Before I Let Go, page 23
“Oh, my new assistant must have mixed that up. She’s been making a lot of mistakes lately. She has this—”
“Harvey, forgive me for not giving a damn about your new assistant, but do you have a solution?”
“They don’t have another room available?”
“No, some women’s conference is happening all over the city and the rooms are booked everywhere. You have to fix this.” My voice rises as the reality of our situation bears down on me. “We can’t—”
“Yas,” Josiah interrupts, his tone calm, even. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll take the pullout in the living room. It’s only one night.”
The world has been shaken in a matter of a day. One event can fundamentally change the course of our lives forever. I know it’s one night, but it will be our first time under the same roof overnight in more than two years.
I stare at him, and his expression is implacable, but it feels like a deliberate control he’s imposing on himself and, by extension, also on me.
And maybe it would work, would reassure me if the memory of that moment in the office hadn’t been haunting me the last few weeks. Standing between his legs, the strength of our wills clashing, emotion boiling in the air. As much as I try to disregard it, to believe it meant nothing, I’m not convinced.
Nothing has ever meant nothing between us.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, pocketing the key. “Trust me.”
How can I tell him it’s not him I don’t trust?
It’s me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Josiah
Harvey, you gotta fix this.”
I pace the hall in front of room 428, clutching the phone to my ear with one hand, gripping the back of my neck with the other.
“I thought you said you could sleep on the pullout,” Harvey says, clearly confused. “And it would be fine.”
“I lied.”
“What—why would you lie?”
“Obviously,” I say, lowering my voice, “because I don’t want Yasmen to know it’s not fine.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You’re not listening.”
“Yeah, I am. It sounds like you’re scared to be in the room for one night with your ex-wife.”
“Scared?” I stop pacing. “Pfftt.”
Great rebuttal.
“You’ll be in the living room on the couch, and she’ll be in the bedroom. I don’t understand the problem.”
There shouldn’t be a problem. I know that, but I can’t shake the feeling that if we spend the night in that room together, everything will change…again.
“You don’t seriously think anything will happen, do you?” Harvey asks. “I mean, between you and Yasmen?”
It’s already happening.
The ground has been shifting by inches ever since that day in my office. Maybe even before. Being in the same room overnight? One wrong move, and this shift could turn tectonic.
“You think you’d cheat on Vashti. Is that what you’re worried about?”
“That’s irrelevant.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose and force out a long breath. “Vashti and I broke up.”
The small gasp from behind me makes me turn slowly to meet Yasmen’s wide, startled eyes.
Dammit.
I wasn’t planning to tell her yet, and certainly not like this.
“Harvey,” I say, eyeing her warily, “I gotta go. We’re due for lunch at one o’clock, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you guys there,” he says. “It’ll be fine.”
I hang up without responding, sliding the phone into my pocket and schooling my expression into absolutely unfazed.
“You and Vashti broke up?” Yasmen asks, a frown puckering her sleek brows.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Thanksgiving.”
“Oh, I’m…” Her eyes drop to the floor. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?” I ask, my voice soft and devoid of any real curiosity.
Her expression when she looks back up tells me nothing. She turns back into the room, not bothering to answer. I hesitate at the threshold before following her in, closing the door behind me.
It’s broad daylight. We have a meeting in less than an hour. Business to handle. I know nothing will happen, but lately every time we’re alone, that cord that always seemed to draw us together, the one I thought had been permanently severed, tugs on me.
“I think this may be a little too casual, what I’m wearing. It was fine for the plane,” she calls from the bedroom. “But I’m gonna change.”
I settle onto the couch and pick up the room service menu. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and my stomach is making monster noises.
“I hope their restaurant has good food,” I say loudly enough for her to hear in the other room.
“I’m so hungry, forget good food. I’ll settle for anything cooked.”
I look up, and my response stalls in my throat. The door is slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of the bedroom. Yasmen stands in her bra and underwear. The view only affords flashes of pink satin and lace and smooth brown skin, but my imagination can fill in the gaps. It was bad enough seeing her half-naked and stumbling across her thong this morning. I should have known better than to listen to Carole when she sent me upstairs to “help” Yasmen. But didn’t I know better? Didn’t I recognize the danger of going to her bedroom—formerly my bedroom—when she was getting dressed? Seeing danger and running headlong into it is foolish and reckless. Two things I can’t afford to be. Two things I’m usually not, but the unusual has always happened with this woman.
“Uh, yeah.” I deliberately avert my gaze from the tempting view. “I’m starving.”
She opens the door and pokes her head out. “You need to get in the bathroom? I’m done in here.”
Braids cascade around her shoulders to her elbows, making her look even younger. The red knit dress she changed into loves every curve of her body, and the black belt cinching her middle exaggerates the line from breast to waist to hips and ass.
“Nah. I’m good.” I clear my throat and look away, back to the menu. “I’mma eat this menu if we don’t get some food soon, though.”
“Guess what I got?” Her smile is sweet and familiar and contagious, and I find myself smiling back.
“What?”
She dashes into the bedroom, emerging seconds later with her oversize purse.
“Ta-da!” She tosses a small bag to me.
I catch it, my smile faltering when I look down at the package. Chicago-style popcorn, my weakness.
“Wow.” I hold the bag for a few seconds without opening it. “Thanks.”
“You still like it, right?” Her smile shrinks. “I was just grabbing some snacks for myself last night at the grocery store and saw the popcorn. If you don’t—”
“Still addicted,” I admit, opening the bag and eating a handful of the sweet-salty crack corn. “Thanks. This’ll hold me over till we get some lunch.”
“You already requested the Uber?”
“I’ll do it now.”
She gathers front sections of the braids and raises her arms to twist them into a top knot, leaving the rest loose down her back. The motion lifts her breasts, pressing them tight against the form-fitting dress. I grind the popcorn between my teeth. I’m being tested. Obviously. I have to pass. Failing would be disastrous and stupid. I’m not a glutton for rejection and I’m nobody’s fool. I’d have to be both to even consider giving in to this gut-punch, dick-hardening lust I’ve never been able to squash. I’m not oblivious. Pretty sure the attraction is mutual, that she still wants me, too, on some level. But she doesn’t want me for the rest of her life, and that is the promise we made to each other. The one she defaulted on. That’s not completely fair. I know what she was going through, but understanding how you got hurt never makes it hurt less.
I set the popcorn on the low table in the sitting room, then grab my phone to order the Uber, giving me something to focus on besides how good Yasmen looks in that damn dress.
Once we’re in the car, I relax some, safely seated on my side, the width of the back seat separating us. No sooner have I closed my eyes, determined to shut her out for the ten-minute ride to the restaurant, than she finds another way to torture my senses. This time with her scent.
“What is that damn smell?” I snap, turning my head to study her face.
“Oh, sorry, sir,” the Uber driver says, flicking an apologetic look to me in the rearview mirror. “I had garlic knots for lunch. You may still smell—”
“Not you,” I tell him, eyes still fixed on Yasmen. “You.”
She sniffs under her arms, frowning. “You don’t smell me.”
“It’s a good smell,” I admit. “But it’s new. Not the one you used to wear.”
“Oh.” She presses one wrist to my nose. “This?”
She has no idea how close I am to pulling her wrist to my lips and sucking the pulse throbbing there, tracing the veins with my tongue like some thirsty vampire. This is getting worse by the second.
“Yeah, that’s it.” I push her wrist away and turn my head to look out the window, not really seeing the charming neighborhood already decorated for Christmas, wreaths and lights on the street poles.
“I got it from Honey Chile. Vanilla. You like it?”
“It’s fine, yeah,” I say abruptly.
“‘It’s fine’ must be one of the best compliments anyone’s ever paid me,” she says with a dry laugh.
“Is that what you want?” I swivel my head back around to stare at her. “Compliments? You need me to tell you how good you look and smell? Mark not pumping up your ego enough?”
Why did I say that?
The smile withers on her lips and her eyes narrow. Her anger and irritation are much easier to deal with than when she’s sweet and tempting.
“I don’t need compliments from anyone,” she says, her voice knife-sharp. “Least of all from you when I know you don’t even mean them.”
I shake my head and huff out a self-mocking laugh. Don’t mean them? If only she knew.
“Look, Yas. I’m sorry.” Coward that I am, I address the apology to my window instead of to her face. She’s so damn perceptive, and I don’t need her knowing what’s really going on in my head and in my pants.
“There’s a lot happening,” I say. “But I shouldn’t take it out on you.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she replies, the heat already draining from her voice. “Is it anything I can help with?”
“No.” Not when you’re my problem. “Thanks, though. Looks like we’re here.”
The Uber stops in front of a white Victorian house with dark red shutters. Flower boxes flank the short flight of steps leading to a dark red door. Christmas lights twinkle on the front porch and wreaths hang on the windows.
When we enter HH Eatz, Harvey stands from the bench in the waiting area to greet us.
“There they are,” he says. “Right on time. Sorry again about the rooms. My assistant was distraught about her mistake.”
“So are we,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fine,” Yas says, shooting me a pointed look. “These things happen. We’ll make the best of it, right, Si?”
“Sure we will.” I glance beyond the hostess podium into the restaurant, noting the decor mostly comprising dark leather and weathered wood. “Please tell me food is part of the program.”
“Oh, yeah. Merry and Ken have something special prepared for you,” Harvey says and motions for us to follow him into the restaurant.
It’s smaller than Grits, a little cozier. We really lean into the highlife down-home vibe, and our decor reflects the come up. The dishes may be homestyle favorites, but Grits’s luxurious decor and first-rate presentation elevate the experience. At least that’s what we’re going for. Here there’s a warmth and intimacy that could be a function of the smaller city, but is probably a deliberate calculation by the owners.
“They’re already waiting for us,” Harvey says, leading us to the couple seated at the large booth at the back of the restaurant. “Josiah and Yasmen Wade, meet Merry Herman and Ken Harris.”
Yasmen extends a hand and a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’ve been looking forward to this,” Merry says, taking Yasmen’s hand and then mine into hers. “So nice to meet you both. We have prepared our most popular dish, but if there’s something else you prefer on the menu, just let us know.”
“Maybe we should tell them what their options are, baby,” Ken says, a white man of medium height with graying hair and alert hazel eyes. I’d put him between sixty-five and seventy, but it can be hard to tell sometimes.
“You’re right.” Merry is a woman of average height with pale skin whose hair was probably once blond but now blends with gray, and her blue eyes sparkle when she laughs up at her husband. “Let’s sit and then we’ll get into it.”
Yasmen and I scoot into one side of the curved booth, Harvey sits in the middle, and Merry and Ken face us. I flinch when the long line of Yasmen’s thigh touches mine.
“You okay?” she asks, watching me with a concerned frown.
She leans over a little and her breast presses into my arm.
Dammit. This whole meal will be torture if I can’t get my head in the game.
“Yeah. Fine.” Out of habit, I push down my lust, call up a smile, and turn it on the couple. “I’m starving. What we got?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Yasmen
Merry and Ken are couple goals. Over a potpie stuffed with perfectly seasoned pulled chicken and tender vegetables, we get to know the older couple. They can’t keep their hands off each other. Not in a salacious way. When they’re not holding a fork, they’re holding hands. He toys with her earring while he’s talking. She leans into the crook of his arm, rests her head on his shoulder. They share an easy intimacy that’s as tried and warm as a blanket you’ve had for years and still treasure.
“That was one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time,” Josiah says, sitting back when the last morsel disappears from his plate. “And our chef is one of the finest in Atlanta.”
Vashti.
I’ve barely had time to process that they aren’t together anymore. A dozen questions batter my mind, and now isn’t the time for answers to any of them. He doesn’t owe me answers or explanation. They were dating. Now they’re not. It doesn’t change a thing between us, but watching Merry and Ken, I can’t help but think of how Josiah and I used to be. Ironic that when we were younger we had this zeal for each other, and now we sit across from a couple twice our age whose love still burns hot, while ours lies in ashes.
“We have an excellent chef,” Ken says. “But she’s moving to Paris once this place shuts down.”
Surprisingly, it’s the first time we’ve broached the subject of the sale, which is why we’re here. They’ve told us about their kids, and we’ve shown them pictures of ours. We swapped starter stories, how our businesses came to be. They met through a large catering business where they both worked and decided to strike out on their own.
“We’d have no problem finding a great chef to guarantee continuity between the Atlanta location and this one,” Josiah says, sipping his water. “Should it come to that.”
“You’ve seen our numbers,” Merry says. “You know how profitable our business has been here. We’ve done our homework, too, and we know a little about Grits. There’s a lot of similarities between what we do and what you do. NoDa is one of the hottest parts of the city. It’s a boom within a boom. Charlotte’s star is rising fast, and this neighborhood is one of its most sought after.”
“It’s eclectic,” Ken picks up. “There’s a community of artisans here, along with some of the best food in the city. Makes for great foot traffic. We can barely keep up with our weekend crowd.”
“It’s impressive,” I offer with a smile. “What you’ve done here.”
“Well, we’re impressed by the two of you,” Merry says. “We love all the parallels between our journeys and yours. Finding another couple to take this on would be amazing.”
“We, uh, aren’t a couple anymore,” Josiah says, tracing the wood grain of the table with the tip of his finger. “We’re divorced.”
“Oh.” Ken’s brows rise. “Then I’m even more impressed. It’s hard enough to be in business with your life partner, much less your former life partner. That’s what I get for assuming. Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” I assure him. “We’ve put our business and our kids first. They’re most important. We’ve managed to remain friends.”
I hazard a glance up and find Josiah watching me. Our eyes lock and won’t let go for a few seconds. Heat crawls up my neck and spatters my cheeks. I finally drag my gaze away to the linen napkin in my lap.
“Friends, huh?” Merry looks between us, a wry smile etching fine lines around her mouth. “I can see that. Well, we never bothered with the marriage part, but we did everything else.”
“What?” My head pops up and I latch on to her words. “You two aren’t married? But how long have you—”
“Thirty years we’ve been together.” Ken kisses the top of Merry’s head. “One successful business and two successful kids, but no rings.”
“That’s…unconventional,” Josiah says.
“We are that,” Merry says and laughs. “But it works for us. We didn’t need the paper or the hardware. Most of the marriages I saw growing up were traps, a means to keep women minimized. Not that I think my Ken would ever do that.”
She lifts his knuckle for a kiss.
“We just don’t really believe in it as an institution,” Ken adds. “But we believe in each other forever. We’ve made a life together on our own terms.”
“The only thing holding us together,” Merry says, looking at Ken with affection, “is our love, but that is the proof of it. That we could leave at any time.”
“But neither of us ever would. Never have. I would argue that what we’ve made is stronger, truer than most marriages because of the freedom it allows us.”
