Betrothed To Love

Chapter 1

ONE

“Mmm.” My head. Shit.

A thousand pounds of God knows what is weighing on my head and I can’t even lift it. Hell, I can’t even open my damn eyes. What the hell?

“You good?” a smooth but foreign-to-me baritone says and I freeze. My entire body gets stiff as a board because…

Who the fuck is that?

And why is he in my house?

At least I think I’m home. Oh Lord, where am I?

It takes will and too much determination to open my eyes, but I make it happen. A quick scan of the room immediately answers my internal question. This is not my room; I’m definitely not home. Fuck! What did you do, girl?

My brain is hazy as hell and the night is a blur, with some moments completely blocked by dense mind fog. The last clear image I have is sitting at the bar on the rooftop.

The annual Black Law Association Masquerade Ball was last night on the rooftop of The Metropolitan.

Despite a grueling week of court and lamenting because yesterday was my late grandparents’ anniversary, I still dragged my ass to the ball and looked fabulous doing so.

I just don’t know how my fabulousness got here with that voice.

Although the source of the smooth voice is no longer in the room, I know what I heard.

There’s a man somewhere nearby and I’m naked.

A cool breeze infiltrates the soft sheet and comfortable duvet covering my body, making it painfully obvious that I’m without clothes.

My eyes confirm it when I raise the covers.

“Shit,” I hiss then roll my eyes at my damn self.

This isn’t me. I don’t wake up in strange rooms with strange voices asking if I’m cool.

I’m structured, careful, and very intentional.

Reckless isn’t even in my vocabulary, which is why at thirty-two I’m the youngest elected judge on the bench in the First Circuit Criminal Court.

My career and upcoming reelection mean too much to me to be reckless.

My term ends on the last day of the year but the election is in November, a few months away.

God…this is not good. Not good at all.

The moment I sink my head deeper into the pillow, the voice returns. “I hate to leave like this but I have a meeting. Take your time and we can talk at dinner tonight,” it says, sounding thoughtful but too damn familiar with me.

My head raises and my eyes land on a fine ass, chocolate man wearing the hell out of a tailor-made gray suit.

The top of his shirt is unbuttoned, exposing intricate tattoos on his neck.

This man is fine fine and his tailored suit only complements his sexy body.

I love a man with strong features and alluring eyes, especially if he’s groomed.

This man’s beard, mustache, and low-cut Caesar all look fresh out of a skilled barber’s chair.

My God! How can I not remember him?

After stepping to the bed, he leans in and his damn cologne awakens everything in me. Our eyes lock and a smug look trespasses his handsome face.

“See you in a bit,” he says before pecking my lips intimately.

In a bit? “Mm hm,” is all I can conjure up and let fall from my lips.

His smug look gets smugger and he grins. “You can shower and even order room service,” he says, again sounding intimate and truly familiar, despite the fact that I don’t know this fine man at all.

“Okay,” I utter, still stuck and unable to articulate my words. The cocktail of his cologne, handsome face, fine body in this suit, and the fact that I’m naked under these covers has me thoroughly discombobulated and speechless.

He pecks my lips again then leaves the room.

I don’t move or recover from all that was him until I hear a door close.

The minute I do, I ease out of the bed, pulling the duvet with me.

After securing it around my body, I walk around to see where the hell I am.

It doesn’t take long to surmise I’m in a hotel room, well… suite, still at The Metropolitan.

“What the hell happened?” I utter, truly perplexed as I journey back to the bedroom. The sound of my cell phone ringing halts my steps, however. I turn back, following the sound. It’s on a small table next to the sofa. “Judge Coleman,” I answer.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” my judicial clerk Kenya responds. “Your usual caramel matcha?” she asks and her words cause the fog to dissipate in my mind.

Shit, I have court today.

It’s Friday, not the weekend.

I need to get my shit together.

After looking at the screen, I damn near have a heart attack when I see the time.

It’s ten minutes after eight. I’m scheduled to be in chambers at nine and my home is thirty minutes from here and court’s another twenty from my house.

My best bet is to leave from here and go to court, but needless to say, my brown, mid-thigh, sequined dress and heels aren’t professional at all.

I really lost my damn mind last night.

“Have you left yet?” I ask Kenya, who lives just ten minutes from my condo in The Millennium Towers.

“No. Grabbing my things to leave now,” she reveals and I let out a relief-filled sigh.

“Oh good. No questions, please, but I need your help.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to stop by my place and grab one of my suits or dresses and a pair of heels from the closet by the door. I don’t care which, as long as it matches.

I’m running behind and not in the house and I need to change.

I’ll let you know when I’m by the judges’ entrance so you can bring my stuff down. ”

“Of course, I got it and this sounds like you’re going to need a mucho grande today,” she says with a slight grin.

“Yes, with a double shot of espresso. What time is my first case on the docket?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Okay. It’s definitely going to be one of those Fridays. I’ll see you shortly,” I say, then huff out a breath of air.

“See you soon,” she says and ends the call.

A judge and her judicial aide have a very important relationship.

I can’t run my court or chambers without her.

She’s my front line, personal assistant, and manager of my chambers, my calendar, and my direct communications.

No one gets to me without going through her.

She schedules all my hearings, handles any communications with attorneys, prepares all of my travel and administrative paperwork, and makes trips to my home when needed.

She has her own alarm and lock codes. She’s my lifeline and lifesaver.

After grabbing my dress, shoes, and mini tote, I take my ass back into the bedroom, place my cell on the hotel’s charging pad on the table by the bed, drop the duvet, and rush into the ensuite bath.

Thankfully, the hotel has two complimentary hygiene kits in the bathroom along with body wash and lotion.

I rush because I have no time to dwell on how I got here, who the sexy man in the suit is, or what the hell happened last night.

I must be in my chambers by nine and ready to perform my judicial duties by nine-thirty.

Those questions can wait until my day is over.

So, I push them aside and manage to get showered, moisturized, dressed, looking pretty decent, and in my Range in thirty minutes.

I’m in the judges’ parking lot behind the courthouse in another fifteen minutes.

I text Kenya, and when the coast is fairly clear, I creep to the back entrance, ignoring the side eye from security, and slip into the ladies restroom to the left of the security checkpoint.

Kenya walks in not even five minutes later with my black wrap dress and pumps.

Since we are alone in the bathroom as I change, she gives me a quick overview of my first trial, a bail hearing for possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance.

The defendant has no adult priors but had minor charges as a teen.

The true issue of bail is the alleged amount of the controlled substance.

It’s over four hundred grams, which is a first-degree felony. Typically, no bail is issued.

My campaign for election to the bench centered on justice for all.

While I am a letter of the law decision maker, I am well aware of the innate prejudices and unfairness that undermine our justice system, which is why I evaluate each defendant separately and view each case differently.

I don’t render cookie-cutter decisions and I don’t let preconceived notions influence my ruling.

The law rules, and when followed correctly without bias, it clearly details rules of evidence, rulings, and sentences.

“The prosecution is asking for no bail and defense wants ROR,” Kenya says, referring to the defendant being released on his own recognizance.

“I’ll entertain both arguments,” I assure her when I walk out of the stall looking like I’m heading to chambers instead of making a walk of shame.

When I hand her the bag filled with my masquerade dress and shoes, she smirks, then says, “I’m going to ask about this another day.”

“Yeah, but no time soon. I honestly don’t have any answers yet,” I admit. Not one damn clue.