Chapter 4
I can tell she doesn’t believe me, so I reiterate once more. “I swear on my life, we didn’t.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Amani says before popping a big bite of the corn and black bean empanada in her mouth. I love a girl who eats. Really eats. What’s the point of sharing all these fun meals and experiences if I’m doing it all alone?
“How is it?” I ask, nodding toward the plate. I already know. I’ve eaten them about ten times before, but I like the enthusiasm on her face.
“So, so, good. Here,” she says, holding out half of an empanada and cupping her other hand underneath to catch the falling kernel of corn. “Bite.”
I’m full, but no way I’ll refuse her. I take a hearty bite, chew, and swallow in a hurry. “Delicious…” I watch her twinkling eyes. A stark contrast to the look of pain clouding her face from earlier in the parking lot. If making Amani smile is the only thing I do today, I’ll still call that a day well spent. “And, as I said, I promise you, Jessie and I never slept together.”
She shrugs like my promise means nothing and looks around the dimly lit tapas restaurant. I follow her gaze, taking in one of my favorite restaurants. The tables are sticky, every light has a red hue, and it reeks of grill smoke and spilled liquor. But it has the best tapas in the city. You can only order small plates here, so Amani and I have been conversing and laughing as we sampled each of the ten-some little plates of Spanish cuisine they brought to our table.
“Well, there might still be some potential,” Amani eventually replies with a smug smile. “She was giving you the eyes. You should’ve taken her home.”
“Ha. Not a chance. Jessie is a friend.”
She shrugs, and then pulls a fastener out of her clutch, wrapping her auburn-red hair into a knot before securing it with a hair tie. “Sometimes friends sleep together.”
“Not in my world.”
She raises her brows at me, so I rub the back of my neck uncomfortably as I elaborate.
“I just don’t like blurring lines. I think you can have great sex or a great friendship, but—”
“Not both?” she asks, studying my eyes.
I bob my head in a slow nod. “Something like that.”
She smirks. “Well, makes sense. I didn’t exactly peg ‘Smooth Line Adam’ as the marrying type.” She scoots a little closer into the booth and nudges me with her shoulder like she’s telling me it’s okay. I can almost read her mind. It’s not like we have the potential for anything more than this happenstance lunch. And maybe it’s just because I want to prove her wrong, or interrupt whatever narrative she’s currently spinning in her mind, but I admit something I typically don’t admit to anyone.
“I was once.”
Shock splatters across her face. “What? Married?”
I nod again. “I got divorced about eight years ago, when I was twenty-four.”
Amani is silent for a moment, clearly chewing on the inside of her cheek.
Just go ahead and ask.I know you want to.
It takes longer than I expect, but she finally caves. “What happened?”
I inhale, sucking in as much air as possible to delay my reply. What happened? Liv fucking broke me. That’s what happened. I haven’t trusted a woman since. “We, uh…we blurred lines.” I smirk.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Clever. So when it comes to women, it’s either fuck or be friends… So then what are you doing here with me?”
I curl my lips into a smart-ass half smile. “The choice is all yours,” I say as the waitress returns to the table with a check in her hand. Amani’s dainty hand reaches, but I wrap it in mine so forcefully, she widens her eyes at me. “Don’t even think about it.” I use my other hand to collect the bill from the waitress.
“Well, I’d call you a gentleman if you weren’t crushing my hand,” she sasses, wiggling out of my grip.
Quickly signing the bill and leaving a far more than generous tip, I pivot in the half-moon-shaped booth, my knee gently knocking against Amani’s. “So,” I say simply.
“So?” she asks, cocking her head to the side. Even in the aromatic haze of smoke from the restaurant, I still smell her perfume. It’s less triggering now. More pleasant than anything else. I’m slightly tempted to bury my face in her neck to see where she’s dabbing it on.
“I fed you. My guy from the repair shop is picking up your car as we speak—”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Leaning to the side, I pull a key out of my pocket. “Last order of business.”
“Business? Okay…you fed me, took my car, and now you’re giving me a key.” Her sassy, smart-ass smile is contagious. “Adam Montgomery, did you just kidnap me?” She takes in a panoramic view of the restaurant. “The food was so delicious, I didn’t even realize. Well, you win, I’m stranded and helpless,” she says, then puts her wrists together and holds them out to me. “Lock ’em up.”
“Hilarious. I’ll keep bondage in mind for yet another one of your interesting kinks.”
“Ha. Tip of the iceberg, my friend,” she says with a half-hearted chuckle.
I don’t understand her playfulness. When I left the leasing office, I thought someone was being stabbed. Based on the blood-curdling screams, I looked around for a victim being chased by a large man in a hockey mask. Instead, I saw Amani having the literal definition of a complete mental breakdown in her car. And when I caught her, she tried, with great effort, to play it off like she was fine. At least until she mentioned a baby…
“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with Jessie at the leasing office. Do you really want to move back to Denver?”
There’s a flicker of surprise on her face, then her eyes drop to her lap. “I honestly don’t know. I wanted to, then I had a change in plans. But I already lost my place, and the rental market here is a nightmare. I can’t drain my savings and move all my shit into a hotel room.”
I place the key on the table and slide it in front of her. “Would you move your shit up to the third floor?”
“You’re between tenants?”
“Um…sure.” For almost seven years now, since I moved out. But I don’t tell her that.
“Adam,” she scoffs, unconvinced. “You’re not going to kick renters out just because of a little crush.”
I clutch my chest and give her my most offended expression. “Just because I asked you out, told you you’re gorgeous, bought you lunch, handled your broken car situation, and now am offering you my condo—free of charge, by the way—you think I’m crushing on you? That’s mighty forward of you, Amani.”
She laughs so hard, she snorts. I wait until she has her cackle under control. “Fine. But not for free. I insist on paying. Full price. And ten percent on top of the monthly price for you accommodating me on such short notice.”
“I have a three-bedroom in building A with an ocean view. You really want to pay full rent?”
“Building A?”
I nod. “Correct.”
She clears her throat. “Then yeah, I’m going to need that friends and family discount you’re about to offer me.”
“It’s a favor between friends. You can stay as long as you need for free until you figure out your next steps.”
She shakes her head. “No dice. I’m no mooch.”
I let out a hearty laugh. “If you insist on paying, how about thirty percent off?”
She points her thumb up to the ceiling and jabs a few times. “Too generous.”
“Ten percent off?”
She frowns and turns her thumb downward. “Eh, I’d really like to be able to afford groceries.”
“Twenty-five percent off. Final offer.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears and bats her eyelashes at me. “Oh my God, Adam, that was so generous and unexpected,” she says, her voice teeming with more sarcasm. “But I don’t know about all this. Can I think about it?”
I balk at her in confusion. “Where are you going to go? Your lease is up in a couple of weeks, right?” I think I remember Jessie telling me all rental agreements run on the first of the month.
“There’s a lovely bridge on the West side, near Riverlakes. Very little graffiti and there’s a community bonfire every night. Are they burning old tires for warmth? Yes. But I like to focus on the positives, like all the free malt liquor that gets passed around in brown paper bags.”
I raise a brow at her. “You’d rather be homeless than take my condo?”
She cups her hand over the key in front of her. “No.” Sliding her hand to the edge of the table, she makes the key disappear into her clutch. “Actually, at this point, good luck getting rid of me.”
I point to her clutch. “Amani, that key is conditional.”
Now she looks a little concerned. “On what?”
“Tell me what you meant by the baby thing earlier. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
She shrivels in her seat a little, then says, “Adam—”
I continue before she can cut me off again. “I know someone who lost a baby. It was incredibly painful, and they didn’t tell anyone. Not a damn word. Years later, they told me they probably would’ve healed faster if they could’ve talked about it. So I’m offering.”
She’s quiet for a long time, and maybe I went a step too far. Maybe she won’t forgive me for prying. But I—
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, interrupting my train of thought. “I’ve been trying artificial insemination for over half a year. I thought it finally stuck, but it was a faulty pregnancy test. That’s it. I don’t have an impressively tragic story, just my body isn’t doing what I want it to and my doctor basically told me I’m beating my head against a brick wall.” She takes a sip of her water, probably thinking I don’t notice her hand slightly shaking. “He asked me to stop torturing myself for a few months.”
“Artificial insemination?”
“Yes.”
I squint at her. “You were going to have a baby with a stranger? Why wouldn’t you want to bring a baby into a family?”
“Actually, my setup with Donor 00429310 would’ve been a lot like my parents’ marriage. He won’t help with child support, but I also don’t have to cook for him or put out.” She flashes me that goofy smile again, which is quickly becoming my favorite smile in the world. “So it’s my parents’ relationship to a tee.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Mhmm…”
“But I’ll bite because now I’m curious. What happened with your parents? Divorced?”
Amani pops her shoulders. “My dad doesn’t know I’m alive.”
“Huh?”
“Did you know that Amani is an Arabic name?”
I shake my head. “No, I did not.” I know her name sounds like a song, but I had no idea the cultural background.
“I’m named after my grandmother, who also doesn’t know I exist. My dad is from Saudi Arabia. He was studying in the United States when he met my mom. From what I understand, it was pretty much love at first sight for both of them. They spent two of his semesters just being happy…and lying their asses off of course. His family thought he was buried in textbooks, but instead…” She laughs, not finishing her joke, which no doubt was “buried in my mom.”
I study Amani’s features and kick myself for not seeing it before. I’ve only ever noticed her freckles and bright green eyes. But now I scroll over her face, noticing her distinct cheekbones, and even though she’s fair-skinned, her olive undertones are apparent. Or maybe I’m making this up because it’s only adding to the narrative that this is by far the most intriguing woman I’ve ever met.
“So why doesn’t your dad know you’re alive?”
“My mom is American and agnostic.” Amani raises her brows. “And was a little wild. Back then, if she could’ve made a tent at Coachella her permanent home, she would’ve. No way his family would’ve accepted her even if she was willing to convert. My dad had a family business and an arranged marriage set up for him after college. When he left, he had no idea she was pregnant. My mom was only nineteen.”
There’s an odd smile on Amani’s face as she stares across the restaurant. Pride mixed with pain.
“And she kept you?”
She turns to face me, scrunching her face like I said something ridiculous. “Of course she did. She wanted me. I was conceived out of love. It didn’t last, but it was real. My mom says she loved him so much, she had no choice but to let him go.”
“Wow, what a happy ever after,” I say sarcastically. “Leaving a nineteen-year-old to have a baby by herself.”
She holds my gaze warningly, like I said something offensive. “I grew up really happy, okay? Sure, we were dirt poor, but it made me appreciate what I have now.”
That warning flash in her eyes tells me to back the fuck off, so I change the subject before I’m tempted to investigate more into her childhood. I can’t seem to help it around Amani. I have met so many women in L.A. and they usually fall into two categories. I feel guilty admitting that dating feels like Groundhog Day—always one of two narratives. Either they were born and raised amongst the glitz and glam and are accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Or they were raised on the outside looking in and moved to L.A., chasing after the aforementioned glitz and glam. But somehow Amani seems disinterested in what I do and who I know. It’s refreshing.
“Out of curiosity, what exactly do you have now? I’m honestly fascinated by influencer entrepreneurs.”
She squints one eye. “Fascinated? Please. I know what people say about influencers.”
From the corner of my eye, I see our waitress make a beeline in our direction but quickly pivots and heads in the opposite direction when she sees we’re still occupying the table. As I look around, I notice the cluster of people at the door, waiting for a free table. The restaurant is losing potential business because we’re holding one of the best booths.
But there’s no way in hell I’m interrupting this conversation and leaving at the present moment. I beckon the waitress over.
“Could we see the dessert menu?”
Amani shakes her head while gripping her sides. “No room left. I’m way too full.”
I nod at the waitress and she hurries off to fetch the dessert menu from the hostess stand. “I just need them to bill me for something else. If we’re going to hold a booth here, I want to give them the business.”
“Good point.” She scours the restaurant, now noticing how busy it has become. “Should we go?”
“Nope. I want to hear more about your influencer business. So with your current reach and your ability to cross over to several different lanes—travel, fashion, beauty—you’re racking up what, maybe ten to fifteen thousand per sponsorship? And you probably have the ability to post weekly without looking too bought and paid for, so if my calculations are correct, maybe I should’ve let you pay for lunch,” I say with a smirk.
It’s a joke obviously. I don’t tell too many people about my cumulative wealth, mostly because I don’t know the exact amount. I have a lot of investments over a lot of different industries, meaning my income base is solid. It’s the one thing my mom taught me before she left…don’t put all your eggs in one basket. It’s probably the only piece of advice she gave worth taking. Even if my estimate of Amani’s income is on the low-end, I still outearn her by a lot, meaning from here on forward, I’ll be paying for every single meal she agrees to have with me.
“It’s not that cut and dry. Brands are getting a little more hesitant with their dollars and moving more toward a pay per performance model. I don’t blame them or anything, but work is harder to find, and plus…I have some expenses back home that eat up most of my cash.”
“Being?”
She grumbles and presses her fingertips against her closed eyelids. “Adam Montgomery, you are seriously the nosiest man I’ve ever met. Most guys just ask me what my bra size is on a first date.”
I hold up one finger, trying to control my smile. “First of all, that’s shameful. Second of all, thank you for calling this a ‘date.’ And third, I don’t need to ask. Already know it.”
Her lips part as she scours my face. “No, you don’t.”
I let my eyes rest on her full chest, studying the outward curve of her breasts. “Thirty-four D. Maybe a thirty-two DD in certain brands.”
She closes her eyelids and opens them slowly. Now that she’s staring right at me, I can see the fire flickering furiously in her green eyes. “I swear to God if I get to your condo and see a shrine in my honor, I’m calling the police.”
I laugh heartily. “Oh, come on, there’s no shrine…at the condo. But maybe call first and give me heads-up if you ever plan on stopping by my beach house.”
She narrows her eyes, refusing to let her lips curl into the little smile that I know is about to burst through the seams.
“Calm down,” I say. “It was a lucky guess. I’m somewhat familiar because my brother is in plastic surgery. He owns a practice near Sunset Boulevard. Dr. Alex Montgomery.”
Her eyes widen. “No shit. Your brother? I almost got these done with him.” Amani grabs her full tits through her navy blue T-shirt, demonstrating the “these” she’s referring to. It’s been such an easy and comfortable conversation, I almost forgot how much I want to hoist this girl on top of the nearest countertop, spread her legs, and slam into her until she’s begging me for mercy… Then again, I also want to finish this conversation.
Talk about blurred lines.
“Who’d you go with?”
“Dr. Ellis Marshall. He’s a little farther up north.”
“Why didn’t you go with Alex?” From what I understand, my brother’s practice is pretty reputable.
“Oh, that’s easy—Dr. Marshall was having a Black Friday sale. Let your brother know he’s missing opportunities and needs to put his tits on holiday sales.”
Did she just say “tits?”Amani Montgomery…I know I swore I’d never get married again, but that really doesn’t sound all that bad.
I chuckle. “I’ll let him know. But Dr. Marshall did just fine. They look…well, he did a good job.” After allowing myself to glance at her chest one more time, I turn my head and mentally try to deflate the growing bulge in my pants.
She flashes me a wicked smile as I grab my glass and take a sip of my ice water. For a moment, it’s just the dull roar of the restaurant, clanking dishes, and the sizzling sounds coming from the kitchen. It’s the first lull in our conversation since we arrived, until Amani breaks it.
“Are you being so nice to me because you want to sleep with me?” she asks candidly. Her tone is unemotional, like she asked me to solve a simple math equation.
“No,” I answer simply.
She cocks her head to the side, clearly unconvinced. “Then why?”
“You’re asking me why I’m being nice to you? Outside of the fact that our friends are dating?” I shrug. “I’m nice to everyone, Amani.”
“They’re fake dating. And that’s total crap. I’ve seen you around Cici.”
Ah, Cici. Chase’s publicist and the woman I live to give shit to, but only because she lives to give it right back. We may slew playful insults at each other daily, but Cici is probably the only woman on this planet that I trust. “That’s more of a sibling rivalry than anything.”
Amani pinches one eye shut. “You guys aren’t siblings.”
“True, but what I’m saying is…” Hell, what am I saying? “Look, I realize you don’t want me to draw attention to it, but you seemed really upset in your car earlier. Is it a crime for me to be worried?”
“You’ve never screamed in your car after a crappy day, or punched a wall, or thrown a shoe after bad news?” Amani asks, rolling her wrist in a fashion that says etcetera, etcetera. “It’s just not a big deal. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Chase used to say that to me,” I say, locking my eyes on hers. “I caught him having similar meltdowns right before he started drinking like a fish or buying enough cocaine to frost a Christmas tree. Every time, he fed me the same lines.”
She holds my gaze. “What lines?”
Somehow, naturally, my hand gravitates to her knee. She doesn’t flinch or blush. Instead, she places her hand over mine as she patiently waits for me to elaborate.
“Everything is fine. You’re overreacting. I can handle it. That’s exactly what he’d say when I knew he was about to give up on everything and just float away with drugs, alcohol, women, or whatever else could numb the pain quickest. It’s been almost a decade of watching my friend basically tortured in this industry, so pardon me if I’ve learned to call bullshit.”
“Well, I’m not in Chase’s industry,” she mutters. “I’m not an actress.”
“Sure you are,” I reply. “Don’t you get on camera every day, hoping your posts perform? I’m not questioning your authenticity, but aren’t you on social media as a means to an end? Or do you really have millions of friends you like to keep up with?”
She studies my eyes, seeming like she’s debating something. It’s an uncomfortable amount of time before she answers.
“Fine. You’re right. It’s a little more serious than a bad day.” She takes her hand back and mindlessly picks up a fork from the table, just to have something to do. “I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t push, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. She smiles at me, relieved, but I’m not done. “But next time I catch you screaming in your car like that…I’m going to push. Deal?”
She nods and exhales with a little chuckle. “Deal. Dammit, Adam Montgomery, you really are a good guy, huh?”
I tap my nose twice before looking around for our waitress. “She never brought the dessert menu,” I mutter under my breath before turning back to Amani. “Maybe we don’t need it, though you have to try the homemade tres leches cake. It’s a religious experience.”
She waits for me to stop scouring the restaurant and for my eyes to lock on hers.
“What?” I ask.
“Let’s skip dessert. Do you want to have sex?”
This is why life needs a rewind button. I need to pause, rewind, and play that back in slow motion to really register if Amani Rhodes just propositioned me. “Really? Coming from Miss ‘It’s Never Going to Happen?’”
“Okay, I realize that was forward. But hear me out,” she says as she trills her finger against the table. “For the past eight months, I haven’t really been drinking. I’m on a strict vitamin regiment. I track my macros and my sleep. I don’t eat anything with carcinogens, toxins, or Red Dye 40. And, so as not to risk an STD, I haven’t been hooking up or dating at all. I have been the picture-perfect candidate for conception, and it still didn’t work. So right now I just want to eat junk food, get tipsy, stay up past midnight, and have sex.” She shrugs. “Are you free tonight?”
Goddamn, do I want to see her naked, badly. And as hot as she is, it’s all the playful banter that gives me those stupid flips in my stomach. We’d be great together. Sex would be fun, and the conversation afterward probably just as entertaining. But the problem is the way she’s looking at me right now. Even when Amani’s smiling, she still looks sad.
Fuck, I’m about to blow this.
“Friends,” I exhale out.
She looks a little startled. “What?”
“I told you earlier. It’s kind of one or the other with me. And since I’m letting you use my condo, and our friends are involved and all…I, um, I think it’s better we just stay friends.”
Her eyes narrow as her lips purse.
Okay, fuck. That look isn’t startled, that’s pissed.
“Seriously? From the guy who hits on me relentlessly—no, shamelessly? You’re turning me down?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m turning you down—”
“Was this just a cat-and-mouse thing? You wanted me to admit I like you so you had the upper hand?”
“I don’t—Wait, do you like me?” I reach for her knee again, but she unsubtly shuffles away. She fishes through her clutch and pulls out my key. “Oh, come on, Amani.”
She places it on the table and slides it over to me. “I think I just lost my damn mind for a moment. It’s time for me to go home. There’s absolutely no reason for me to stick around here.”
“Please don’t be mad. You’re misunderstanding. It just seems like you need a friend, not to get laid.”
She taps the key on the table. “I have amazing friends. The kind of friends who are family. I don’t need any more. Will you please just tell me where I can pick up my car and then take me home?”
Fuck me.“Just wait a minute,” I say in my calming agent voice, the same one I use when there’s tension at the negotiation table. The narrative as Chase’s manager usually goes something like: Everything’s fine. Let’s just take a big breath and then let me explain how and why I’m going to get my way in the end. But the way Amani is glaring at me, I have a feeling I can’t schmooze my way out of this one.
She pulls her phone out of her clutch warningly. “If it’s too much trouble, I can call for a ride.”
Goddammit. I grumble as I scoot out of the booth and pull my keys out of my pocket. “Fine, I’ll take you.”
Yup. A rewind button would be fantastic at the moment. Pause…rewind…and replay. And this time when Amani asks, “Do you want to have sex?” I keep my stupid mouth shut and just nod, really fucking eagerly.