Chapter Ten #2
“The one and only,” he says, his tone taking on an impatient lilt. “Now, if you’re ready to collaborate with your professional partners today, that would be great, because I’ve got sketches, swatches, and color schemes galore, and they need your approval.”
I huff out a sigh. “Can you come back in an hour?”
“Well, since you said that an hour ago, and the hour before that, no.”
Vincent Baker doesn’t waste time waiting for me to descend a ladder, set down my spackling knife and putty, and give him my undivided attention.
That would be too sensible an ask. Instead, he takes even strides across the ballroom, plants his sharp, structured plum-purple suit against my wall, and wields his judgy expression into my line of vision.
“For the last time, I’m going to ask: what’s bothering you?” he says.
“Is that a promise?” I scoff.
His precision-arched eyebrows shoot up to the edges of his tapered fade.
“Oh, so you got jokes?” He releases a downright sinister chuckle. “So, this isn’t about Ebony Grace Livingston—”
“ Shh .” I practically glide down the ladder rungs to whisper-yell at him. “Are you crazy? She could hear you.”
Vincent’s glossy lips screw up to the side. “Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought.”
I reach back, kneading my neck to loosen the tension.
Meanwhile, Vincent is all smiles now. “To confirm, then, this Energizer Bunny routine is about She Who Shall Remain Unnamed?”
“A little,” I admit, before he grabs a foghorn and announces it to everyone in Ellswood.
He nods. “Fine. At least we’re getting somewhere now,” he says. Then, abruptly, he snaps his fingers and gestures for me to follow him outside to the terrace, where the landscapers are mowing down weeds and planting sod, trees, and flowers for the gardens set to flank the courtyard.
“It’s too loud,” I yell over the roar of a leaf blower.
But Vincent is undeterred in his mission, leading me to the far end of the property, where the noise is just muffled enough for him to interrogate me in peace.
“Whatever’s bothering you, I need to know now,” he says, dead serious. “Because your body has been in that ballroom all day, but I think we both know damn well your head’s been in the library. So, spill.”
Frustration sags through my limbs.
Ever since he and the crew didn’t show up for that initial tour with Cornelia and Hailey, and I later learned that Cornelia purposely misinformed them about a delayed starting time, something hasn’t sat right with me.
Her motives don’t make sense. But listening to Hillary’s warnings earlier at Bean & Gone, and overhearing Ebony make plans with a freaking dating concierge, nothing feels cut and dried anymore.
You’re still running behind her, settling for crumbs.
Maybe Josiah was right. Maybe I am pathetic.
“Aloud, please…” Vincent prompts me.
Because maybe I might need a little help sorting out my thoughts, and this caffeine buzz doesn’t seem to be fading anytime soon, I tell him everything.
Over the next twenty minutes, I bring Vincent up to speed on all the highlights of Ebony’s and my history. I start in high school as her tutor, skipping to the night we blurred the friendship line in college, and continue to that lunch we shared three years ago.
“Wait…” Vincent’s eyes are saucer wide. “No.”
I nod. “Mm-hmm.”
He averts his gaze, still shaking his head, his manicured hand clutched to his invisible pearls. “So…” He blinks, repeatedly. “That sleazy, slimy, no-good man was cheating on our girl”—Ebony’s our girl now — “with not only Nora Whitfield, but Hillary Winston, too?”
“Yeah, and that’s why I was trying to warn her.”
“Nuh-uh.” Vincent gives me a slow, disapproving head shake, narrowing his dark eyes like he’s seeing red. Then he holds up a hand. “Wait, isn’t she the bride’s sister and one of Ebony’s best friends?”
I give a single nod.
“Damn, these hoes ain’t loyal.”
A laugh rises from deep in my chest, rolling over me.
“All right, with that little nugget of info, let’s go back three spaces,” I say, piecing it all together.
Cornelia hiring Ebony and me separately, then this new “professional” version of Ebony that’s been emerging, not to mention the glimpses I’ve caught in her Divorcétante Chronicles posts, and now, us working on-site together.
Vincent—and the entire crew—already heard about the dating concierge.
“So, while Hillary said to me earlier that, given the opportunity, I’d have broken up their marriage, that’s not what worries me. ”
“Oh, shoot.” Vincent braces himself, seeming fully invested. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“It’s more that she’s not married anymore, and she still doesn’t want me.”
It feels like a drop the hammer moment.
A huge, light-bulb epiphany.
But Vincent simply straightens, his expression a mess of pensive contortions.
For a second, I think, Hmm, maybe he didn’ t hear me. So I say, again, “We’re both single, and she’s not jumping at the chance to be with me.” I throw my hands up.
It’s not like I expected her to be sitting around thinking about one stupid night we shared over ten years ago, before she was married. That would be ridiculous. But still, if there’s even the slightest chance we could get close again—maybe even more—I’m in.
Vincent lets out a sharp sigh.
“No, no, I heard you. I’m just thinking,” he says, and I actually believe him, the way he tosses a slightly dismissive hand at me.
This goes on for another excruciating two minutes until I lose my patience. “Okay, I’m going back inside, where—”
He claps his hands— finally —looking at me with solution-shaped stars in his eyes, and I’m here for it.
But then he says, “I’m going to help you.”
It’s my turn to be confused. “With what, exactly?”
“I’ll be your dating coach. For free,” he clarifies, since my “love life” and my “brooding era” are apparently messing up this project that he really wants to include in his portfolio.
The funny thing is, he’s absolutely serious.
In a matter of seconds, he’s on his phone, pulling up the calendar app, skipping past June and calculating that Ebony and I have ninety-six more days working together—so, roughly, three more months—until the wedding.
Or, as he calls it, D-Day—the D standing for divorcétante.
“So, what’s the plan, coach?” I laugh.
Vincent fishes a pen out of his interior coat pocket and positions it behind his ear, getting into character, and the curiosity is killing me. Mostly because I’ve seen the sheer number of men falling all over themselves for Vincent. He must have a secret strategy.
“Step one. You’re going to be there for her,” he says, cryptically.
At this point, I’m hoping the B stands for something else, like blow jobs —anything besides merely existing.
I open my mouth to protest, then immediately close it again.
“Don’t give me that confused, deer-in-headlights look.
I said what I said.” Vincent clears his throat.
“We all overheard her dealbreakers, her preferences. I looked him up, by the way. Leslie Brown is fine as hell . Married, though, so you don’t have to worry.
But my point is, he just hand-delivered the ultimate cheat sheet.
Not that I think you should use it like a checklist.”
I tip my head to either side. “Okay, I’m listening…”
“I mean, you already know the things that she wants that you’ve already got: you’re a clean, decent-smelling, gray-eyed, Spades…novice, at best—”
“Now, wait a minute.” I laugh, personally affronted. “I may not be the champ, but I’ve always got books.”
Vincent rolls his eyes, fluttering his long eyelashes. “Save it for the divorcétante. Barking up the wrong tree here, hon.”
I flex my restless fingers, still wrapping my mind around everything.
“Remember, she’s about to go on dates, but she’ll learn really fast that most of these men can’t tell their mate from their mama.” Vincent snaps twice, like I need to clock it. “All you can do is show her that you’re the best man for her. There is no alternative.”
“Absolutely.” I nod a few times, mentally pumping myself up as we start walking back toward the terrace.
“Learn what’s important to her.”
Inwardly, I’m listing all the things that I know matter to her, like her family and her girls, her business, and now her new series. I’ve watched every video, and it’s clear how much it means to her. I know she’s rediscovering herself.
“This really helps,” I say, and I’ll admit, I’m feeling lighter somehow. “Thanks, man.”
“Nuh-uh, don’t thank me just yet. Work on being cute, consistent, and committed.” Vincent dips his chin as we reach the steps. “And hone those magic fingers of yours.”
I start to respond and nearly choke when I see the long, smooth brown legs at the top of the stairs. Her musical laugh echoes as she walks toward the hearth room, then she follows Manny and a few of the landscapers until she’s out of sight.
I all but move on autopilot into the ballroom, the words nothing’s changed repeating in my head while the rest of me pulses with the desperate urge to hone my magic fingers and show her just how much I’m the best man for the job, seven days a week—not just on Missionary Mondays.
Damn.