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)
“None of those are alike …”
“Exactly.” His hands fell onto my shoulders, a sudden, warm pressure, as if asking for confirmation. When I didn’t call him out, he kneaded the tension away. “Just a couple, so it doesn’t seem like we’re working a shady designer brand sweatshop. See?”
I had questions but folded my arms and dipped my shoulders away from those hands. They had a magnetic pull. But momma was not to be played with. “Look, I’m gonna go ahead and work on this project with you because I’m a professional, and I need money. But let’s get one thing straight: keep your paws at home. Don’t accidentally graze my arm. Don’t get all up in my personal bubble. I need a five-foot radius and receipts on every reproduction.”
“You want a contract?”
Hell no. Another man already had me wrapped up in a contract, and all the verbiage was making me develop a tic. “I need you to understand that if you screw me over, you’ll find yourself lost in a swamp. No paddle, no GPS. And I’ma tell the gators where you’re hiding. You feel me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He didn’t even chuckle.
washington
. . .
Last week, Madison stormed out of Dooky Chase and my life. Contract be damned. If I had any sense, I would’ve used her furry-red handcuffs instead of a stupid dating scheme to get her attention. Those cuffs brought us years of pleasure. Good times. But the night they broke? Lord have mercy.
Madison was drunk. Not tipsy. Not I-can-still-walk-in-heels drunk. Nah, she was New Orleans-half-a-hand-grenade-deep drunk. Woman could only toss back a glass of wine. That night, she’d stumbled into my arms in lingerie after I had already put her to bed, still intoxicated. She was clutching one half of those busted cuffs like she was ready to perform a miracle. Damn things were dead to the world. She must’ve accidentally broken them in a drunken, violent fit to open them and get to me. Lust and frustration were no joke.
She had gasped. What are we gonna do now?
Since she was one of those crying drunks, I did the noble thing. Kept my mouth shut. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t say, Maddy, you’re acting like somebody shot your dog. And I sure didn’t follow up with Hello? You still got a whole man here willing to acquiesce to any of your demands. I let her have her moment. We buried those poor, fluffy cuffs with a prayer, candles, and slow jams. Then we celebrated. Horizontally.
The next day, I bought her another pair. And she deserved them.
Man, I miss my life.
It was the first day of spring in New Orleans, and it had a half-wild, half-hungover kinda beauty. The Quarter was still shaking off Mardi Gras. Beads dangled from balconies like forgotten sins. Street performers were already out, sliding trombones through the mid-morning light. And I was showing up at Gaston DuVall’s French Quarter Jazz Brunch alone.
I adjusted my linen blazer and strolled into the courtyard restaurant. Tables sat tucked beneath banana trees. Mimosas flowed. Louis Armstrong’s “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?” drifted on the breeze. As the live band played, I answered, Nope. I miss Madison. Had she blown me off?
“Washington!”
I turned. DuVall, wearing gold, waved me over as if he owned the place. The two guys at his sides were finance suits, or maybe professional talkers, judging by the number of hand gestures.
He clasped my hand. “Didn’t think you’d show up solo. Where’s that firecracker of yours? Bridget missed her at the auction.”
Madison always said that if the woman didn’t attend an event to gossip and sip champagne, she was getting Botox. In front of Bridget, my bébé was all tight-church-lady smiles. Nothing more. “Maddy will arrive soon.”
Before I could change the subject, DuVall nodded past me. “Speak of the hurricane.”
I cut through the courtyard, my eyes on Madison in a red pantsuit. She spoke with a server, hand on hip.
“Hey,” she murmured, voice tight but guarded as I gestured her toward a table away from the crowd.
“You’re late, Madison. Why?”
“I … uh.”
I pulled another chair from the table, closer to the entrance, under a canopy of trees. I didn’t want anyone to bother us while I pressed her. “You know what? I don’t need you stumbling over words. Next time you have excuses, that’s an infraction, Maddy.”
“Okay.” She sat.
Too simple. I went heavy on her. “And next time you ghost me, I’ma bring the red cuffs.”
Her brow lifted. Something flashed in her eyes. Desire. Then maybe fear, since she understood I was taking her one way or another. “Wash, you still, uh, got those?”
“Yep. The second pair survived. Unlike my patience.”
That earned me a smirk she hid behind her mimosa. Then she picked up a prix fixe menu on the table. After a beat, she put it down. “Didn’t mean to be dramatic at Dooky Chase.” Her eyes met mine. Written in beautiful mahogany ink in those irises was an apology. “You gotta know, Wash, I wasn’t mad at you. Never. You know the saying, looks are deceiving?”