at length just last week about her wardrobe, she had shown up today in a getup straight out of a music video. If it weren’t for all the work that had to be done for the fund-raiser, Yasmin would have sent her home. The slinky tomato-red dress was a soft, lightweight material but looked very expensive. Yasmin liked it, but not on Niobie. Her assistant was literally busting out of it. Her breasts were on display like a Ferrari in a showroom and the sides bunched up in layers when she walked. The outfit was clearly intended for a woman with height and curves and Niobie was short on one and had too much of the other.
“Sorry to disturb you, but Ms. Dubois called from Pastries and Stuff Catering. They’re booked the first Saturday in June, but when I explained it’s a charity event for inner-city children, she said they could squeeze us in,” Niobie explained, tucking a lock of golden-brown hair behind her ears. “The only catch is they can’t decorate or provide servers. We’ll have to take care of that ourselves.”
“That’s fine. I think it would be a nice touch if we had the kids serve the guests.” Pleased that things were finally starting to fall into place, Yasmin said, “Did she leave a number where I can reach her?”
“Yes. She asked that you call by five and let her know either way.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“No problem.” Niobie turned toward the door but stopped abruptly when she saw the man stretched out on the couch. A pudgy hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God! It’s Rashawn Bishop!” The words came out muffled, but there was no mistaking her excitement. “I’m your biggest fan!”
Rashawn sat up and swung his legs out in front of him. Seven years ago he had been an amateur boxer with only a handful of fights under his belt. Winning the Golden Gloves and then placing well at nationals had catapulted him from obscurity into the local spotlight. And after his record improved to thirty-seven wins, his celebrity had grown and offers started rolling in. Better management, more exposure and a professional debut had soon followed. These days he was recognized more often than not, and he was receiving more and more female attention. Except from Yasmin Ohaji.
“Could you autograph something for my son? He’s only seven but he already has dreams of becoming a boxer. Crazy, huh? I’m saving up so I can send Miles to one of those junior boxing camps. He’s good and I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.”
Rashawn chuckled. “How about I swing by tomorrow and drop off an autographed picture for your boy?”
“That would be awesome!”
Yasmin cleared her throat, which snapped Niobie out of fan mode and into work mode. “Sorry for the interruption, Ms. Ohaji. If you need anything I’ll be at my desk.”
“Thank you, Niobie. That will be all.”
Waving good-bye at Rashawn, she proceeded through the open door and shut it behind her. They could hear Niobie giggling, then the sound and her footsteps faded.
“I apologize for my assistant’s behavior. It was—”
“No problem. I love meeting fans.”
“You’re a boxer? I don’t watch a lot of sports but you must be pretty popular if people recognize you.”
“I do all right.”
“How long have you been boxing?”
“Since I was fifteen. I got decent grades but I was always getting into trouble at school. My phys ed teacher took pity on me and started letting me hang out at his father’s gym. I’ve been hooked on boxing ever since
I threw my first punch.”
Boxing was a violent, barbaric sport and Yasmin would never understand why someone would subject himself to such abuse. Shuffling the papers on her desk, she collected her clipboard and sat in the chair across from Rashawn. He could fill out the assessment sheets later. The clock was ticking and Yasmin didn’t want him to feel short-changed. After all, he was paying a hundred and fifty dollars an hour. “What brings you here today, Mr. Bishop?”
“You, Dr. Ohaji. And please, call me Rashawn.”
Chapter 3
Yasmin shifted in her chair, convinced the man sitting across from her liked making her sweat. Rashawn wasn’t her only male client, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel nauseated, dizzy and nervous all at the same time. The long, steady looks, the way he wet his lips and the naughty gleam in his eyes troubled her.
Shoving aside her trepidation of being alone in her office with a man with whom she shared a sheer, almost magnetic chemistry, Yasmin made notes on her client assessment sheet. “Our relationship is strictly a patient–doctor one, so let’s stick to what brought you here and the issues you’re dealing with in your life right now.”
“Does that mean I can’t ask you out again?”
Yasmin dodged the question. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“You first.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Tell me about your educational background.”
No one had ever asked her that before. People from all walks of life came into A Better Way Counseling Services for her help, assuming everything they had heard about her was true. Yasmin didn’t know if she should be impressed or offended by his request. “I graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in psychology, then got my master’s degree in marriage and family therapy the following year.”
“I bet you got good grades. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t settle for anything but a perfect GPA.”
Rashawn was right. Proud that she had coasted through her studies and made the dean’s list four consecutive years, but not wanting to sound arrogant, Yasmin stuck to the facts. “After a brief stint working in a public health clinic, I finished graduate school and received my doctoral degree in clinical psychology.”
“A savvy, young sister with a successful practice? Impressive.”
Uneasy with the way he was staring at her, she said, “Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my credentials. Let’s talk about you.”
“I’m single. Never been married. No children that I’m aware of. I’m a loving, sensitive brother searching for the right woman to spend my life with.” Rashawn saw her eyes soften and chuckled lightly. Extending his arms along the couch, he said, “I’m just playing, Doc. But women love to hear that sensitive crap, don’t they?”
Yasmin refused to be pulled into the conversation. Regardless of what he thought, this was not a two-way discussion. “Why don’t we discuss your family history?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”
“My mom raised me and my brothers by herself. My dad wasn’t around much, so she shouldered most of the responsibility. I have three loudmouth brothers and I’m the oldest of the brood. They have girlfriends and kids and still live in the old neighborhood.”
“What’s your ethnic background?”
“Sounds like a personal question.”
It was and Yasmin felt guilty for asking it. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she was blurring the lines between professional and personal interest. “You don’t have to answer—”
“I’m just teasing, Doc.” A humming sound came from inside his jeans pocket, but he ignored it. “I came to see you, so feel free to ask me anything. My mom’s half black, a quarter white and a quarter Mexican, and my dad is Puerto Rican.”
“That’s quite a mix.”
“I know. I’m always teasing her that she should work for the United Nations!”
Laughing, she loosened her grip on the clipboard. “And maybe you should be a comedian instead of a boxer.”
“Then would you go out with me?”
Yasmin shied away from his gaze. If she wasn’t careful, she’d succumb to the boxer’s advances and destroy her credibility as a respectable therapist. “Do you have a relationship with your father?”
For the next half hour, Yasmin asked Rashawn about his up-bringing, background and career. He was engaging, straightforward and humorous. Yasmin tried to remain unaffected by what he told her, but Rashawn was so easy to be with, when he asked her about growing up in South Africa, she spoke freely.
“My family came to the States when I was nine, but I still remember playing in the cornfields with my younger brother and sister. We lived in Duthasa, a remote village only accessible by car. It was tough living out there, away from the city and my relatives, but at a very young age I learned how to fish, how to climb peach trees and I could swim better than kids twice my age.”
“When was the last time you went home?”
“I’m ashamed to say,” she admitted, tapping her pen absently on her clipboard. “It’s been almost ten years.”
Rashawn shared what had led him to South Africa and Yasmin was so caught up in his story, she lost track of time. If Niobie hadn’t buzzed with Ms. Dubois on line two, they would have continued talking.
“That went well,” Rashawn said, watching Yasmin. She stood and adjusted her suit. Grinning mischievously, he imagined what was underneath the crisp polyester material. Something told him this therapist was going to be a tough woman to crack. But Rashawn loved a challenge, especially one with curves. “We should continue this conversation tomorrow night.”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be undefeated if I did.”
Yasmin raised her eyebrows, her face the picture of doubt. He talked a good game, but he was no different than any of the other guys who hit on her. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not interested in going for dinner and a movie. It’s become a cliché, don’t you think?”
“No doubt. That’s why I thought we’d do something original like drive down to the pier and spend the night checking out our great city on a boat. Ever been on the evening boat cruise?”
“No, I’ve always wanted to go but my fia—” Yasmin stopped herself midword. Returning to her desk, she fought the emotion crawling up her throat. Now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown. She had work to do and a charity fund-raiser to plan. Forcing a smile, Yasmin put a hand on the phone and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I really have to take this call.”
“No problem. Do what you gotta do.”
“I look forward to seeing you next week.”
“That makes two of us. Bye, Doc.” Rashawn strolled over to the door and tossed one last look over his shoulder before leaving.
Yasmin sat down on her chair. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to collect herself. Eric had been gone for over two years, but she felt guilty for lusting over another man. Life had been empty since her fiancé’s death, but she was finally starting to feel like her old self. Work had filled the void Eric had left and now she was near the apex of her career. After only three years of business, A Better Way Counseling Services was flourishing. Yasmin had more work than she could handle, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.
The memory of better days brought tears to Yasmin’s eyes. Life with Eric. Nights at the symphony. Poetry readings at the Soul Café. Family barbecues. The night he had proposed. No, she wouldn’t betray Eric’s family or cause them any more pain. What would Eric’s parents think if they knew she was dating? Her relationship with the Iwenofus was as important to her as her relationship with her own family.
They had lost their son and brother and she had promised to help them through the ordeal. Pushing aside all thoughts of dating Rashawn and overpowering feelings of guilt, Yasmin picked up the phone and sai
d, “Ms. Dubois, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Yasmin pulled her Volvo into the garage. Grabbing her purse off the passenger seat, she clicked the power lock button and entered the house through the side door. The elegant book-and art-filled home was in Carrollwood, an upper-middle-class neighborhood in north Tampa. Young executives and stay-at-home moms frequented the boutiques, specialty shops and five-star restaurants in the local plaza.
Flicking on lights as she strode through the main floor, she unbuttoned her blazer, shrugged it off and then draped it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Wanting their place to have a chic look, but not wanting to do the work herself, Imani had insisted they hire an interior designer. The sisters had sat down with renowned decorator Essence Gilbert-Clark, told her what they wanted and left their house in her hands. The end result was a stylish, urban decor with low-hanging ceiling lights, large suede area rugs and rich, vibrant paint. The open-concept kitchen, like the rest of the house, had walnut-stained flooring and plenty of bay windows ushering in natural light. Maple cupboards tinted in sable brown, granite countertops and dainty glass chairs accented the wide, luxurious space. Beyond the kitchen were a half bathroom and laundry room that led to the heated double garage.
Opening the fridge, Yasmin selected a bottle of her favorite wine. Once the pinot blanc was uncorked, she poured herself a glass, opened the back door and stepped outside onto the patio. Since Eric’s death, she had found herself more appreciative of the beauty of the great outdoors. The fresh air, the stars, the gentle passing of the night. It was in these quiet moments that Yasmin did the most thinking. Sitting down on a wicker chair, she propped her feet up on an ottoman and slowly sipped her drink.
