Prologue #3
“But, like, I think we’re just wondering, why hasn’t love ever been a priority?” she asks softly, carefully. Nosily. “Is it because of your grandmother’s rules? Or your dad?”
Ah yes, so many great options. The woman who taught me that love is conditional, by making hers contingent on following her premarital life plan for me. Or the married man who got my mom pregnant, ditched responsibility, and left. Can’t imagine why I’m not auditioning to be bedded and booted.
I’m just not about to hinge my happiness on some random guy. Gertrude might’ve had a point with her rules. Me first, then love. If it’s even the cards, I’ll be set either way.
My lips part, and I’m just—
The three of them share a loaded glance, clearly forgetting that I speak nonverbal eye contact, and again, just… no.
While they’re concocting the logistics of their full-court press, I slip out my phone, open a browser, and prepare to build a palatable countersuit as I quickly tap out, Fine Black Men Ellswood, GA, and honeyyyy… the way the results are resulting.
Oh yes.
On the same internet that our First Lady Michelle uses, my screen populates with an anointed representation of glorious Black excellence of the male variety that might persuade me to go put in a rush order on my future boo.
I tap on the first picture of a six-foot-infinity, granite-skinned Black man draped in muscles on a basketball court and flip the screen to them.
“Exhibit A,” I announce, prompting them to look at me.
Their expressions do not disappoint.
I swear Tatiana moans. “Good Lordt. Who is that?”
“One of Ellswood’s finest,” I say, pride oozing from my pores as I swipe to another superior biological specimen of stacked chocolate snack, this one, at a gala, giving model behavior in next season’s tailored threads.
My divas are drooling.
And yes, that includes Priscilla “merry-go-round” Hamilton.
“Jesus, how long is this video?” she asks, letting her teeth slowly sink into her bottom lip when I tell her it’s a still image, and her eyes have not, in fact, deceived her.
Because I’m nothing if not thorough, I continue swiping through corporate gatherings, galas, last year’s Founders the composition of his body. The outline of his full lips. The goatee, athletic build, ramrod-straight posture on a six-foot-infinity frame drenched in rich brown skin and dressed in a black-on-black suit, and muscle mass. Check, check, and divinely checked.
My breaths stutter.
He feels like a challenge and a promise all at the same time. He’s not just attractive. No, he’s intentionally made.
I’ll be damned.
It’s all there. And…
My attention drifts to his title, tucked in the corner of the photo. CEO of Echelon Technologies. The company that makes that Mod3D app Ebony and Linc use to create 3D walkthroughs of properties. They’re relocating the entire hub to Ellswood next month. It’s all anyone’s been talking about.
So, on top of being fine, he’s also—as Chanel dutifully noted—techy smart, definitely a Type A man about his fast-paced business, a strong character, and is living and working in my city.
In other words, he’s Urkel and Urquelle. Perfect. You know, if he weren’t already someone’s husband.
Get a grip, Whit.
I glance up, heart and mind racing a million miles a second. But Chanel’s frozen, her features drawn tight, eyes locked on her phone.
“What happened, did the universe wave its wand and fix that trouble in paradise?” I half laugh. “Now Warner’s magically available?”
Obviously I’m joking, trying to lighten the mood. All this talk of running, slipping, and falling in love with off-limits men is clearly dampening everyone’s spirits.
Except Chanel lifts her teary-eyed gaze and freezes.
“Sherry Easton’s dead.”