Chapter 4 Black Martha Stewart
BLACK MARTHA STEWART
CHRISTMAS EVE
Fuck me.
Rose petals. Chocolate kisses were scattered across the floor and the bed.
The forgotten surprise I’d planned for Keke.
I stand there for a moment, staring at it all. My chest tightens. I’d spent hours setting this up before leaving, wanting to celebrate the proposal, our future, with my family.
Now it just looks pathetic.
Crossing the room, I open the mini fridge and grab the bottle of champagne I’d tucked inside, along with the small joint sitting beside it.
Popping the cork, I take a long sip straight from the bottle.
Keke is really pissing me off.
I’ve blocked her on everything but email, and now she’s using our Netflix account to communicate with me. I can’t even watch the new season of Next Gen: New Orleans in peace.
Pulling up the camera app, I still have her login for the security cameras in the living room.
There she is, sitting on the couch in the apartment I pay for, looking completely unbothered.
I should’ve known she was cheating when she started turning the cameras off for a few hours every day.
And the fact that I believed her when she said she “didn’t want footage of herself walking around naked in her own house”?
Also, when she said she “doesn’t believe in moving in together before marriage”? Yeah. Full of bull. That’s on me. Never again.
I could kick her out, but that would be cruel… right? Maybe I’ll just let the housing manager know she’s moving out after the holidays. She can enjoy a nice little eviction notice as a Christmas gift.
I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour, pretending to relax, but I keep glancing over my shoulder every few seconds. Now that I know I’ll have company this Christmas, I’m on high alert.
Thank God for having my own room here, because even with a broken heart, it’s hard to focus on being mad when that pretty face is in front of me.
She’s beautiful, with caramel-brown skin, a soft laugh, and that hourglass figure that should be a crime to have, even with an ugly ass Christmas sweater she got on.
When I asked her why she wasn’t spending the holidays with her family, I expected her to mention a boyfriend or some wild reason, maybe a late celebration or something dramatic.
But no. She’s alone.
And I don’t buy that for a second. Someone that pretty is never alone.
So, yeah, I did a little digging. Sutton Snow is a freelance artist, kind of underground. Private, quiet, but clearly obsessed with Christmas. Based on her reshares and posts, she’s been celebrating since October.
Great. Just what I need. A “Christmas is the best holiday ever” type of girl.
Dropping my phone onto my nightstand table, I sink deeper into my bed and let out a long sigh.
I close my eyes for a minute, telling myself it’s just a quick nap.
Just a minute, then I’ll deal with all of it.
The smell of bacon fills my nose, pulling me out of sleep. Maple syrup hits next, sweet and warm.
My eyes pop open.
I haven’t smelled this since I was little. My brother and Iris are on a healthy cleanse with all that nut stuff, so all they eat are smoothies right now. I am glad I don’t have their willpower. I love bacon too much for that.
Following the scent downstairs, I wander toward the kitchen. When I step up to the island, I freeze. Sutton is moving around the kitchen like she owns it, hips swaying slightly as she flips pancakes like she’s in a holiday commercial.
“You’re really making yourself at home,” I say, dropping onto one of the stools.
“I was hungry,” she replies without looking back. “There’s a kitchen. I bought food. So…”
Fair point.
“So,” I say, leaning on the counter, “you’re here for”—I look at my wrist, pretending to have a watch just to be an ass—“about ten hours, not counting sleep, before you leave. You got plans?”
She pauses, turning halfway toward me with one brow raised. “Well, I did in fact have plans. I do have to cut down my original plans, but I do have them.”
“Are you going to tell me your plans?”
“For someone who doesn’t want to be bothered, you are bothering me.”
“I’m just making conversation. What are you doing after you leave then? Going over someone’s house? Celebrating with your new money.”
“Is this your way of asking if I have a man?”
That wasn’t subtle at all, but there is no way she is this pretty and single.
I smirk. “Nah, I don’t care about that. I am making conversation.”
“Since this is your second time asking me in less than twenty-four hours of knowing me, no, I don’t,” she says simply. “I’m single. Grown. And I do have plans for New Year’s, but by then, you’ll just be someone I met once. No need to go into too much detail.”
She turns back to the stove, unfazed.
I watch her quietly for a moment, the smell of syrup and bacon curling through the air.
“Are you ready to eat?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“Oh, I get a plate too?”
“Yeah, why not? I love helping the needy.”
“Sure. What you got, Martha Stewart?”
She slides a plate toward me, piled high with pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, and a side of fruit. It looks amazing. My stomach growls on cue. After a nap that long, food feels like salvation.
I glance at the clock—1 pm.
“Do you always eat breakfast for dinner?” I ask.
She pulls up the stool next to me, sitting down with quiet confidence. “Yes. It’s tradition. If you don’t mind, I’d love to enjoy it.”
Smirking, I scoop up a spoonful of grits and take a bite—then nearly moan. “Damn, this is good.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling softly.
We eat in silence. I don’t waste a single crumb. When I finish, I stand to take my plate to the sink. She’s still eating, looking up at me but not saying anything.
“So,” she says finally, “why aren’t you doing anything for the holidays? Didn’t want to be the third wheel for your brother’s anniversary trip?”
I let out a small laugh, but it fades fast. For a second, I think about telling her the truth, that I did have plans. That I was supposed to be proposing to my girlfriend. That instead, I’m here, pretending I don’t care.
But I can’t.
So I go with the safer option. “I don’t celebrate Christmas.”
She tilts her head. “Like a religious thing? Or are you just a Grinch?”
“The third option.”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t give you a third opt—”
“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” I interrupt, standing. “If you need anything, let me know.”
Sutton swallows the bite she was chewing, rolling her eyes. “I’m probably gonna watch some TV and bake some cookies.”
I nod once. “Thanks for the food.”
“No problem.”
I head for the stairs. It’s been a long day. My body feels heavy, my mind even heavier.
I unlock my bedroom door with my fingerprint and wait for the soft click.
Maybe I can get through these two nights and leave it all behind.