Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 131(@200wpm)___ 105(@250wpm)___ 87(@300wpm)
“Oh, she can get it.” He brushes an imaginary moustache. “I do not discriminate and will smash on a case-by-case basis.”
“You should be so lucky. Janelle ain’t thinking about you.”
“After I serenade her with ‘All My Life,’ she’ll be begging for it. The ladies love K-Ci and JoJo.”
“I have second-hand embarrassment for you at the mere thought of a serenade. Please say you’re joking.”
“I know how to get the drawers.”
“Ew. That’s my friend you’re talking about and best believe you singing to her in public is an immediate red flag. I hope you have a back-up plan ‘cause that ain’t cutting it.”
We’re still laughing when Touré enters the ballroom. He hasn’t seen me yet, so it gives me the chance to study him.
Or eat him up with my eyes. To-may-to. To-mah-to.
That man seems to be getting better by the second. He walks in alone, but that doesn’t last long. He’s semi-swarmed four feet past the door. I’ve heard him referred to as the Black Anderson Cooper; the reporter for whom no story is too far away or too dangerous. The one you trust to tell the truth even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. That’s an unworthy comparison, though. Touré is simply himself. A man whose intellectual curiosity took him to far-flung places.
I’m just glad he’s come home.
A ring of our classmates and other alum surround him. They’re not asking for autographs exactly, but they’re obviously impressed and a little starstruck to have him at homecoming. I’ve negotiated that some this weekend, too. I’m arguably more of a household name than Touré. I’m the one they wake up with each morning. AM may not be hard-hitting journalism, for the most part, but the American public has come to trust me, too, in a different way. If Touré delivers the hard truth, I’m a soft place for them to land.
He chooses that moment to glance away from the woman who I think was our class historian. Our eyes collide, and his gaze slides with slow deliberation down my body, over the dress clinging to every curve, caressing every line from my head to my Stuart-Weitzman peep toes.
I don’t look away, but return the slow regard, dragging my gaze from the tightly cropped waves of his hair, over the roughly-hewn landscape of his features, down his broad shoulders and long legs. That man is a feast, and I’m famished. Mouth watering. Stomach growling. Hungry.
He breaks away from the group he’s talking to and stalks toward me. That’s the best way to describe the determined stride; the way he ignores his name being called or people trying to stop him. He doesn’t stop, not until he’s standing in front of me. He takes my hand, holding it loosely, but weaving a tight spell around us. I surrender to the inevitable intimacy that has sprung up between us.
“Um, this is a lot,” Ron mumbles, flicking a glance between Touré and me. “I’m gonna go, Ni.”
“Good idea,” I answer without looking away from Touré.
“Good seeing you again, Touré.”
“Ron, go,” Touré replies, eyes still locked with mine.
“Right. Going.” Ron scurries off, leaving us alone.
Maxwell’s “Whenever Wherever Whatever” drifts down over us like stardust from the sound system. Each honeyed note settles softly on my lips, sweet to the taste, and sinking through flesh and bone until they soothe that thundering muscle in my chest.
“There were so many times I saw you dancing with someone else,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice coating my skin in shivers. “I’m thinking it’s my turn.”
I step into his arms and rest my hand on his shoulder. The contrast of how hard and solid his body is to how gently he’s holding me, the tenderness in his eyes as he stares down at me— it all slips past the last of my defenses. I know without a shadow of a doubt, whatever this man wants from me tonight he will have. I will give.
“It feels like every time we’ve been alone this weekend, we got interrupted.” He guides me away from the center of the floor to the periphery where there is less light and fewer dancers. “We haven’t had enough time to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about really? You liked me back then. I liked you. We didn’t tell each other. Life happened. Here’s our chance. That’s the nutshell version. What are we gonna do?” I shift my hand from his shoulder to cup his neck, caressing his nape. “Keep talking?”
He looks down at me, the dim light in the hotel ballroom carving shadows under his lean cheeks, illuminating the stubble hugging his jawline.
“So what are you saying, Ni?”
“That I’m done talking, if you are.” I stop dancing, halting the slight sway of our bodies together. “We can talk later. I want you now. After all these years, now, Touré.”