by Elle Wright
“But you understand that we value discretion, Maya. In times like these, we cannot afford to let our guard down or become embroiled in scandal. You of all people should know the toll bad publicity takes.”
Maya set her glass down. “I also know it’s never a good idea to concern ourselves with what happens behind closed doors between consenting adults.” Maya’s divorce had been bitter and very public. Her ex-husband had waged a campaign against her because she’d left him for another woman. In the end, everything had worked out, but it had been a precarious time of motion after motion, court dates, mediation, and multiple settlement conferences.
“Whether the rumors are true or not, public perception says they are,” Susan said.
“May I speak?” I asked.
Susan gestured for me to continue. “By all means.”
“I understand your concerns. However, current rumors aside, when is it ever acceptable to punish first and ask questions later? We’re all attorneys. We should know the concept of due process, of believing that every person is innocent until proven guilty.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Susan conceded. “Still, we’re trying to build something. I would like to think people vote the issues, the policies, as opposed to the person. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.”
“It’s not just the drama with Kimball,” another woman added. “The narrative is already spun. Not only are you being portrayed as a home wrecker, but the latest is that you’re…loose.”
I squeezed my fork hard. My heart pounded in my ear as heat flushed through my body. It had already been a tense night. I didn’t want to get into this here, but the idea that I was a ho because I dated different men pissed me the fuck off. Still, I held my head high when I said, “I believe every woman has the right to decide what she does with her own body. Even if I was, as you say, loose, it would be no one’s business but mine.”
Maya coughed. “Listen, this is counterproductive. We say we fight for the rights of women in this field, of all women. Why would we turn our backs on a qualified, talented attorney for baseless lies? Susan, when your husband cheated on you with his student, who had your back? We did. Anna, when you drank too much and crashed your car into someone’s house, who showed up? Me. I believe we owe it to Dallas to consider her based on her work in the community. Not this bullshit.”
In that moment, I didn’t know where to look. Maya’s clapback had effectively shut everyone at the table up. And the fact that she’d added in that well-placed bullshit made me want to stand up and clap.
Time stretched on with no other comments from the board members. Eventually, Susan sighed. “I think we should all take a step back. Let’s table this discussion for another day.”
Everyone except Maya agreed. Then, she mouthed, I’m sorry.
Just as I was about to excuse myself to go to the restroom, another woman approached the table. “Dallas Young?”
“Yes?” The woman was around my mother’s age, or maybe a little older. Several of the women at the table greeted her warmly, as if they’d known her for ages. But I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. Her downturned mouth and her hard glare told me she didn’t like me, though. My immediate thought was she was somehow connected to this Kimball mess, but she could’ve just as easily encountered me another way. During my years practicing divorce law and now concentrating on settlement agreements between future spouses, I’d made some enemies. “How can I help you?”
“You’ve done enough actually,” the woman sneered, flashing a cold smile.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re referring to. Obviously, you know me from somewhere. Care to refresh my memory?” I took a second to assess the ladies at the table, who were watching the scene intently, no doubt wondering how I’d respond.
“You represented Langton Sykes in a prenuptial agreement?”
I froze, realization dawning on me. The woman standing here, glaring at me, was the mother of Langston’s future bride. Mrs. Irene Turner. “Yes, I did,” I confirmed.
She looked me up and down, her disdain for me clear. “Langston told us how you behaved, the way you propositioned him and threatened to destroy his relationship with my daughter if he didn’t do what you wanted.”
“Wait a minute,” Maya interjected. “Who—”
I placed a hand on her’s and squeezed, effectively letting her know I didn’t need her to defend me.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you behaved the way you did,” the woman continued. “I’ve read that you enjoy wrecking homes. I’m just glad he fired you. My daughter doesn’t need that negative energy going into her marriage.”
“Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Turner,” I said. “Allow me the same?”
She stiffened. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is. For the record, Langston fed you and your daughter a bunch of lies.” Bullshit was a better word, and would’ve hit better, but we were in a very public restaurant. The last thing I needed was another headline detailing my potty mouth. “Just as he’s portrayed himself to be a standup man. Let’s be clear—in the interest of helping your daughter, I fired him. Meaning, I told him to find another attorney. The notion that I’d ruin my professional reputation by hitting on a client is ludicrous. The idea that I’d risk my license for Langston Sykes is laughable. Really.”
“Why would he lie, Ms. Young?” Mrs. Turner asked.
“Why wouldn’t he?” I countered. “Our one and only meeting ended when I asked him to leave my office. Langston demonstrated he doesn’t respect any woman by insisting on adding unreasonable and archaic provisions in the prenuptial agreement. By the way, any woman includes your daughter.”
“Don’t talk about my daughter. I will ruin you.”
“Bring it,” I said. “I don’t regret how I handled the situation. There was no impropriety on my behalf. Simply put, my commitment to the edification of women—of black women—would not allow me to continue serving as his counsel. Therefore, I released him and returned his retainer. How that translated to me throwing myself at him, I don’t know. But maybe it’s something you need to get to the bottom of before your daughter walks down that aisle to forever. Or until she gives him a reason to enforce one of the provisions he’d been too keen on including in their prenuptial agreement. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I dropped my napkin to the table and stood. Yet, instead of making my bad-ass exit, I turned into a very hard chest.
Strong arms wrapped around my waist, holding me steady. “Sorry.”
I peered up, into the eyes of my man. “Preston?” I breathed.
“Run with it,” he murmured against my ear, right before he brushed his lips over my temple, then my cheek. “You did good. I’ll take it from here.” Before I could object, he kissed me. Well, it wasn’t a kiss so much as it was a soft touch of his mouth to mine. But it felt like he’d pulled me close, like he’d used his mouth, his teeth, and his tongue.
“Oh,” I whispered, unable to form any other words. I stared at his lips.
He looked over my head and smiled. “Hello, I’m Preston,” he said, stepping away from me to greet the older women.
Snapping out of the trance he’d put me in, I glanced down at Maya, who was grinning ear to ear. I watched him charm the other women at the table. While he was schmoozing, I raked my gaze over his tall frame. There was something about a man who knew how to wear his clothes. His navy pants and white shirt could easily segue from the office to the bar. His silver watch glinted in the dim light, drawing my attention to his arms. Lord. He had great arms—strong, defined muscles. Obviously, he spent a lot of time in the gym. But I also knew he didn’t mind doing manual labor and would often work onsite with his crew, nailing boards, hauling wood, carrying steel beams, or some shit like that. Either way, I appreciated his form, the way he moved. And the way Susan fluttered her eyelashes like a damn teenager when he’d complimented her let me know she did too.
After several more dimpled smiles and low chuckles, P
reston turned his attention to Mrs. Turner. He didn’t introduce himself to her, though. Instead, he said, “Don’t let us keep you from your party.”
Mrs. Turner gaped. “Excuse me?”
Preston pointed toward the front of the restaurant, where a small group of people were watching the scene unfold. “I overheard them mentioning they were ready to go. Something about an art exhibit?”
She blinked.
“If you’re going to the Van Gogh Immersive Art exhibit, you should probably get there a little early. The lines are long.”
Mrs. Turner’s fair skin turned bright red, and she opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she glared at me then walked away without another word.
Preston winked at me and proceeded to trace small circles over my hip. He smelled like wood, leather, and oranges. Delicious. Between his fingers working their magic on me and his scent, I struggled to maintain my composure. I had no idea what they were even talking about at this point, because I was laser focused on him.
I registered Maya’s laugh, which pulled me from my totally inappropriate thoughts about Preston’s dick. “Exactly,” my mentor said, laughing in delight.
I briefly wondered what I’d missed, and my need for self-preservation made me maneuver out of his grasp. But then, Preston pulled me back to him, pressing his warm lips against my forehead.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt something important,” he said. “We thought a little dessert after dinner would be nice. Date night.”
Susan’s face lit up. “Sounds lovely, Mr. Hayes.”
“Call me Preston,” he told her.
“Aren’t you the young man in the latest photo with our Dallas?” Susan asked.
Our Dallas?
“Yes, ma’am,” Preston told her, smoothing his hand over my back.
If he didn’t stop touching me… Business. Professional.
“Are you and Dallas together?” Anna asked.
Preston chuckled, meeting my gaze. His eyes blazed with something I wasn’t sure I wanted to name, something sincere, something real. “We are.” His expression softened. “It was a long time coming, but I’m grateful she chose me. I’m a very lucky man.”
Dammit, even I believed him. Business. This is not a thing.
“Well, don’t let us keep you from your date,” Maya said. “I got dinner, Dallas. I’ll call you later.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. Now, Preston was brushing the back of my neck with his talented fingers. And I was trying to convince myself this was just a business arrangement, no matter how good his hands felt against my skin. It wasn’t working. Shit.
Maya squeezed my hand and stood, embracing me and giving me a small reprieve from Preston’s hands—and his cologne. “Love it,” she whispered. “I’ll call you later.”
I said my goodbyes to the women and let Preston lead me to a quiet booth in the corner of the restaurant. He remained standing while I slid into the booth. And when he sat next to me, I nearly slipped under the table, trying to put some space between us. “What are you doing?” I asked through clenched teeth.
“Acting like your man,” he said with a shrug.
“Can they even see us?”
He leaned over and waved at them. “Yep,” he mumbled. “And they’re watching.”
I couldn’t see them, but I believed him. “Fine. What happened to letting people assume we’re together but not actually telling anyone we’re a couple?”
“I had to improvise. Did you really want dessert?”
“And I thought I said no PDA?”
He picked up the menu. “How about key lime pie?”
“Preston? We agreed that—”
With his eyes still on the menu, he muttered, “Like I said, I had to improvise.” Then, he pinned me with his intense stare. “Can we negotiate improvisation, counselor?”
Swallowing hard, I relented. “Sure. But can you not do that again?”
“Do what?” he asked. “I think I remember you telling me you loved crème brûlée?”
“I don’t…” Want your dessert died on my lips when I realized what he’d just said. “You remembered that?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I remember everything.”
A smile tugged at my lips. I remembered that night too. He and Cooper had met me and Blake at my favorite Italian restaurant. I’d been craving dessert and couldn’t wait to order it. But the waitress had kindly doused my flames when she’d told us they weren’t preparing it that evening for whatever reason. Talk about devastated. I almost couldn’t eat my meal because I was so disappointed. Almost.
“You were irritated,” he continued. “I also remember you’d just run your first 4k and had trained for weeks with no dessert.”
Damn, he’s good. And extremely sexy.
“It was your treat to yourself for finishing in the top twenty.” He lifted his hand and brushed his thumb over my chin.
I held my breath. “Preston.” I tried to keep my voice strong, even. But it sounded breathy and affected.
He traced my jaw line with his finger and cupped my cheek with his massive palm. “Dallas.”
“You’re touching me,” I murmured.
“So?”
“No PDA,” I said lamely. “A kiss is public and affection.”
He leaned in, so close I could smell the hint of mint on his breath. “Nah. That wasn’t PDA,” he whispered before pressing his lips to mine. The kiss was soft, just like the one earlier. Tender. Still, it seared me, branded me in a way. I tried to fight the pull, tried to talk myself out of this, but I couldn’t bring myself to stop. “This is PDA,” he whispered, opening his mouth and sucking on my bottom lip until I groaned.
Now, this kiss… Oh, damn. He pulled me closer, nearly on top of his lap, and ravaged my mouth. It wasn’t just his lips or his tongue, or even the way he took control. It was his hands, the brush of his fingers over my collarbone. It was the press of his hard body against mine. It was his low groan. Shit, it was just him. He’d cast a spell on me, made me want to be his for the night. Or for all the nights. Just one taste, and I wanted it all. His touch, his kiss, his dick. Everything.
All too soon, though, he pulled away and placed another searing kiss to my forehead. “That was PDA.” The low rasp of his voice made me dizzy with need. He picked up the menu and muttered something about chocolate brandy mousse.
While he talked about drinks and dessert, I thought about his mouth. That kiss. And the fact that I’d let him do it, that I wanted him to do it again, that I’d whimpered when he’d pulled back, like a fucking baby. It would be futile to argue with him or even try to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Indeed,” I admitted finally. “That was definitely PDA.” And damn him…I liked it. “I want the crème brûlée.”
Chapter Eight
The Truth
Preston
My thumb hovered over the send button. I’d drafted the email to Parker Wells Jr. a few days ago, requesting a meeting to discuss what I’d learned. After several edits, I still wasn’t ready to send. The uncertainty kept me from opening the door to the possibility that Parker Wells Sr. was my biological father.
The DNA test was the easy part—only two possible outcomes. Yes, he was my father. Or no, my mother was just a liar. If he wasn’t, my life would go back to normal. But if he was… What effect will a bombshell like this have on my life? No matter what people said, the truth didn’t always set someone free. Sometimes the truth was just another form of prison, another life sentence of pain and misery.
“What are you doing here?”
Closing my email app, I set my phone down and looked at my mother. When I’d arrived early this morning, intent on hashing this out, she’d been asleep. Surprisingly, the house was clean. There was no evidence of hard partying, no empty liquor bottles. It reminded me of the times she’d come home from rehab with a “new lease on life,” determined to get back on track. Those good times had never lasted, but they were some of my favorite
memories of her.
“You’re not hungover,” I said. “You haven’t been drinking.”
“No, I haven’t,” she admitted, flinging her legs off the side of the bed and lighting up a cigarette. “I’m taking a break.”
I lifted a brow. “Forever?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Nunya.”
Mom had tried to convince me I should be grateful that I had the fun mother. She often said that other kids had strict parents, mothers who monitored their every move and fathers who’d beat them. She’d even encouraged me to call her by her first name because she wanted to be my friend. Then, she’d get angry when I insisted on calling her Ma. I wanted someone to care about my homework and my grades. I wanted a mother who’d go to parent-teacher conferences—sober—and sports tournaments. I needed someone who concerned herself with my wellbeing, my failures, my successes. I just needed her to be my mother.
I stood and paced the floor slowly. The faint creek of the wood beneath my feet was the only sound as I pondered my approach. I felt her eyes on me, watching me. Waiting. Finally, I turned to her. “You said something to me the last time I was here.”
She met my gaze unflinchingly. “I told you your father wasn’t your father.”
I studied her face, the hard line of her mouth and her frosty glare. Times like this, I wondered if she’d ever loved me, because she damn sure didn’t act like she even liked me. “Is it true? Was Hayes my father?”
“Did he raise you?” she asked.
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“Did he take you to baseball practice, teach you how to ride a bike?”
I clenched my teeth, massaging the back of my neck. She ticked off more activities—the time Hayes took me to the zoo, and when he’d chaperoned my one and only cub scout camp. The more she talked, the angrier I got. “Enough,” I snapped.
Mom took a puff of her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly. “It doesn’t matter who your father is. Hayes was the man who was there for you.”
