Chapter 17 Clever, Kind, and Beautiful
CLEVER, KIND, AND BEAUTIFUL
Sasha was elated, conflicted, sore, stunned, and exceedingly well fucked. She had it bad. She dragged her ass to bed without changing into pajamas, because her clothes smelled like Wes. She curled up with the sweatshirt he’d loaned her on the library steps, teddy-bear style.
Did she light the Coastal Cypress candle?
No. Notably, she did not.
She was in a blissed-out haze. As she drifted into sleep, the only thing
on her mind was Wes. His hands, his words.
His easy dominance. His searingly erotic mouth; his touch that was both worshipful and punishing.
The stealth way that he was always one step ahead of her.
Sasha actually thought she’d gotten away with that Rose call.
But he was a detective, after all. How could she think he wouldn’t know?
Wes had her number. He knew where her deepest vulnerabilities lay.
Of course he’d known, all this time, that she was desperate for him.
Because the phone thing? That was shamelessly desperate behavior.
And so was gasping his name as she came, twice, on her beloved kitchen island.
Where she’d minced vegetables for gumbo prep just six hours prior.
The only other thing on her mind? Seat F’s name. Teo. Teo. It didn’t seem real. And it hadn’t escaped her that Wes had punctuated their client-detective situationship consummation with that reveal. Pretty dramatic, even for him. Did he do it on purpose, just to torture her?
Of course he didn’t. They got carried away before he had a chance to tell her why he’d come over, in the first place.
But just as sleep overtook her, she remembered the expression on his face when he left—an uneasy mix of triumph and defeat. What was he thinking?
She awoke with a start the next morning, the question still fresh in her thoughts. Had he called? Jolting upright, she reached for her phone on the nightstand and saw that, yes, he’d texted.
Wes: GM. I overstepped last night. I’m sorry. Can I take you to coffee today? We have some case details to discuss. Brown Butter at 11?
Slowly, she sank back down into her pillows, but it felt like plummeting from a great height.
She wasn’t sure what she’d wanted to hear from Wes, but it wasn’t an apology.
His words felt so removed, so short. Clearly, he wanted to put last night in the past. Maybe he was right.
Their situation was a mess, from top to bottom. And they’d just made it messier.
Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she nodded at the phone, as if it was Wes. And then texted back.
Sasha: Yes. See you then. And no need for apologies. We both overstepped! xoxo
At 10:50 a.m., Sasha hopped out of an Uber on Tompkins Avenue, across the street from the rustic-casual Brown Butter café.
Ever since her anxiety diagnosis, she liked to arrive early to events and meetings, to give herself extra time to prepare—regulate her breathing, hydrate, psych herself up for being social.
She figured she’d just order a coffee and wait for Wes at the bar.
Turns out, there’d be no prep time. Because Wes was already seated out front in one of the café’s turquoise cocktail tables. With a woman. A stunning woman.
Sasha went rigid; utterly unable to move.
Who was he with? Certainly, Wes could hang out with whomever he wanted.
They weren’t dating; they weren’t even supposed to be sleeping together.
But she still felt an instant punch of hurt and jealousy—neither of which needed to make sense.
Wes was the first man who’d been inside her home, inside her, in too long to count.
She felt safe enough with him to lose herself.
To her, last night didn’t feel casual. It felt meaningful.
And another thing—Wes knew she was showing up in ten minutes. Did he time this encounter on purpose? Did he want Sasha to see him with that hot tamale?
Luckily for her, Wes’s back was facing away from the street.
So, he didn’t see Sasha or her facial journey, which ranged from shock to horror, and back again.
She tried to shake it off and think of this from a progressive perspective.
They were adults. They had no ownership over each other, and Wes was free to engage in a coffee tête-à-tête with anyone he damned well pleased.
All salient points, she thought. Now I just have to believe them.
Sasha straightened her spine and strode toward them. The good (terrible?) news was, Wes and the woman were so lost in conversation, neither noticed her approaching.
Wes leaned over the table, looking effortlessly cool in a breezy, short-sleeve button-down and linen trousers.
His body language projected “eager listener,” while the mystery woman’s gave off “power position.” She leaned back in her chair, sultrily, with her legs crossed and her bejeweled fingers fluffing her coily hair.
But as Sasha got closer, she realized she wasn’t just any woman. She was Imani McIntyre. Notable journalist and seductress-
about-town, Imani McIntyre. What the hell was Wes doing with her?
Sasha hadn’t ever met her, personally, but she’d mingled in her vicinity at various Black women in media conferences—and a few nightspots in the late twenty teens.
Everyone knew who she was, anyway. A legendary journalist. It girl.
Rare nepo kid who surpassed the success of her famous parents (sports journalist “Big Mac” McIntyre, and abstract artist Virginia Tse).
Imani wrote long-form exposés about corporate raiders, crooked politicians, murderous millionaires, and such.
Thanks to her juicy tell-all writing style, Imani’s pieces usually went viral.
Also, she was just cool. She oozed it, without seeming to try. Today, she wore a bra top and a low-slung kilt with work boots. Fern tattoos snaked down her abs. And whatever she just said had Wes laughing his ass off.
“Hey, hey, hey,” trilled Sasha with fake breeziness, slipping off her white sunglasses. She’d felt so cute in her red shorts set, but next to Imani’s abbed-up energy, she felt like a discarded Shirley Temple at last call.
Wes and Imani looked up from their conversation. For a split second, he looked rattled. But he recovered quickly, flashing a smile and standing up to give Sasha a (demonstratively) friendly hug.
“Here, you can have my seat,” he said, pulling out the chair for her. He grabbed another one from an empty table and pulled in between the two women. “Sasha, meet my friend Imani. Imani, this is Sasha.”
Calling on all her Hollywood schmoozing experience, Sasha buried her raging discomfort and beamed at Imani. “Great to meet you! Wes, did I get the time wrong? We were meeting at eleven, right?”
Imani sipped from her straw, studying both with a removed, eagle-eyed calm. She also seemed to be floating on a substance not available on the menu.
“No, yeah, we said eleven,” answered Wes. “But Imani surprised me. Out of nowhere.”
Sasha picked up an amiable-but-strained tone from “out of nowhere.” Wes seemed to be signaling to her that Imani’s appearance wasn’t planned. At least that’s what she hoped. Sometimes delusion looked like no other good ideas.
“Oh nooo, sis,” wailed Imani, clutching her chest. “I should’ve asked Wes if it was cool before I just showed up here.”
“Trust, it’s cool, cool, cool,” said Sasha, pretending not to care. “The more the merrier.”
“You know, we do know each other,” said Imani in a conspiratorial tone. “Remember the kickback at that rapper’s house after Le Bain? Like ten years ago?”
“Yeah? Which rapper?” asked Wes, also pretending not to care.
“Oh, it’s all a haze,” answered Imani. “I was on deadline and fried, and I was trying to find a bedroom to crash in. And I pass the kitchen, right? And I see this girl, legs sticking out from under the sink. I was like, sis, you good under there?”
“Wait, I remember this,” said Sasha. “I think I said something like, ‘This faucet’s on sicko mode. I’m fixing the pipes.’ In 2018, I described everything as ‘sicko mode.’ That was you? I couldn’t see who I was talking to.”
“Well, I thought I’d hallucinated you, until someone told me your name. It was my ketamine era. You understand.”
Sasha, who’d never tried a single recreational drug, nodded in solidarity.
“Okay, but who was the rapper?” Wes was ignored, yet again.
“I’m a huge fan,” Imani told Sasha. “You cast that HBO movie about the Bahamian anesthesiologist who moonlights as a sex worker and falls for her client, the recently widowed secretary of state? I saw your interview on the aftershow.”
Sasha couldn’t help but be flattered. And for a moment, she backburned her flaming ball of confusion over Wes. “No, I’m a fan of yours. One of my favorite reads of the past three years was your exposé on the Black shaman who married that Norwegian princess.”
Imani chuckled and tossed back her coils. “Ahhh yes. One of my favorite pieces. Would you believe I got tipped off from a leak on Reddit?”
“Well, where there’s Reddit, there’s fire.”
Sasha was turning on the charm. Putting on a bit of a show for Wes, showing him that this bizarre situation didn’t faze her, whatsoever. Nor did last night. Nor did any of the unease between them. She was cool as a cucumber.
Imani laughed. “Aren’t you an adorable little bean sprout?”
“I’m . . . five seven. But I’ll take it.”
Wes cleared his throat. “I love this reunion so much. So, so much. But Sasha, I owe you an explanation. I was here for our date—”
“Not a date. A meeting,” corrected Sasha.
“Right. And Imani was in the vicinity and surprised me. Spontaneously.”
“Spontaneity is so important.” Imani flipped her hair again, sending the scent of French cigarettes and tuberose across the table. “The downfall of social culture is planned meetups.”
Sasha started to laugh, but then she saw Imani was serious. “Well, that’s certainly one of them.”