Chapter Seven #2
“We kind of dated,” I mumble. I don’t know what makes me do it, but I tell her damn near everything.
I tell her how Tanya introduced us eleven years ago and we spent the most magical day together that led to a kiss in the rain.
How I snuck out of his apartment that night for a job opportunity in New York and didn’t see him again for five years.
How attached at the hip we were when we found each other again until he went home to Baltimore and distanced himself from me.
I even tell her how I felt seeing him at his gallery opening three years ago when I walked away from the possibility of us for the last time.
Nisha’s eyes go wide with every confession until I’m finished. “I can’t believe you asked him to go to London with you and he said no.”
“Me either,” I say. It’s all I can offer. I don’t know why things fell apart with us, and I don’t care to find out.
She grumbles. “But then when you saw him years later, you didn’t wanna hear him out?”
“He had a girlfriend, Nish.”
She blows out a raspberry. “I can bet that girlfriend didn’t have shit on fate!”
Fate? Oh brother, maybe I made a mistake telling her everything.
“Alright, well, that’s enough of that.”
“I mean, come on. What are the chances that your friend would marry the friend of the guy you had a passionate tryst with years ago? If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is.”
I sigh. “And now that you’re using words like tryst, I have got to end this conversation.” She raises her finger in the air, but I interrupt before she can speak. “And it’s not fate. It’s Baltimore being too damn small.”
She scowls at me and then shakes her head until her face morphs into a sly grin. “You’re in denial, it’s okay. Imagine knowing who your soulmate is for eleven years and nothing happening. This is like a movie.”
I groan. “Imagine getting hung up on because you say silly things.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You’re lucky I have to go pick up Deux from the groomers. Can’t wait to see you and Micah tomorrow.” She says Micah’s name like it’s made of rainbows and unicorns.
“Goodbye, Nisha. Send me puppy pics when you pick up Deux.”
She waves as she ends the call.
I need a drink after that.
A bottle of Promesa stares at me from the bar cart in my living room, daring me to indulge.
Some people might think it’s self-absorbed to have a bottle of my own tequila in my house.
Those people are idiots. If I didn’t think Promesa was the best tequila on the market, I wouldn’t make it.
I wouldn’t have poured my energy into finding the right partner to make the highest-quality tequila possible.
I wouldn’t have poured my soul into making sure the product Promesa puts out not only tastes amazing, but evokes feelings.
It’s not just a tequila. It’s passion. It’s euphoria. It’s power.
I don’t drink this shit because I helped make it. I drink it because it’s good.
The sweet aroma of the golden liquid permeates the air when I open the bottle. Holding it to my lips, I close my eyes and allow the bittersweet memories clouding my mind to guide the liquid down my throat to the pit of my stomach.
After two more shots, my apartment starts to feel hollow. Every sound—from the AC flowing through my vents to the icemaker in my fridge—seems filtered through a speaker.
I pick up my phone and text Omari. There’s no reason I should enjoy these drinks alone.
Within moments, he agrees to come over, and thirty minutes later he’s there knocking.
Omari stands at my door with hungry eyes. His standard formal attire is replaced with black sweatpants, a T-shirt, and a flannel. There’s no pretense about what he’s here for.
When I step aside to let him in, he grabs me by the waist and pushes me against the entrance to take my lips in a fiery kiss. He smells like cigars, sin, and warmth.
“Hi,” he murmurs with a heady voice. “You’ve been busy.”
I haven’t really. Not too busy to answer his texts at least; I just haven’t been answering them.
“I’m here now,” I whisper back, pulling him inside and slamming the door shut. I don’t want words. I don’t want to talk about our days or hear about a single fucking investment. I want to be ravished and disrespected.
We fumble our way through the living room and into the kitchen where he pops me onto the counter the way he’s done a million times before. My eyes roll to the back of my head when he starts that delectable exploration of my neck with his tongue that I love so much.
The pads of his hands are so soft as he runs them up my stomach to cup my breasts.
I try to ignore the feeling that they’re too soft, not marked by a single callus or blister.
The feeling finally gets pushed to the back of my mind when he lifts my shirt over my head and tweaks my right nipple, swirling his tongue down to my chest to find its way to the left one.
I moan when he bites down ever so gently.
This is good.
This is what I needed.
“You always feel so good,” he says, his lips dancing across my skin.
“Mmm,” I moan. I open my eyes to tell him to make me feel good, but it’s not Omari’s face I see. It’s a pair of obsidian almond-shaped eyes against midnight skin, locs dangling over my breasts. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck,” I spit.
I can feel his hand hovering over my rib cage. “You okay?” he asks, concern hanging off his words.
I lean my head back against my cabinet and slowly let my eyes flutter open, relieved to see just Omari again. “Yep. Just a head rush. Take me to the bedroom.”
“You sure? Do you need anything?”
I look at the forgotten bottle of Promesa sitting on the counter. I don’t know if it’s helping or hurting my hallucinations, but I take a swig. Grabbing Omari’s chin between my fingers, I slide his lips apart to pour a shot down his throat. He lets me, licking his lips when he’s done.
I lean over and kiss him deeply. “I just need you.”
Satisfied with my response, he picks me up and carries me to my room, kicking the door closed behind him.
Once we’re both kneeling on the bed, I rip his shirt over his head, trailing my fingers over his chest and enjoying how his skin ripples under my touch.
He grabs me by the throat and pulls me into him, kissing me behind the ear. “Don’t get cocky, Dani. We’re just getting started.” The bite in his voice pulls a moan out of me.
Thank the lord we’re back on track.
I push on his stomach until he releases his grip and then I lie down and pull my bottoms off, leaving me completely naked and splayed open for him. His eyes darken as he takes me in, leaning over to grip my thighs.
“You look so perfect for me,” he says, his voice gruff.
Damnit. There he goes transforming before my eyes again.
Fuck this. I give him what I hope is a look of seduction and flip over to my stomach, hiking my ass in the air.
I don’t need to see him for him to make me feel good.
“Fuck, Dani,” he groans.
“How’s this for perfect?”
When his tongue breaches my center, my body finally lets go and lets me get lost in the moment.
The blackout curtains in my room block out any trace of the sun’s rays, but I know they’re there because I’ve been staring at my clock for over an hour.
Sleep never fully came for me anyway. The wheels in my mind moved too fast for it to hold on to me.
Sometimes, I have these periods where I can’t keep up with my thoughts, and everything around me becomes foggy.
If I stay in this bed any longer, I’ll suffocate under the weight of the fog.
Fighting the temptation to let it take me, I throw my feet off the side of the bed and stretch my arms up to the ceiling.
I check to see if Omari’s awake. He quietly smacks his lips and turns over to face away from me. Perfect.
I sneak off to the bathroom and prepare to start my day. The tightness in my chest settles with every step of my routine.
“Good morning,” Omari greets me when I step out of the bathroom, making me jump out of my skin.
“Shit, good morning.”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You were just snoring so peacefully not that long ago. I wasn’t expecting you to be up,” I tease.
“Oh, wow. You lying on me now? I don’t snore.”
“You definitely snore. But it’s a cute snore. Not a ‘tap you on the shoulder and tell you to get the fuck out’ kind of snore.”
“Well, that’s a relief, then,” he jokes.
He gets out of the bed and excuses himself to the bathroom. I appreciate the gentle stroke of my arm he gives me as he passes by because he knows I don’t accept morning-breath kisses.
When he comes out of the bathroom, I’ve just finished getting dressed.
“I was just going to make our coffees,” I say. Normally, after Omari spends the night, I make us both coffee in the morning and we drink them on my balcony before he heads out for work or whatever it is he does in his free time.
He grabs my waist and pushes me against my dresser, taking my lips in a fiery kiss. “Have breakfast with me.”
The words almost don’t compute in my mind.
We do dinners. We know what comes after dinner.
We don’t do breakfasts out in public. It’s too … intimate. There’s an implication that comes with it, that you’re more than what you are.
Hell, even a trip would be better than breakfast. The same rules don’t apply when you’re on vacation, and Omari and I have taken plenty of sexcations together.
We’ve enjoyed sex on a cruise ship over Caribbean waters, under the stars in Paris, and on the beaches of Saint Lucia. We’ve let our bodies do the talking after wine tours in California and after nights of dancing in Nashville.
But breakfast? In our backyard?
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“I promise.” He sticks three fingers up in a Scout’s honor. “This is not me trying to break out of the friends-with-benefits zone. I’m just hungry and don’t wanna eat breakfast alone.”
Breakfast isn’t a meal I typically eat unless my dad’s making it or it’s brunch and there are mimosas involved, so I can’t even offer to make him something here.
It’s just breakfast. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t have my planning meeting until later, so there’s no real reason for me not to go.
“Fine. Wherever we go better have good coffee.”
“Nothing beats yours, but I think I can come close. Let’s go.” He steps back and offers me his arm, so I take it.
We end up at a place called Days of the Week Café. It’s a charming spot with picnic-style decor. The menu tells the story of how the owner chose the name because she has seven children, each one named after a day of the week.
We order coffee and he also orders a Bloody Mary as we sit and talk.
My eyes start to glaze over when he starts talking about investments, but I manage to dial back in when he brings the conversation around to his elderly Labrador retriever, Barkley.
I hate to admit it, but my favorite thing about Omari might be his dog.
He’s the sweetest, most gentle creature I’ve ever met.
Anytime I’ve stayed over at Omari’s place, I’ve almost been tempted to stay when Barkley hobbles over to me and lays his head in my lap.
“And how is the old man?” I ask.
“Old. He’s starting to have trouble jumping on the couch.”
My hand flies up to my mouth. “Oh no!”
“Yeah. It’s okay, though. He’s hangin’ in there. I’m taking him to physical therapy.”
“Aww, good. Only the best for Sir Barkley.”
“You know, he told me to tell you he misses you.”
I look into Omari’s kind eyes. “Is that so? I didn’t realize Barkley could talk.”
He wipes the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Oh yeah, he’s real chatty. But only with me.”
Yapper recognizes yapper, I guess. “Interesting. Well, tell Barkley I miss him too.”
Something akin to hope overwhelms his features, sparking dread in my heart. My wish is for everything to stay the same between us and I have to believe he feels that way too.
As we’re walking out of the restaurant, a familiar face comes into view.
Three years of living in the same city again and I’ve never once run into Micah on the street.
Why is this happening now? My desire for him to pretend he doesn’t see me is crushed when a sly smirk flashes across his face as he gets closer.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were stalking me, Dani,” he says once we’re finally within earshot.
“Good thing you do know better, Micah.”
“Good thing. Just a fair warning, I know Bailey has a lot of ideas in mind, so be prepared for her to talk a mile a minute today.”
“That’s fine,” I say curtly. Omari doesn’t know Tanya passed away or what I’ve been tasked to do, and I want to keep it that way for no other reason than it’s none of his business. So, whatever Micah has to say about today can wait until we’re supposed to be together.
He seems to catch on to my brush-off, eyeing me up and down before turning to Omari. “My bad, bruh. I’m Micah. I’m Dani’s—”
“He’s my friend’s husband’s friend,” I cut him off.
Why is he trying to get this man all in my business?
I should stomp on his big toe right now.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Micah cast a side glance in my direction, and I can’t lie, that makes me smile a bit. “And Micah, this is my … Omari.”
Why did I stumble over the word friend? What the fuck was I about to say? Was I about to shove Omari into a box he doesn’t belong in just to have something to say?
It’s time for Micah to go.
“Nice to meet you, Myomari.” Micah holds his hand out for Omari to dap him up.
Smartass.
Omari steps closer to Micah. “Omari,” he corrects. “Yeah, you too, man.”
The two of them chop it up for longer than necessary, leaving me standing there wondering what I did to deserve this dumb shit.
Enough is enough. “Omari, do you mind dropping me at home? I got some stuff to do before some meetings later.”
Unfazed, Omari turns to me. “Yeah, that’s no problem.”
He says his goodbyes to Micah before ushering me to his car. When I look back in Micah’s direction, his eyes are firmly planted on me.