Chapter Twelve
Old Flames, New Sparks
Lincoln
I’ve been on the lat pull-down machine for the last ten minutes, earbuds in, game face on, really concentrating on isolating my muscles and releasing the tension with each chest press. Or, at least, I’m trying to.
It’s a bit difficult to manage a solid, closed-grip lift when my guys are on either side of me, and Dom can’t seem to talk about anything other than the divorcétante.
“Seriously, I’m trying to focus here.” On the last set, I felt the stress in my rotator cuff. It’s getting dangerous.
“All I’m saying is—”
“Please, I’m begging you…” I tilt my head, stretching my neck as I try to stay centered. “Say less. She’s dating, planning events, dealing with the Livingstons of the world. Believe me, I see her daily, so I’m aware.” More than I’d like to be.
Josiah tosses us an exasperated look from his machine, mid-set on a behind-the-neck pull-down. I think we’re both tired of replaying this same episode.
“And before you say anything else, Dominic Owens…” I shoot him a pointed stare.
“She hasn’t been ‘fighting it the whole time.’ I know for a fact because I’ve been playing it by ear—observing, waiting to see how she acts.
And if I’m taking my cues from her, it couldn’t be clearer that I need to finally move on. ”
“Finally,” Josiah grunts, straining to pull down the bar.
“ Ahhhhh… ” Dom points and gawks. Honestly, if he didn’t have at least two chaotic rebuttals lined up, I’d be worried about him.
Josiah and I chuckle, both of us waiting to see what’s inspired this outburst.
And then Dom steals the air from my chest.
“You watched her date night Get Ready with Me video.” His face is a mask of pure, smug exuberance. “And don’t think I didn’t see Bridges Heritage’s comment.”
Damn.
At that, Josiah releases his grip on the bar, letting the weights drop with a thunderous crash. “He commented?”
“Mm-hmm.” Dom grins from ear to ear, turning to Siah. He lowers his voice dramatically, purring, “ Breathtaking .”
I knew I shouldn’t have commented.
I let out a long sigh, dragging a hand over my beard. “It was a simple compliment.”
Josiah nods, slow and deliberate. I already sense where this is headed in a hurry. “That’s some word choice. Not ‘You look pretty’ or ‘Nice dress,’ or ‘Love your hair.’ No, not from Lincoln Bridges…”
Ignoring them, I widen my grip on the bar and start another set. But my frustration builds with each rep. I drop the bar and swivel to face Josiah. I expected the usual fandom-chasing chaos from Dom, but not from him.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t it you who was so eager to know what I was going to do?
Didn’t you tell me, the pathetic crumb chaser, to give up on her?
Shoot, what were the exact words you used?
” I snap my fingers a few times, pulling the memory into focus.
It’s on the tip of my tongue for a split second before it hits me.
“That’s right. The ‘uppity, money-motivated Zion & Zara she-bot.’ Wow , what a way with words. What a choice.”
A manic energy floods me as I glance back and forth between them, waiting, looking for their validation.
But it doesn’t come.
My guys just stare, concern etched into the shadows and lines of their faces. They pity me. And as far as I’m concerned, that’s about as low as it gets.
“So move on,” Josiah says, quietly. “If you’re serious, one of our avionics techs just started dating again. It’s been a few years since her divorce. She’s nice, good-looking, kind—also a Zion & Zara girl— but not into Livingstons or The Luxe Ladies of Ellswood .”
You date her, then.
We sit here, the silence thickening, ten seconds stretching into forever.
Yeah, I know it’s time to take an honest look at the things I need to change in my life. I know my solo status is self-imposed. For my own peace of mind, though, I should ask Ebony outright what’s wrong, why it’s never our turn.
But deep down, I know I won’t be able to stomach her answer. I can’t volunteer for her to reject me again.
So, yeah, I’ve only gotten as far as moving on from Ebony, not yet to what—or who—is next.
“Good looking out, man.” I nod, my brow trenched as I turn back to my machine. “I think I’m going to hold off for a bit, but…I really appreciate it.”
“No sweat.” Josiah stands and walks over to the treadmills.
“ Damn. ” I exhale sharply.
I watch him for a beat until he disappears into the locker room. I’m debating whether to follow him and hash this out when Dom turns to me, his eyes wide as saucers.
Letting my shoulders slump, I flash him an exhausted stare. I really don’t have the patience to pry whatever’s on his mind out of him. “Just say it.”
“She just dropped the date night update.”
This is the part where a better man would remember the sermon that he just preached to his friends about moving on and actually take his own advice. He’d think long and deep about the emotional torture of being repeatedly rejected by this woman and promptly get himself a life.
What he wouldn’t do is follow one of those friends to an empty SoulSync classroom to watch The Divorcétante Chronicles —where, just minutes ago, Ebony gave a detailed account of the date she had with a man who isn’t me.
Nope.
And under no circumstances would he stand there, fully aware of where she is at work—in Madison’s library—and revel in the fact that the date was a bust.
And yet, here we are.
“I feel so bad because he was such a nice guy, y’all.
Like, opening doors, asking questions about me, saying all the right things…
” Ebony sighs, smiling somberly at the camera.
“Have you ever met someone who, on paper, is everything you said you wanted and more, but there’s just…
nada? No spark. No fire in your belly because you can’t wait to see him again. Just nothing to write home about.”
Dom and I are ravenous, scouring the comments section, for…I don’t know what. A clue? A sign? What exactly was wrong with this guy? What do women even do when this happens? More importantly, how do I lock down the spark?
But there’s nothing. Only people empathizing and telling her the next one will be better. Or that dating is a game of numbers—none of which sits right with my gut, but I’m glad it seems to soothe her.
Ebony looks at the camera, her stare far away as she asks, “Have you ever thought about the small, seemingly insignificant choices we make? I always wonder how my life would be different if I’d listened to my heart and not our, er… my mother.”
My heart races, something like hope quickening my pulse.
“What would you risk for a second chance at love, hmm? Your personal and professional reputation? His?”
Speculation dominates the comments. I told you she has a man, The one that got away, It’s never too late, and my favorite, Risk it all!
On the screen, she softly shakes her head, a warm smile coloring her cheeks, and all over again, I’m mesmerized.
“That was just food for thought.” She shakes her thoughts loose. “But no worries, I’ve got another date soon, and a mixer—”
Dom locks his phone, ending the video, like he senses my mind warring. Like he knows I’m replaying Vincent’s words in my head, trying to decide my next move.
When the opportunity presents itself, be there for her.
Except I don’t want to wait anymore. I can’t wait any longer.
“I’m good,” I say, and for the first time in a long time, it’s not a lie.
I’ve felt stuck, trapped in this endless loop with no way out.
But watching her in her element—surrounded by friends and followers, excitedly getting ready for a date, and even after a setback, knowing she’s still looking ahead—something’s clicked.
It’s having an eye-opening effect on me.
The blindfold is off, and now I need to decide what I’m willing to change to move on, too.
And I am. It’s time for me to stop reliving an ancient fling and get a damn life.
“You’re sure?” Dom asks. “Because—”
I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get back to Siah. He’s probably looking for us.”
We move through the foot traffic path back to the lat pull-down machines, spotting all six-foot-hulk of him in the middle of a set.
Dom quickly claims the machine to his right, and I hang back, then work into the rotation.
When Josiah stands to switch out with me, I nudge his shoulder with mine and quietly say, “Send me Alexis’s phone number. ”
On the way home, I’m on top of the world.
Even with the thick Ellswood humidity, the windows are down, and nineties hip-hop is blasting into the warm summer air.
It’s Saturday night, and I’m not ready to call it a day, so I swing by Madison Manor to check on the landscaping progress and secure the building.
But when I pull around the back, I notice the late crew have left some of the lights on, so I figure, two birds, one stone.
A Tribe Called Quest’s “Scenario” is buzzing in my head as I park, and I walk around back.
“Whoa!” I slow my pace, unsure where to look. They’ve done a stellar job.
A couple of days ago, there was patchwork sod and flags marking the areas for plants and trees.
Now, the courtyard leading up to the terrace is a lush, fragrant, green sanctuary with towering, spotlit magnolia trees casting warm, dappled shadows over the sprawling lawn.
Bougainvillea and wisteria vines are draped elegantly over wrought-iron trellises, showcasing their violet and pink blooms. Path lights lead up to the pristine gardens, overflowing with a variety of gardenias, azaleas, and hydrangeas, adding more vibrant bursts of color.
And even on the terrace, tall boxwoods and sculpted topiaries lend a sense of refined luxury to polish off this worldly escape.
“ Phew , they’ve outdone themselves,” I muse, climbing the steps to the ballroom entrance. After fishing out my keys, I unlock the door and enter.