Book Club Night
Teyonah
Three Months Later
The chandelier above the dining table threw liquid gold light, catching the crystal glasses and making them wink. I still wasn't used to it—the way everything in Dominic's mansion sparkled as if polished by someone whose job title was literally "makes things shine."
Matilda Morales—Dominic’s head housekeeper and the woman who ran this mansion like a five-star hotel—had outdone herself tonight.
Born in Cartagena to a Jamaican mother and a Colombian father, she moved like discipline wrapped in sunshine, her British-finishing-school accent occasionally slipping into a rich, musical Spanish when she spoke to the boys.
During their last school break, she’d turned the mansion into an impromptu Spanish immersion camp, teaching them gracias and por favor between lessons on how to make arepas and roll their r’s without spitting.
Now the kids greeted her every morning with “Buenos días, Senorita Matilda,” and she answered with that serene smile that said she ruled this house with grace and a wooden spoon.
Tonight, she’d transformed the massive dining room into something straight out of Architectural Digest.
The long mahogany table gleamed beneath the chandelier. Linen napkins stood folded into wonderful triangles beside crystal stemware.
A cascade of sunflowers and white orchids spilled from a low vase of rippled glass, their stems submerged in water tinted the palest turquoise.
The faint scent of coconut and citrus drifted from floating candles nestled in hand-blown glass bowls.
Scattered seashells—real conch and tiger cowrie, heavy and smooth as pearls—glimmered between mirrored chargers that doubled the candlelight.
At each place setting, a leather-bound menu rested atop a pool-blue plate edged in fourteen-karat gold, the kind of elegant formality that felt less like dinner and more like an invitation to indulge in something rare.
On each leather-bound menu and embossed in gold at the top:
POOL BOY: A Four-Course Study in Desire
I’d laughed so hard I nearly cried. In anticipation of my first book club meeting at the mansion, Matilda had actually read the book, Pool Boy too before creating the food for the evening.
I continued reading the menu.
This is a culinary exploration of heat, temptation, and very poor decisions made near chlorinated water.
Course One–Temptation:
Jalapeno Poppers with Lime-Cilantro Aioli — For the first spark. Hot. Reckless. Impossible to eat just one.
Course Two–The Floaty Incident: Cucumber Gazpacho with Mint Foam — Cool relief that never quite cools you down.
Course Three–Deep End Entanglement: Seared Scallops with Champagne Butter Sauce—Slippery, decadent, and probably against HOA rules.
Course Four–After-Splash Dessert: Chocolate Lava Cake with Sea Salt — Because sometimes you have to get messy to find the sweet spot.
Signature Cocktails:
“The Chlorine Queen” (Blue Curacao & Coconut)
“Dirty Diego” (Martini, extra dirty, extra dangerous)
“Oh my God! This is amazing.” I put the menu back on the table.
“You like it?”
“Yes. This is going to be so much fun.”
“Not as much fun as reading about Diego, but I tried.” A tiny smile tugging at her mouth as she headed away. “Okay. I will go and make sure the chef and staff are finished.”
The doorbell chimed—an actual chime that echoed through three floors—and I rushed to answer it before Matilda could turn around.
"Don't even think about it! You’re already doing so much!" I called over my shoulder. "I can answer my own door."
She chuckled. "As you wish, Mrs. Castellano."
I blinked.
Mrs. Castellano.
The new last name still felt surreal—like I'd borrowed someone else's life and forgotten to give it back.
Three months ago, I'd been drowning in legal paperwork and fear.
Now I wore a wedding ring that cost more than my old house.
Everything had happened so fast it still made my head spin.
Scott's arrest.
The cocaine.
His unregistered gun.
The bribes his shady lawyer had tried to pay to make evidence disappear.
And then—the final nail in his coffin—his mistress Genny coming forward with a domestic violence charge that revealed Scott had been on probation the entire time he'd forced his way back into my house.
When the cops arrested him, they realized that he'd spectacularly violated that probation.
The judge had thrown the book at him.
Five years.
Federal charges stacking on state charges like a nightmare Jenga tower of his own making.
And Dominic's legal team?
They'd moved through the system like hungry sharks through bloody water. My divorce that should have taken a year was finalized in days—a speed I was certain had cost Dominic more money than I wanted to think about.
After the divorce was final. . .I should have waited.
Should have taken time to breathe, to process, to make sure I wasn't just running from one man into the arms of another.
But when we’d gone back to my old house to get my stuff and Dominic got down on one knee in the kitchen—the same kitchen where he'd made me pancakes, fucked me hard, and called me Mommy—he looked at me like I was his entire world and I couldn't imagine saying anything but yes.
Sometimes I woke up and half expected to still be in that old house, bills stacked on the counter, and fear of Scott showing up to bother me. The speed of it all—the collapse, the rescue, the wedding—had left my heart sprinting to catch up with my body.
Dominic called it fate.
I called it whiplash.
Maybe it was both.
The wedding had been small.
Quick.
A beautiful hot mess of paperwork and promises.
Just us, the kids, Spencer as best man, and my girls—Rochelle and Cadence—as my only witnesses. J and Oliver had been ring bearers, matching little suits and faces so serious as they walked down the courthouse aisle.
I didn’t know how she found out, but Mrs. Patterson had showed up to the courthouse ceremony and holding a small white bakery box tied with gold ribbon.
Inside was an angel food cake.
She wore a cream suit, and her hair was no longer pressed and curled into that perfect church-lady coif. She’d done the big chop. It was now a soft halo of gray-streaked natural curls framing her face.
For the first time, she looked free.
When she hugged me, she whispered, “I didn’t see it before, but that man is a keeper.”
Then she pressed the cake into Dominic’s hands. “Every celebration needs something sweet that doesn’t kill you.”
I laughed, half in shock, half in awe. I didn’t think she would ever understand what that moment meant—seeing the woman who’d once judgingly watched my pain from her window now show up to bless my peace.
It felt like the universe itself had come full circle.
I'd cried through my vows.
That quick marriage was reckless, rushed, and probably the best decision I'd ever made.
(We still didn’t eat that angel food cake. It went right in the trash after she left.)
“Let the book club meeting begin!” I opened the door to find Rochelle and Cadence on the porch, both carrying wine bottles and wearing matching grins.
"Bitch!" Ro pushed past me, locs swinging, and gold hoops catching the light. "Every time I pull up to this place, I feel like I should have a passport. You really living in a damn palace now."
Cadence followed, more measured but her eyes were wide. "Tey, I'm still not over this. Last time I was here for the wedding reception, I was too emotional to appreciate the architecture. But this is. . .epic level design."
"I know." I laughed, closing the door. "Trust me, I still get lost sometimes. Last week I opened what I thought was an extra supply closet downstairs and found an entire library."
"A library?" Cadence's face lit up like I'd just told her Christmas came twice this year.
"With a rolling ladder," I confirmed. "Dominic said his mom used to read there. He's been teaching J how to use it without breaking their neck."
We moved through the marble foyer—because yes, there was a foyer—and into the dining room.
Ro stopped dead in the doorway. "Oh my God. The menus. Tey, I'm keeping mine. I'm framing this shit."
Cadence picked hers up, read over it, and then looked at me. "Did you write these?"
"Matilda did," I smirked. "She's been reading the book too. Said it reminded her of her one youthful summer in Ibiza."
"Matilda has a past?" Ro gasped dramatically. "I need to know everything."
As if summoned by her name, Matilda glided in with a tray. Two martini glasses for them, and one tall, elegant champagne flute for me.
"Ladies," she said in that crisp accent. "Your poolside refreshments. Dirty martini, just as dirty and dangerous as our hero, Diego."
I caught Matilda's eye and she gave me the subtlest nod. The nonalcoholic champagne looked identical to the real thing—bubbles, golden color, the works.
We'd practiced this earlier, making sure my friends wouldn't notice.
Ro accepted her martini with both hands. "Matilda, you are a goddess. A sexy, martini-making goddess."
The tiniest smile cracked Matilda's professional mask. "Quite. I'll return shortly with the first course—jalapeno poppers, in honor of Diego's heritage and the spicy nature of chapter seven."
She disappeared as silently as she'd appeared.
Cadence looked at me, eyebrows raised. "Chapter seven?"
I took a sip of my fake champagne. It was surprisingly good—crisp and bubbly and tasted enough like the real thing that I could pretend. "You don’t remember, Cadence. The pool scene. With the floaty."
"Oh my God." Ro clutched her glass. "The floaty scene! Girl, I had to put the book down and take a lap around my condo after that. Diego really said, 'let me show you what this tongue can do' and proceeded to demonstrate on every surface available."
Even thinking about it made my skin warm.
The glint of sun off the water, the slick slide of skin against vinyl, the way Diego pounded his 15-inch cock into Simone.
And the wildest part?
It had been her kids’ pool party.