by Nia Arthurs
I blink. “Did you tow the truck?”
“Yes.” Hansley storms into the sofa and throws himself in. He’s wearing a simple white shirt—three buttons undone. His hair is brushed back away from his face to reveal his brown eyes. It’s his usual club attire.
Not that he needs to put in much effort.
Like me, Hansley has no problems attracting the ladies. Especially when he starts flashing his no-limit credit card around.
I take a subtler approach when it comes to women, but my best friend is all about the show.
“Were you drinking and driving?” Hansley asks. “Is that why you needed me to cover for you?”
“No. I just didn’t want to be bothered.”
“You should have called your personal assistant to clean up your mess then.” He scowls. “I was busy.”
I swerve around. “Has a woman ever thrown herself at you and you rejected her?”
“Was she ugly?” Hansley chuckles. “Or stupid drunk?”
“No.”
“Then of course not. I’d be all over that, man.”
I purse my lips together.
Hansley’s smile drips off his face. “Did you…?” He covers his mouth. “No, Brett.” His eyes drop to my pants. "Are you having… issues?”
I scoff.
Hansley shakes his head. “Is it because of Shar?”
“No.” I scrub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Grief hits people in different ways, man. You don’t have to be ashamed of any… problems that come from that. It’s understandable and—”
“Shar signed me up to a matchmaking agency.”
Hansley freezes. “What?”
I tell him about Tierra and our agreement. When the conversation veers to what happened at dinner, I skip over the details and give him the gist.
Hansley frowns. “Wait, let me get this straight. You’re into your matchmaker and she’s into you, but there are rules that you can’t date each other—for obvious reasons.”
“Obvious?”
“You think any company would trust her if they find out she screwed a client while on the clock? She’d not only lose this job, man. She could never work as a matchmaker again.”
My shoulders stiffen. “I never thought about that.”
“Probably because you’ve never thought about anybody except Shar.” He shrugs. “And I’m not knocking you for that. It’s just the way it is.”
“So basically I’m screwed.”
“No, basically you can’t screw her. Not if you like her.”
“I never said I did.”
“Something like that, man, you don’t have to say. Not to me. I know you too well for you to pull off your usual BS.”
I glare at him. “You’re not helping.”
“Here’s my advice. Do it.”
“Sleep with her?”
“Let her match you.” Hansley smirks. “See if you still feel the same way about her when she introduces you to all those amazing women just waiting to be the next Mrs. McQueen. If it was just a phase, you’ll forget all about this matchmaker.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll know it’s more and the hell with her job. You’re a billionaire. You can help her set up her own company if she wants to.”
I nod.
Hansley’s right.
Time will tell if what I’m feeling is grief and confusion or something real.
Thirteen
Tierra
I give Brett’s fancy chauffeur directions to my mother’s place. Golden light beams from the windows of the tiny bungalow. A beacon of hope. A place of refuge.
I could go home, but I don’t really want to be alone right now. There’s a storm in my soul. A hurricane deep in my heart.
Times like these, when the chaos is great enough to pick me up like a leaf and dash me into the sea, I need something to hold on to.
And there’s nothing to anchor a woman down like her mama.
The chauffeur rushes around to open the door for me. “Ma’am.”
“Thank you,” I choke out.
It’s so weird to be catered to. Almost feels like I should open the door for him next.
I’m a subway, girl. Sometimes, when I feel like I’ve ‘made it’, I grab a taxi.
The fact that Brett sent a driver for me despite how heated things got between us speaks volumes. It emphasizes the point that I was right. There’s a kind, caring heart beating under those cold, steel eyes.
A curtain flutters. I smirk as my mom peeps out of the window, probably wondering why this fancy, tinted SUV rolled up to her front lawn.
I give a little wave.
She drops the curtain.
A moment later, the front door bursts open. “Tierra, who the hell was that? The president?” She stares as the vehicle pulls off and disappears around a corner. Her sharp brown eyes return to me. “What’s going on? Are you dating a drug dealer?”
“I’ll tell you inside,” I say.
She shuffles behind me, yanking her robe tighter around her pudgy body.
My mom is pleasantly plump with light brown skin, dark eyes and a spring of curly hair. She more resembles Kenesha than me, since I got most of my features from my father—something I constantly bemoaned growing up.
My absentee dad offered very little to my well-being. Instead of an attentive parent, a fierce protector, and a consistent provider, all I got was his big nose, his thick lips and his stick figure. If I ever see that man, I’m ripping him a new one.
“Alright.” Mom slams the door. “We’re inside. Spill.”
“A client dropped me home.”
Mom flutters thick eyelashes. “Is that allowed?”
“Not exactly.” I fling myself into the couch and slap an arm over my head.
But then… that’s the least of my infractions.
There’s definitely a rule against flirting with clients.
And straddling clients.
Grinding on clients.
Or offering to hook up with clients.
The line I crossed is so far back in the distance I can’t even see it anymore.
Part of me feels slimy for what I did with Brett.
And the other part…
The more wicked part…
It’s wondering why I stopped.
“I feel awful.” I peer at Mom from the couch. “Is there any soup left?”
“No.” She glances away guiltily.
I sit up. “You texted this morning and said to come over for some.”
“Kenny stopped by first,” Mom says.
My heart sinks to my toes. “Oh.”
Mom storms to our small kitchen and grabs a pot from the drainer. Banging it on the stove, she snarls, “I’ll warm up some leftovers.”
“Mom, it’s fine.” I scrub my hands over my aching head. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not. I'm not.” Another pot bangs on top of the stove. “I just can’t believe the nerve of that girl.”
“Here we go again,” I mumble.
“First, she went and disrespected her own sister by stealing her boyfriend. And she did that while she was living under my roof.” A flame ticks to life. “Then she has the gall to bring him around like I’ll ever accept that bastard into my family after what he did to you.”
I wince. “Mom…”
“He made you look pathetic.” Bang! Mom slams the pot against the stove. “While he was there moaning and groaning with your sister, you were crying your eyes out every night for a year.” Bang! “Now, he wants to sit around my table and eat my soup like he freaking deserves a drop of it.” Bang!
“Mom, you can’t complain now. You already let him in. You already let him eat the soup. If you were so upset about it, why didn’t you say something?”
Her eyes dart to me. “Because I got raised right, Tierra. I’m not going to be rude.”
“Of course not.” I stare at the ground.
This alw
ays happens. Mom will cater to Kenesha’s needs. Whatever she wants. Whenever she asks for it.
My sister’s the favorite. When Kenesha stole my boyfriend, no one was more broken-hearted than Mom. She ranted for weeks. I thought for sure she’d pull my sister up. But, when Kenny finally had the guts to show up at home, Mom just grumbled under her breath and served her some food.
The moment Kenny left though, Mom called me and let all the dormant anger pour out, furiously scolding Kenny on my behalf.
Except, her righteous anger never made me feel better.
Never made me feel whole.
Or protected.
Or seen.
I just felt… lower.
Lower than a bug.
In a roundabout way, I believe Mom can’t tell Kenesha anything because she—deep down—believes my sister’s prettier than me. She believes what happened was inevitable.
In a way, she’s right.
All my life, I had trouble around boys. If they weren’t making fun of my skin color, they were making fun of my hair. I absently tug one of my curls down to my chin and watch it pop back up.
The journey to my self-acceptance took a long time. I saw my sister’s long, straight black hair, the way everyone fawned over her, all the cute styles she could do with it, and I wanted that for myself more than anything in the world.
So I dumped chemicals in my hair too.
Except my scalp got burned.
And my hair got thin.
Eventually, the strands broke up and fell out.
I stubbornly held on to the relaxers, doing everything I could to nurse my hair back to health, but nothing worked.
My desperation to fit in back-fired. The more my hair broke, the more the very people I wanted to impress despised me.
“Her sister’s so much prettier.”
“Her sister’s hair is so much longer.”
“Are you sure they’re related?”
When I started my natural hair journey, it wasn’t about the health of my hair, or about fixing my looks, or some black-power political statement.
Cutting off all the limp, unhealthy, straight ends shredded those expectations. Allowed me to be myself. To embrace my kinky, short hair. My dark skin. My big nose.
And the moment I did that, I met Anthony.
He saw me.
He accepted me.
And, I thought, he loved me.
But, in the end, I still got compared to my sister.
And, as usual, I didn’t measure up.
“I can’t stand that girl,” Mom continues to mumble on my behalf. “She got that selfishness from her father because she sure as hell didn’t get it from me.”
The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow.
Should have known I wouldn’t find the peace I was looking for here.
I get up. Grab my purse. “I should go.”
“What?” Mom’s jaw drops. “But you just got here!”
“I know. I’m sorry. I… realized I have some work to do.” My chest feels hollow as I stare at the ground. “I’ll come back another day.”
Mom flutters around the kitchen. “At least take some sweet potato pie. I know how much you love those.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine, Mom.”
“Tierra!”
I hustle out of the house. Tears blur my eyes and, for some reason, I feel so pathetic.
So… hopeless.
This is my life.
This sad, tragic existence is all I have after work.
But now, the little contentment I found as a matchmaker is ruined by a temporary attraction to a man who will, for sure, never want me for more than the hype of being with a black woman for the first time.
That’s what I’ve become now.
Not a professional.
A fetish.
Good only for the exoticness of my skin and the temptation between my thighs.
After that disastrous date and my confusing rejection, there’s no way Brett will continue on at Make It Marriage.
When Kayla, Venus and Amina find out I ruined their biggest account of the year, my job will be in jeopardy. I’ll lose the little pride that I had.
Tears leak out of my eyes faster than I can bat them away.
I hurry down the sidewalk, keeping my head down the way I always have.
The way I always will.
My phone buzzes.
I fish it out of my purse and blink, trying to get my vision to steady so I can focus on the screen.
Brett’s name flashes before me.
I stop.
Completely.
Just stare at it for a couple of seconds.
Finally, I answer.
“Tierra.” His deep voice crashes into me like a giant wave against a sandcastle. Powerful. Magnificent. Dangerous.
“B-Brett.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll let you match me.”
My heart jumps. “Really?”
“But our deal still stands. You have thirty days to succeed. Fail and—”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.” I pause. “One night.”
“With me,” he rumbles.
My heart quickens. “And… about today, you and I… we can’t—”
“Don’t worry. I won’t touch you again…”
I let out a breath of relief.
Brett’s voice drops to a wicked whisper. “Unless you touch me first.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see,” he says confidently.
Click.
I pump my fists right there in the middle of the road. I just got a second chance at saving my own skin.
From this moment on, Brett McQueen is just a client.
Nothing less.
And definitely, nothing more.
Fourteen
Brett
I ease back in my chair. Scrape the heel of my hand over my eyes.
Tierra’s words remain on screen.
I made your first match.
Some woman is going to meet me tonight.
Some woman Tierra chose.
No freaking way.
Yes freaking way. This is what you agreed to.
Yeah, but I didn’t expect the matches to start rolling in so soon.
My fingers form a fist. Frustration stirs in my gut.
I need to hit something. To break something. To let out my restlessness.
To do whatever it takes to get Tierra the hell out of my head.
‘Breathe in slow. Now let it out.’ Shar would have said.
If she were here.
She would have loved Tierra.
She did love Tierra. My sister hired her from a freaking coffin.
I need to breathe. Need to stay the hell away from grief. Regret. Any of the dark, ugly feelings thinking about Shar drudges up right now.
My heart is shattered.
It exploded the day Shar closed her eyes and never opened them again.
Then I met Tierra and she went ahead and stomped on all the broken pieces. How that frustrating woman had the power to do that when I just met her? Hell if I know.
Damn.
It’s ten a.m. Two hours since her message. She’s probably with another client.
I can’t imagine what matchmakers do with all their time, but I’m guessing that dealing with people on such a personal level is exhausting.
I volunteered at a crisis centre once. Shar dragged me there for a whole summer. After four weeks in that centre, I knew just how draining listening to other people’s problems could be. Not even doing a freaking thing. Just listening.
This world is a dark place.
Right now, Tierra’s probably on the phone with some hard-headed woman trying to ‘order’ a man with perfect hygiene, tons of money in the bank, no kids, no tattoos, and no personality.
Or maybe she’s calling all the restaurants in town to make a reservation for my date tonight.
I try to picture her.
A small office. Lots of plants—real ones. She doesn’t do fake. A small window looking out over the city. Feet bare. Sexy heels lined up on the floor next to her chair. That one I know for sure.
She likes to be free. Natural hair. No makeup. I don’t have time to care about your opinions attire.
Not that she needs to care. She’s stunning either way.
A sigh drips past my lips.
I’ve been very good about not letting thoughts of Tierra fill my mind.
But now that she’s in there, I can’t get her out.
Can’t stop thinking of seeing her.
Touching her.
Right there in her office.
Except I want it in reverse.
Those shoes would be on.
And her clothes would be off.
Springy curls in my grip. Brown lips gasping for air. Soft body shuddering beneath me.
Damn.
I swipe the image from my mind.
When I decided to give this a shot, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t go there.
Not until the thirty days are over.
Tierra deserves that much. I read her bio. Looked her up, not only on the official Make It Marriage website, but also on the blog that she wrote about relationships. She was brutally honest yet sensitive and insightful.
Her clients raved about what she’d done for them. How talking to her made them more confident. How she’d gone the extra mile.
It’s no wonder she got scouted by all the major matchmaking agencies in the city. There’s something about her that’s warm and reliable.
Only that doesn’t explain my obsession with her.
It’s not her warmth I want.
Or her reliability that gets me going.
It’s more than that.
It’s… everything.
Even now, my fingers itch to hold her. It’s as if she’s branded herself in my life.
I’ve never been brought to my knees by a woman before.
It’s so freaking unsettling.
But, no matter how I feel, I made a promise.
I stare at Tierra’s email again.
I made your first match.
Some blonde, probably. One with big tits and the ability to string an intellectual sentence together.
A perfect woman.
But not.
Because she’s no Tierra.
Brett, you haven’t even met her yet and you’ve already come to that conclusion?
