Chapter 4
Skye
It was time to go.
Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely loved my job at Zora Davis, which had quickly become one of the hottest fashion labels in the industry. In fact, this was what I dreamed that I’d be doing since I was a little girl. From the time I was five, I had been all about fashion. So, over twenty years later to be living my dream was beyond incredible to me.
But even though I loved my job, this had been the longest day of the longest week, and I couldn’t wait to hook up with the crew. I was sure the laughs were going to be on me tonight. If Chyanne hadn’t already told Devin what’d happened on my date, she would tonight for sure. That was okay. If the laughs were going to be on me, the mojitos and martinis were going to be on them!
Not that I cared that Chyanne and Devin were sure to give me a hard time. Now that Carter Wellington was forty-eight hours behind me, I could laugh, too.
On my computer, I clicked through the last of the pictures—the layouts for the photo shoot for StylePro magazine on Monday. This was going to be my biggest shoot yet, and I wanted everything about it to be perfect so that my boss would see that I could handle this line and a whole lot more.
Approving all the concepts, I e-mailed the JPEGs to my boss, then grabbed my sweater. But the moment I picked up my purse, the telephone rang. Since it was my work phone, I almost ignored it—especially once I saw the caller ID. But ignoring this call would be like ignoring a toothache—you couldn’t do it. My mother would just hang up and call my cell, and then she’d stalk me until I answered.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, grabbing the phone and putting on my sweater at the same time.
“So, how was your date?”
Really? Before “Hello. How ya doing?” This was the first thing my mother wanted to say to me?
I sighed, but I knew I couldn’t hesitate too long, or else my mom would go straight into her “you’re not getting any younger” speech. And not only did I not want to hear how much she wanted grandbabies, but I was already twenty minutes behind schedule to meet Chyanne and Devin down in the Village.
So, I did the only thing I could do. I lied—to my mother, the preacher’s wife.
“It was great, Mama.”
“Really?” she said with hope all in her voice.
“Yup, but I can’t talk to you about it now, because . . . I’m under a deadline, and I have to get this done for my boss by”—I glanced at my watch so that I could come up with a good time—“seven.”
I know, I know. Two lies in two seconds. But if I’d told her that I needed to get off so that I could meet up with Chyanne and Devin, she would’ve wanted to know every detail of my wonderful date. But work . . . my mother never stood in the way of that. She didn’t want to mess with my job—especially since I could pay my own bills now.
“Well, call me tomorrow. No, call me tonight. I want to hear all about it.”
“Okay,” I said, already dreading the extra lies I’d have to tell.
But, I couldn’t think about that now—not when I had death on my mind. Chyanne and Devin were going to kill me. We were going to the Cellar for Spoken Word Night, and because they didn’t take reservations and it filled up fast on Friday night, they never sat a party until everyone was there.
I grabbed my purse, and since I was the last one in the office, I locked the glass double doors. Trotting down the hall as fast as my five-inch Louboutin pumps allowed me, I calculated how long it would take me to get to the club. If I caught a cab in five minutes, and the traffic wasn’t too bad. I would be only about thirty minutes late. Argh!
Outside, the day’s light was dimming, and I could imagine Chyanne already at the club, pacing and cursing me out for not being there. Even though I couldn’t see her, I needed to settle down my always-on-time friend. At least I could tell her that I was on my way. That was the last thought I had as I looked down into my purse for my phone.
And then . . . bam!
I walked into a brick wall. Or at least that was what it felt like.
I stumbled backward but didn’t fall; the muscular arms of the man, who’d almost knocked me senseless, saved me. But, though I was still standing, all I could see were stars.
I heard the click-clack of heels on the pavement as New Yorkers rushed past, and then there was the blare of honking car horns that still found its way to my ears. But my eyes . . . Everything was still fuzzy.
“Are you all right?” asked the man who’d bumped into me. Or had I bumped into him?
He held my arm as if he was afraid that I might still fall. I blinked a couple of times to erase the stars and then looked up and into his eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
I wanted to answer him, but it was hard to speak. Not because I’d been knocked silly. No, really, I was fine. Or maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I’d been knocked straight into heaven, because the man in front of me sure ’nuff had to be one of the Lord’s angels.
“Miss?”
I didn’t know what to focus on: his light brown eyes, which were filled with concern; or his moist, heart-shaped, plump lips; or his shoulder-length locks, which swayed a little as he shook his head.
Now, I wish I had fallen . . . straight into this beautiful man’s arms. Because of my business, it didn’t take me more than an instant to assess the six-three frame, the 220 pounds of pure, solid muscle; this man was the Adonis that I’d seen pictures of in books. You know he had to be fine—I was around models all day long, and there wasn’t one I’d seen who could stand next to him.
I thought about making my legs go weak, forcing myself to drop down right then and there. Oh, yeah, I was about to fall for real.
And then my stupid phone rang, messing up my moment.
He said, “Do you need a doctor or anything?”
“No, no.” I waved my hands. “I’m fine.”
My phone was still ringing, and it was only habit that made me glance at the screen. Dang! It was Chyanne. But I didn’t care. Best friend or not, late or not, I was going to find a way to have a conversation with this guy.
“Okay, great,” Mr. Locks and Lips said with a smile that melted me. “Have a good night.” And then he spun around and walked away. Left me there, gawking, trying to figure out a way to call him back.
“Dang it,” I said when he turned the corner and my phone stopped ringing. Now I didn’t have the stranger or my best friend. But a second later my phone rang again.
“I’m on my way,” I said before Chyanne could even begin. “I’ll be there in a few.”
“Skye!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I had . . . an accident.”
“What? Are you okay? Do you need me to come to you? Devin and I can be there in five.”
“Hold on,” I said, glancing over my shoulder one last time to see if somehow the stranger had come back. Since he hadn’t, I stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. “I’m fine,” I told Chyanne. “Just got a little shaken up, but nothing a pomegranate martini won’t fix.”
“Okay . . . just take your time.... Get here safely,” she said before I clicked off the phone and slipped into a cab at the same time.
I gave the driver the address to the Cellar, then sat back. I was terribly late, but there was no way Chyanne would be on my case now. We were like sisters—if I hurt, then she did, too. If I was late because of an accident, then all was forgiven.
And I wasn’t lying. When I first bumped into that handsome stranger, I felt like I’d been hit by a Mack truck. But I didn’t feel a bit of pain; I guess his fineness was like medicine.
“Umph, umph, umph.”
I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and tried my best to remember him. I never wanted to forget his image. If I couldn’t have the man, at least I’d have the memories. And as fine as he was, that was enough for me.
“No bloody nose, no limp, no nothing,” Devin said as he stood and greeted me with his hands on his hips. “What kind of accident were you in?” he asked, a
s if the fact that I was still walking disappointed him.
“A minor one.” I waved my hand, then shrugged off my sweater. “How did you guys get a table?”
“We told them that the third party was in an accident,” Chyanne said, handing me the glass, my drink already waiting for me.
There was nothing like having a bestest.
As I took a sip of the martini, Devin said, “Well, since you still got all your limbs, let’s dish. Chyanne told me all about that mess you called a date.” He laughed.
I growled at Chyanne, who was snickering, too, and then I had a flash of the stranger. My hand started to shake as I remembered his lips. Dang! Why couldn’t he have been my lucky date number five? Because I wouldn’t have cared if he talked all night—as long as I could have stared at him, I would not have had to say a word.
I didn’t have to do much talking now, either, as Chyanne filled Devin in on my date with Carter as if she’d been there. Like I expected, the two laughed at my expense, but as I listened to Chyanne tell the story, even I had to chuckle a few times; it was so ridiculous.
Through dinner and dessert, we caught up on what had been going on in our lives. Chyanne was still deeply in love, and Devin wasn’t thinking about anything but his shop. As we talked and drank and laughed and drank and ate and drank, I allowed my mind to drift back on memories and float to the present. What wonderful lives we led! We were in our twenties, had been best friends for our entire lives, and were living in the most fabulous city in the world. Could life get any better than this?
Well . . . maybe just a little for me, if I could be as lucky as Chyanne and find Mr. Right.
“Hey, so which one of you heifers wants to come with me to an art show tomorrow? I got tickets from Leigh, so you know it’s gonna be fierce.”
Chyanne raised her glass toward me. “I guess you’re going with him, ’cause I’m nobody’s heifer.”
I laughed.
“Plus,” Chyanne added, “I have to get ready for this case that I’m hoping to get first chair on.”
“Really?” Devin and I asked together.
“Yup! And when I get it and when I win that case, we’re gonna celebrate for five days straight. And you . . . heifers are gonna pay the bill!”
We all laughed.
I said to Devin, “I’ll go with you,” thinking about business, too. I get inspiration for my styles from everywhere—from TV shows, from people on the street, and especially from art. After all, that was all fashion was—if done right, it was art that we wore.
With that decided, two more hours passed as we just sat and shared, and inside, I thanked God the way I always did for my friends, my life, my blessings.
Chapter 5
Devin
What I loved about Leigh was that when there was an event with her name on it, it was always top of the line, first class. And this art show was no different.
“Dang,” Skye whispered. Her arm was hooked into mine as we slowly sauntered down the spiral staircase that led into the grand ballroom of the Melrose, the new luxury hotel that sat at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Okay, so Skye was impressed. Good, because it was always her or Chyanne who took me with them to their swanky affairs.
“What? You thought I’d bring you to something that wasn’t up to our standards?” I said, as if I could get her into these kinds of events all the time. But, though I was acting nonchalant, trust and believe I was even more impressed than my best friend. It wasn’t just the glamorous surroundings, or the two hundred or so folks who lingered about, or the paintings on the wall, or the sculptures on the stands. It wasn’t even the tuxedoed waiters who balanced trays with exotic hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
The thing that had me most impressed was the men!
I grabbed one of the champagne glasses from the tray of a passing waiter, and while I sipped on the bubbliest bubbly I’d ever had, I peeked at all the “art” around me. I’d been pretty serious about keeping a low social profile and focusing on my business, but with all this sweetness around me, that was going to be a hard thing to do now.
I let my eyes wander as I took in the view. Someone should have told me that all the fine men in New York hung out at art shows. There were all kinds on display here—black, white, brown . . . tall, short, medium . . . lean, robust, and in-between. The men were by themselves and with their women, though that didn’t mean a thing, with the way some of those men looked at me.
Mmm-hmm. I could tell the ones who were on the down low. It was in their eyes, the way their eyes lingered on me . . . just a couple of seconds too long.
Now, I wasn’t one to mess with no married man. If a dude wasn’t ready to embrace his sexuality, then he couldn’t embrace me!
But that was okay, because there were plenty of other fine specimens to choose from.
Skye and I wandered through the space, both of us checking out the art that we were most interested in. Her muse was on the walls; mine was in all kinds of tailored suits.
Umph, umph, umph!
“Oh, look at this one,” Skye said, stopping in front of a painting.
It took me a moment to take my eyes away from a guy right in front of us who was wearing those pants.
Skye said, “This is beautiful.”
I had to work to turn my attention to the picture that Skye was looking at. What! She was staring at some painting of an old, wrinkled lady.
“Amazing,” Skye whispered.
Not! I said to myself. But I stood next to my friend as if I cared about the picture. Not that I was fooling Skye; she knew how I was.
“Devin?”
I spun around in the Ralph Lauren suit I had on and looked into the green eyes of a man so fine, he made me sway a bit. “You must be Clarke,” I said.
He smiled, showing me all thirty-two of his orthodontic-enhanced teeth. “It’s so nice to meet you,” he said as if he really meant it.
Well, Leigh had come through in more ways than one. Clarke and I were about the same height, which was always important to me—though people always said everyone was the same height in bed. Anyway . . . his cinnamon-colored skin was so smooth, I wanted to reach out and touch it just to see if he was real. The only thing that was wrong was he was dressed like one of those English butlers on one of those shows on the BBC. I’m talking the whole nine yards—from his paisley ascot to his wing-toed shoes. He was fine, but already he seemed just a little too stuffy for me.
“This is some show that you’ve got going on,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” he said in a tone that sounded like he was speaking out of his nose. When he glanced at Skye, I introduced the two. “Would you like me to show you guys around?”
I gave Skye one of those long looks, with my right eyebrow raised just a bit. It was our signal, one that we all used . . . me, Skye, and Chyanne. Skye had come up with the look back in high school, the sign that everything was cool and we wanted to be left alone to . . . explore, shall we say.
Now, it wasn’t that I was all excited about Clarke—already, he didn’t seem to be my type. But what could you tell in five minutes, right?
Skye got my message—of course. “No, you guys go on. I want to wander around on my own, if you don’t mind, Clarke. I like to take my time.”
Clarke smiled, though it looked like his whole face hurt when he did that, but when he turned around, I followed him. And really, I would have followed him all night, because I just couldn’t take my eyes off his behind.
What was it I said before? Hmph . . . hmph . . . hmph!
Chapter 6
Skye
I was glad to let Devin go off and do . . . whatever. I really did want to browse through the exhibit, just take my time and see if I could get any good ideas for my line. One thing I’d learned a long time ago was that fashion and art were really one and the same—all creations began in the heart of every artist.
But though I really did want to wander through the rest of the show, I couldn’t get away from thi
s wonderful painting. Actually, it wasn’t a painting—it looked like it had been sketched with charcoal. But every line was so defined, so refined, that it almost looked like a black-and-white photograph.
A photograph of a woman—a much older woman, maybe in her seventies, or even eighties. She was lying across a settee, it seemed, and was clearly nude, though nothing showed beneath the sheet that covered her completely. But my eyes didn’t stay on her body. I was drawn to her face. That was where the story was told—in every line, every wrinkle that revealed the thousands of days of her life. She’d earned every crevice through not only her tragedies but through her triumphs as well.
But it was her eyes that affected me the most—in her eyes, I saw the wisdom of time. And peace, true peace.
It was just a sketch, but I felt as if I was connecting with this woman on some level, for some reason. I wanted to know all about her and learn everything I could from her. And in her eyes, I could almost see that she was willing to pass everything she’d learned on to me.
“You like this sketch?”
The voice came from behind me . . . deep and rich in its resonance. But the woman in the picture held me captive; I couldn’t turn away . . . not yet. So with my eyes still on hers, I said, “Yes, I like it a lot. There’s something about her. It’s like I’ve known her. Or really wish I’d known her.”
“Well, I knew her well,” the voice said. “She’s my grandmother, and this is my portrait.”
Date Cute Marry Rich Page 3
