Page 24 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

As for my flirting with a married man, Kojo brushed that off with the flick of a hand.

He flirts with anything with a pulse, but he encouraged me to pipe down with Emma’s best friend and her husband.

That is one pep talk I didn’t need. I left all interest in Terrence at the singles’ retreat and haven’t looked back.

Mawmaw always told us God don’t like ugly. I’m far from it physically, but my actions haven’t reflected my home training. Tammi told me to forgive myself, but how can I?

Guilt swallows me whole at the most unexpected times. Some days, I feel the urge to craft an apology letter for my bitch behavior. Other days are milder and don’t include a pen and paper but a vow to do better.

Forgiveness isn’t that simple. There’s always a price to pay, and I can’t shake the feeling that mine will be high given the way I’ve acted.

My phone chimes again.

“Who the heck is it?” I ask myself and the cast of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air on TV.

It’s not Kojo. I left him to come back to my hotel. He should be bouncing between the legs of the lovers he has scattered across Los Angeles. Every visit is like a scavenger hunt for him, one that includes multiple players and no map.

My night might lack orgasms, but it did include wine by candlelight and cake in the tub. It’s not a sex marathon, but it comes with ’90s reruns.

Unlike my friend, my legs are closed for the evening. I’m staying on the Redondo Beach peninsula, about forty-five minutes from LA, far away from traffic and overpriced neighborhoods. I get enough concrete living in Manhattan. I want sand.

My room isn’t a suite, but it’s spacious, with a private patio and a view of the marina. The cream and blue hues are an extension of the small waves that drift in from the South Bay. It’s one of my favorite places to stay when I’m in LA.

Flipping through premium cable isn’t my go-to on a Thursday night, but I’m off dating for the foreseeable future. The only thing I’m modeling tonight is comfort and a gold eye mask under my lids.

I rip off the comforter when my phone starts ringing. I stomp the short distance from my pillowtop bed to my makeup bag, which is cushioning the nuisance. Kojo better be in the ER and not sending me clips of his choose-a-hole journey.

Another scenario quickens my steps. “Not Daddy,” I murmur, crossing the teal carpet in a hurry. Mama called last week to tell me the doctor advised him to lay off bowfishing after agitating his back in the shop.

Buck Monroe is hardheaded and hard of hearing.

He and his mechanic friends are always into something whenever the garage isn’t open.

My daddy loves to pretend he’s twenty-eight and not fifty-eight.

My parents had me when they were twenty-one, knee-deep in diapers and pull-ups in the early years of their marriage.

Mama flings weights with gym buddies half her age.

Daddy rides ATVs and skydives, of all things.

I promised to swing by soon. My annual visit only lasts a few days before I’m back to a life of fashion and travel.

“Shit.” I scramble to pick up my phone and answer without looking. “Daddy? You okay?”

“That’s new,” a low voice says with a soft chuckle. The mellow bass vibrates through the line with an energy that seems out of place for how early it is on the other side of the pond.

“Preston.” I release a breath and press a palm to the side of my silk scarf. “I thought you were my daddy.”

“I can be.”

The hairs on my neck raise from the velvet baritone. I fold my arms over my cami, as if he can see my nipples standing at attention.

Hold yourself together. We don’t tingle over a voice!

I sigh. “I’ll hang up if you’re calling about shoestring colors or suspender patterns. It’s been a long day, and I’ve reached my limit for your games.”

The line goes quiet.

“What happened, Puff?”

“Not your concern.”

“If it concerns you, it concerns me. What happened?”

An anchored sailboat sways next to the dock. Moonlight skims across its white body and bounces over quiet ripples.

“Puff?”

Feelings aren’t a topic I discuss freely. Tammi and Kojo have to pry them out of me. To say I don’t like being vulnerable is an understatement. I’d rather endure a public mammogram than face judgment.

Tammi caught me today when I was on an emotional sprint. It was a fluke. I was too busy running for my life in my least comfortable heels in case Emma’s claws matched her mouth.

I don’t throw my problems at my friends. They have enough to deal with without my mess.

“Puff?”

“On second thought, shoelaces and suspenders sound better,” I mumble. “Don’t you have a hotel empire to run?”

“Ah, a subject change. Must be awful.”

“Preston.”

“I called you because I can’t stop thinking about you. I figured I’d try my luck and forget these damn texts.”

His declaration hangs firm. Final. Preston filters his personality through sarcasm, but he never minces words.

A smile pokes my lips as I imagine his stoic expression. He’s probably behind his desk in a crisp suit. “You telling me you picked out your own socks?”

“I have since my nanny stopped dressing me,” he says, as if personal staff is an ordinary expense. “What’s bothering you?”

I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at the geometric carpet. In what universe do I talk about my love life with my ex? Not just any ex, the ex, the one I randomly bumped into, who texts all the time and hosts candlelight dinners in his closet.

The remnants in my wineglass disappear with a single gulp. I sink back into the queen bed. “You really want to know?”

“There must be an echo on the line—you’re repeating a question I’ve now asked twice,” he says with posh sarcasm.

“Smart-ass.”

He mirrors my smile in his tone. “Full of compliments, aren’t you? Don’t dodge me, Puff.”

The breath I release is long, but it soothes the tightness in my chest. “Have you ever made a mistake you regret? One you don’t want to define you for the rest of your life?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get over it?”

Leather groans as he shifts his weight in his chair.

“I haven’t. I never will,” he says with the same finality as the declaration he uttered days ago.

I’m not letting you go this time . “The worst regret of my life haunts me every fucking day. We’re human, Madison.

We make mistakes we’d trade the world to take back.

But we get the chance to do better if we’re lucky. ”

“That’s actually good advice,” I say, tracing the pattern in the comforter’s stitching. Silence is a heavy mist. “Well—”

“Don’t,” he warns. “Don’t shut me out.”

Goosebumps sprinkle across my forearms as I remember all the ways he had me.

Facedown.

On my side.

In the air.

Touching my toes.

The sex was immaculate, but the intimacy extended beyond eternity.

I reach deep to snatch the scraps of my restraint, though my inner heaux is ready to edge temptation.

This can’t happen. We can’t happen.

“Preston,” I sigh. “We’ve been down this road before. It’s a dead end.”

“Not like this. Let’s use our time together to get to know each other again,” he says. “The real us.”

I ready a rebuttal but pause at Tammi’s reminder. Her call to forgive and stop courting bitterness.

“Let’s be friends,” he says, like it’s the obvious choice. Maybe it is.

When the time is right, try to make amends.

“Okay.”

“Good. Now I can stop texting random shit just to talk to you.” I snort at his lame attempts. He gets an A in persistence. “I have a day’s worth of meetings to get through, to run my empire, as you say. Thank you for taking my call, Puff. I miss talking to you.”

So do I , I don’t confess.

“As for whatever’s got you down, I’m eight hours into your future. I promise it’s bright.”

“Good luck today.”

“Sleep tight, Puff.”