Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
From across the room, I turned toward the wine table and spotted Madison near another section of the silent auction. That dress, woven from temptation, hugged every curve. A man standing near her leaned in, causing her to burst into a fit of giggles.
That laugh floated over, slid under my collar, and tightened my chest.
“She’s still very charming,” Gaston added.
This entire room would see how fast charming turned into a testimony if the dark-skinned brotha smiling at my wife kept trying me. As I grabbed two drinks, I watched the mask on dude’s face cemented in conquering her.
Who was jealous adjacent now?
Nah, I wasn’t jealous-jealous. I was clinically observant with mild homicidal undertones.
I’d take a mental note, sip my drink, and plot how to keep my woman from being snatched by anyone who thought charm and art-talk could outshine a lifetime of this good loving.
mad
. . .
Oh, no. I wasn’t trying to dig a hole that my self-manicured fingernails couldn’t help me climb out of. My reckless, quick U-turn at the sight of Omari Riche standing at an auction table made my stilettos threaten to snap. I was so not tempting my ex-husband to amend his contract. Besides, Omari hadn’t seen me.
“Madison?”
I flicked a glance over my shoulder as Omari turned away from the spotlit art and smiled. “Ye-yep?” It came out like a stutter of confusion and shamelessness as I gaped at the ultra-white smile he flashed. “Oh, it-it’s really you.”
“But you turned around.” He cocked his head. Those waves were smoother than the ocean in San Jose when Washington tricked me into getting in the water after I’d just gotten my hair pressed. They did nothing for me.
For starters, I wasn’t ready to bump my head and catch a concussion by diving headfirst into the dating pool. Plus, I had that contract. Second? Washington was intelligent. He was also equal parts quiet and lethal, which meant he’d kill us all and get away with it. Didn’t need a third because Mr. Snitch and I would be in the same deep grave if I messed with our dating contract. I’d seen No Flirting as a clause. It might’ve been the sole portion of the contract not drowning in fluffy parts.
“Oh, boy, nobody’s running away from you.” My laugh floated away as I glanced at Washington staring down Gaston DuVall. Hmm. Maybe he was busy threatening that man after I broke my silence about the pretentious judge’s rudeness? “What do we have here?”
Omari turned his attention to the sculpture again.
Before I could outrun the part of my life that required a 401k plan and my ex’s rules, Omari spoke. “You ever bid on your own work, Madison? Seems unfair, though.”
“Not even.” I laughed. “I can barely win over my credit card company. Every time a rep calls, I try something new. No speak-ah-da English. No comprende Spanish either. Sometimes the sultry tone works.”
He chuckled. “Where’s your artwork? I haven’t seen it in person. And your website is under maintenance.”
“Sorry. I don’t have a piece on display tonight.” You’d suppose your good friends, a.k.a., my parents, would’ve purchased at least one of my creations.
“Damn, Madison Spencer, your humility is beautiful. When I look into your eyes.” He locked me beneath a smoldering gaze. “I see the kind of compassion and affection that makes me assume you wouldn’t hype yourself up; instead, you’d give back to the community. Support this auction. So, who do I have to corner about your lack of product availability?”
I rolled my eyes, smiling. “I forgot you did more than collect antiques. You want to get me public notoriety.”
“International notoriety, Miss Spencer.”
Ugh, stop calling me that. Changing my name back had been a spite move.
“You’re still dodging my calls,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere. Discuss getting you out into the world?”
“Tonight?”
“This very second.” He laughed low, and for a moment, the room dimmed around us. He was intentional. An energy that suggested he read Baldwin but also knew his way around a good cocktail. He smoothed a hand over his head and joked, “You got those flowers?”
Before I could say anything clever, a familiar drawl slid in from behind me.
“What flowers?”
We both turned around. Washington handed me a drink and swallowed his own, jaw a little too tight.
Omari blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’m Judge Washington Babineaux.” Dang. The arrogance was enough to flatten the waves on Omari’s head.
The art dealer extended a hand. “Omari Riche. Babineaux, you said? You’re the ex-husband.”
“Yes, sir. Still around. Always will be. People remarry their first love, y’know?” Washington glanced at Omari’s lonely, outstretched hand, then downed the rest of his drink.
Omari’s hand dropped in a smooth, slow movement, still keeping that effortless charm in his posture. He didn’t flinch, didn’t lose composure, but the heat in the room shifted.
The tension cracked enough for me to smile, one of those awkward ones that wobbled on my face. “Yes, Wash and I lead a complicated life. I’m not sure about the remarrying part, but we’re dating.”