Page 11 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

“ P romise me no glitter. I mean it.” I roll my eyes at the laughter from the other end of the phone.

“Auntie, I’m a whole adult now.”

“And you’re not too grown for me to go across that butt,” I say, acting every bit like my mama. “Promise me you’ll behave while I’m gone.”

“I always do,” Jewel promises. The lie of the century.

College kids being hungover, sleeping in late, and dealing with the aftermath of their questionable behavior aren’t new.

Jewel isn’t my child, but she keeps my nerves in a cyclone with her activities.

They don’t involve a keg or partying, but they’ll still land her in jail and me six feet under if my sister finds out.

“Where are you going?” I hold my breath and pray it’s the library.

“There’s an action near your place tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll water your plants and get the mail. If we’re not arrested, some of us are going to Albany to demand leadership prioritize investments in climate protections in the executive budget.”

“Jewel Avery!” I whisper-shout from my window seat. “Don’t make me revoke your access to my apartment. I thought this was a sign-making get-together. No arrests!”

Is she trying to get her mother to hop on a plane and knock me out?

I wouldn’t hear the end of it, how I corrupted her daughter and led her down a path of anarchy and criminal conviction.

Instead of a life full of “secular living and Jack Daniels,” as she calls it, my oldest niece chose civil disobedience in the name of climate justice.

Jewel is no longer the chubby baby whose socks would cut off her circulation.

She’s a woman coming into her own. Her third year at Brooklyn University has been full of rallies and calls to action.

The economics degree she’s pursuing comes with a concentration in environmental justice.

Jewel studies the socioeconomic disparities caused by the climate crisis and the need for a just transition framework.

She’s a powerhouse at twenty, joining other climate activists across the five boroughs to fight for critical funding for the communities hit hardest by climate-related threats.

She rallies here in the city and goes to the state capitol in Albany to advocate for divestment from the fossil fuel industry and support for a green economy.

It’s not uncommon for Jewel to protest in front of polluters’ buildings. Her targets are billionaires and financial institutions with track records of harmful investments that contribute to pollution, widespread floods, and wildfires.

She better stay on the public sidewalk and not end up in handcuffs.

“No arrests, I promise.” Jewel’s smirk is loud and clear.

“Good. Your mother wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.”

“You should call her.”

“I will soon,” I say to her gentle plea. Jewel is wise beyond her years, but the tension between me and her mother predates her existence.

For Dominique, Jewel choosing a school in New York was the final straw.

My sister will never admit it, but she feels betrayed by her daughter.

Jewel left. I did too. So, we navigate through our landmines of resentment and unspoken words whenever I happen to go back to Breaux Bridge.

I wish we were closer, but I let too much time pass to fix what needs to be fixed.

“I have class in five. Mo linm twa .” I smile at Jewel’s Creole and end the call.

No matter my schedule, I promised Dominique I’d look out for her. That includes keeping the language passed down through our family alive. It’s rare for anyone to speak it these days, but we do our best to uphold Mawmaw’s tradition.

I smile to no one but myself. The kids will be alright.

Jewel threatens a few heart attacks, but she’s admirable. She has her mama’s fire in her big brown eyes and matching curls. Dominique believes I turned Jewel against the small-town life that’s waiting for her back home.

But how could I when my sister named her daughter after the first Black woman in the US to earn a PhD in political science?

Even when we were younger, Dominique went on and on about Dr. Jewel Prestage and her work to improve civic education in Louisiana schools.

She was my sister’s inspiration until life changed her trajectory.

Married to her high school sweetheart right after graduation.

Pregnant with Jewel, the first of four kids, six months later.

A life of diapers between part-time work at her husband’s family restaurant.

As Mawmaw used to say, make plans and watch God laugh. She was big on life callings. Jewel’s takes her to protests. Dominique’s is to make her house a home. Mine is currently en route to London for the next fashion week.

I rush a text to Kojo as the announcements hit the intercom.

See you in a couple of days!!

No doubt he’s tangled up in a bedsheet. Expecting Kojo to answer before noon requires a miracle.

He stayed out to celebrate his fashion show here in the city, which became two more after-parties and a threesome. I know because he texted, “Three’s company in this piece!” with a cat and eggplant emoji. When it comes to pleasure, my friend doesn’t discriminate.

I’m heading to London early. One, I need a head start on scouting the area for a new client and to tackle a long to-do list before our wardrobe assessment.

Two, I didn’t want to dampen Kojo’s after-party since Emma was in attendance.

We’ll figure out how to navigate each other’s space with our mutual friend.

For now, distance is the best answer. Another mess for another day.

When I open the internet app on my phone, cognac eyes I’ve tried to forget since I saw them up close stare back at me. They’re calculated with the same power that pinned me to the carpet the day he showed up at my hotel room.

Fifteen years wasn’t long enough to forget Preston.

My vagina throbbed an SOS at my name on his tongue. At this point, hypnosis is all that’s left to erase him from my psyche.

Discovering he’s a whole billionaire had me back down the rabbit hole. Kojo checked my temperature six times for memory loss. I knew my ex came from wealth, but I never connected the dots to the top one percent. I wore Kmart panties around that man.

Internet access was on a CD back in the day. There was no way free AOL hours would have revealed Preston’s billion-dollar family. He said he was an apprentice when we were together, not a CEO. I assumed he was one of those trust fund kids who inherited some fancy position with a matching title.

Apparently, Preston has transformed the Donnelley Brand since his father stepped down.

More properties are sprouting up underneath the banner, which doesn’t explain why he came to Colorado, of all places.

He’s been on the other side of the world since we bumped into each other.

His company’s headquarters is in London, which is the only excuse I have for stalking his whereabouts.

I want to hate him—to keep him in my past—but it’s impossible. Every article about him unlocks a new puzzle piece.

Pretending he doesn’t exist is not an option when I’ll be in his backyard. It’s reason enough to keep my head on a swivel and prevent another run-in during my time in England. I’m betting on him staying away from the fashion scene. He’s James Bond in a suit, but he avoids the spotlight.

With my phone in airplane mode and a vow to stop acting like I have an internship with the CIA, the plane reaches cruising altitude.

Leave Preston alone .

No more searches.

No more scratching curiosities.

London is for fashion week, and for my business. No men, and definitely no Preston.