Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“You’re killing me …”
I laughed against his mouth, a quiet, dizzy kind of laugh, like, this is double homicide, baby. “This is some Romeo and Juliet crap. Except we both swallowed that bitter poison called therapy.”
He chuckled, the low rumble of his laughter vibrating against my breasts. He pressed his lips to mine with such passion that it erased the sound of two people so in love they’d torture themselves to get it right this time.
Hours slipped by, and we hadn’t stopped kissing. If I could bottle this night, I’d burrow inside and live in it for an eternity. That old song, “Kissin’ You” by Total, played in my mind. I wondered if that was on Volume seven, like Shonda suggested. I might get it. Not sure how I’d listen to a CD these days, but I could do this … forever.
Then the air grew a little chillier. I wrapped the foil blanket around my back while I clung to him, trying not to fall all the way into the temptation we both so desired.
At some point, I dozed off on top of him, tucked inside powerful arms. I rested my cheek against his bare chest, the skin warm where I’d unbuttoned his shirt. I still felt the firmness of his abdomen on my lips, and the lingering taste of trailing my tongue halfway down his muscles last night.
Blinking awake in the diffused light of pale morning, I was still halfway sprawled on top of him. His palm rested lazy and warm against my bare behind. Well, well, well. Sometime last night he’d snuck his hand into my pants. Sneaky ass.
Washington blinked awake.
“Hands?” My retort exited with zero sass, but with the coo of a Good morning, baby.
“You mean hand.” His voice was all gravel. “Lefty is innocent.”
“So, Righty has been wilding out all night?”
“Pretty much.” He massaged my bare ass. “And still backsliding.” After another squeeze that almost felt like a gavel drop, he removed his hand from my tights.
“You a smooth brotha,” someone said from a distance, voice crusted from too much alcohol.
Washington’s eyes curved into the deep, slitted pits he gets when he decides between mercy and murder. Uh-oh. They narrowed too much. So, this was gonna be murder. We both turned to take in a man whose hoodie and jeans must’ve lost a fight with a lawn mower. A backpack carried the rest of his life.
The man stammered, “Thought you’d get some. Maybe tap third base.”
“I’ma beat your ass!” Wash popped up so fast, I nearly did a tuck and roll.
The guy didn’t wait for legal consultation. He took off.
“Baby, wait,” I shouted, grabbing his biceps. “We don’t know if dude is freaky or disturbed.”
Washington kicked at the grass and planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head.
“Hey.” I climbed up and held him from behind as he glared off into the distance. I reached up onto my tippy-toes and kissed the back of his neck, and then I muttered, “I sorta need to get to work.”
“For that dude? Omari Riche?”
Oops. Got yourself again, you self-snitch. “Yes …” I outlined my deal with Omari. Except I omitted bullet point C, which detailed the imitation concept. Reproductions, Maddy. Waving a hand, I added, “It’s only a few hours. Like I said, he has a deal with the glassblowing studio. He also mentioned introducing me to his HomeGoods and TJ Maxx connect.”
Washington’s brows lifted, and he nodded. “Show me any contracts you signed with him and anything you plan to sign in the future regarding HomeGoods and TJ.”
“Okay. Future contracts.”
“I said signed, Maddy. As in, past contracts.” Washington opened the duffel, and I shoved the blankets in.
“And I’m saying, okay. For future stuff. We don’t live in the past.”
My man blinked. “You didn’t sign any contracts with him for the art you’ve already completed, Madison?”
“No. I’ve already signed one weak-sauce contract with a guy, and signing stuff gives me hives.” I stood, arms folded. “But listen, I’ve seen all the invoices and some of the bank statements for the items we’ve already sold, Wash. Besides, we’re art people. We don’t care about no damn contract.” Big Lie.
My ex-husband stared down at me. After glancing around, I engaged in his staring match, then I sighed. It was best to change the subject. “Wash, we had better get out of here. Audubon Park isn’t officially open yet. And we’re in the historic Uptown, so the fines are probably more expensive than anywhere else.”
“I’m still on the contract part, Madison.”
I chuckled. “We have spreadsheets. You love spreadsheets. And I don’t even think you match his accounting acumen. His books and financials are better than yours. Will you be jealous if he does my taxes next year?”
“How could you not sign a contract?” Washington rasped as he hitched the duffle bag over his shoulder, and we started walking through the park.