Page 9 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

M y boots skid across polished floors. On a scale of a light jog and qualifying for the Summer Olympics, I power walked away from Preston to keep from summoning wandering eyes or airport security. It’s a battle to suck in these jagged breaths.

He was so close I thought he’d kiss me. And, like a damn fool, I would’ve let him.

The tic in his jaw and his eyes blazing down to mine lifted every hair on the back of my neck. He made no attempt to hide the fact that he wants me, and if I wasn’t so strong, I’d have folded like a pretzel in the middle of the sidewalk.

Through a shudder, my breasts tingled against the fabric of my blouse. The mint in his breath mixed with the cold air skated across my cheeks and down to my lips. His gaze implored me to stay, and his mouth inched closer to seal itself with mine.

Every memory of the months we shared thawed until the reminder of how he left me shouted with flashing lights.

Preston might think our reunion means we owe it to each other to see where things go, but I know better.

This isn’t some rom-com where a bouncy musical number plays while we kiss to the applause of random strangers who believe in happily ever afters.

This is real life. The sequel is rarely better than the original, and I won’t chance finding out if that’s true for us.

I make my way to a customer service agent and resist the urge to steal another peek at the man from my past who made an unwanted cameo in my present. Bad things happen when you don’t heed the signs. Preston’s presence raises too many questions.

“Of course he owns the hotel,” I mumble to myself as I search my purse for my wallet.

“I’m sorry, miss?” The agent studies me with a look that asks why I’m talking to myself.

“Hi,” I say with a half smile and approach the counter. “My flight to New York leaves in a few hours. I’d like to get on an earlier one if possible.”

If Preston is still outside, there’s no stopping him or his charm from suffocating this entire airport. He’s already suffocating as it is. Those model qualities he inherited aged like wine.

You wouldn’t.

Lingering around this airport might get me two federal cases: one for indecent exposure, and the other for murder.

“We have a flight to JFK in forty—”

“Yes!” I mistakenly toss her my library card along with my driver’s license. Keep your mind on his sins and not the sanctuary between his legs. “I’ll take it, thank you.”

“Aht! Play where it’s safe, Regine!” Kojo’s Living Single nickname hits me as he swats my hand away with metal chopsticks I now regret buying.

It’s rare for him to get mad, which would make his hostile glare funny if my knuckles weren’t on fire.

“Dramatic much? It’s one bite. Please?” I chuckle at his glower and ease back to my side of the sofa with a wound in tow.

“Unless we’re swapping bodily fluids, you know better than to play on my plate. I told you to order your own, and did you listen? Consider this your consequence.”

Kojo moves in slow motion, taking his time in lifting the food he refuses to share to his mouth. His tongue peeks out right before his lips wrap around cooked dough. The sharp blades of his hazelnut cheekbones dance in recessed lighting with each exaggerated chew.

He knows he looks good in all his Kofi Siriboe glory. No one is immune to his aura. I, too, would fall victim to that buttery smile if I didn’t consider him my brother…or a prick in cashmere at the moment.

He has one more time to fondle his fried chicken and waffles dumpling before I kick him out.

The tease left Atlanta in advance of fashion week.

In a few weeks, New York will come to life with couture and innovation.

My friend will be a part of that magic with a show for Rustin, his fashion label.

After a set design walk-through, he swung by my place with takeout from my favorite Taiwanese spot in the East Village.

I guess I’ll play nice since Kojo brought me dumplings and hired me as a stylist for his show. He doesn’t need one, but we’ve been working together since life connected our paths in France years ago.

“Weren’t you supposed to get in later tonight?” Kojo toes off the black house slippers I keep for his visits and tucks his feet under himself.

“Changed flights,” I confess to the perfectly waxed brow that’s now lifted at me. “Did I interrupt one of your dates?” The flavors of my pork and chive dumplings skip across my taste buds.

He shakes his head. “You have me for three more hours. How was your trip?”

I shrug off the inquiry and reach for my wine on the mirrored tray that rests atop the velvet ottoman.

My apartment is a haven of peace in shades of emerald.

I fell in love with it years ago and pulled all my money together to afford the five-thousand-a-month rent.

A one-bedroom unit is more than enough for me.

It gets tight when my niece stays here instead of her dorm where she belongs, but I can’t picture myself living anywhere else.

I have wall-to-wall views of Hell’s Kitchen, an in-unit washer and dryer, and a parking space I never use. The building underwent a major renovation, and now it has all the amenities I need to save on unnecessary memberships, like the gym.

Every picture frame and decorative accent in my home tells the story of where I’ve been. I’ve come a long way since Breaux Bridge.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

“It was fine,” I say, my focus still on the Bordeaux in front of me.

Kojo frowns. “What aren’t you telling me, Regine? I told you to leave the snow alone. Y’all have winter here. Running over there like Elsa thinking the cold wouldn’t bother you was a choice.”

“The snow was fine. I stayed indoors,” I say.

“Lemme guess, the pool of single people had piss in it?”

Kojo will always find a reason to laugh, even at my expense.

He questioned why I’d fly to the middle of the country to meet men when I could swipe right here in Manhattan.

He doesn’t get it, not that I’d expect him to.

Kojo only cares about the legs he’s between.

Nothing long-term or serious. I’ve had casual hookups, but I want more than a warm body on a cold night.

I want pursuit. Devotion.

“My ex was there.” The words somersault and don’t stick their landing. I gulp the rest of my wine in one go and ignore Kojo’s shocked look.

It takes a second for what I said to register. Then Kojo’s jaw drops to the vintage rug I found at a sample sale. “Who was it? Don’t skimp on the good parts!”

I contemplate telling him about Terrence but think twice. He’s not the ex who taunts me in my dreams, and I don’t need Kojo’s questionable influence encouraging me to reconsider a problematic crush.

Kojo doesn’t condone cheating, but he’s found himself in a few complicated situations, love triangles included. His advice would be to proposition Terrence and Justice to open up their marriage and let me slide in. If Tammi is the angel on my shoulder, Kojo is the devil dressed in high fashion.

There’s also the tiny problem that he’s friends with Emma.

He’d have a hard time explaining to Justice’s best friend why he encouraged me to pursue her husband.

The thought alone would implode any semblance of a relationship between them.

Emma isn’t as close to Kojo as I am, but she’s still someone he considers a good friend.

The lingerie company she works for is providing pieces for his fashion show.

She already wants my head on a spike for how I treated Justice, and I won’t let my mess bleed onto him.

“Now is not the time for internal monologues, Regine.” Kojo snaps his fingers to get my attention. “Back to your ex. It better not be Barnabus and his scandalous ass.”

“Bradley,” I snort.

“Whoever.” He waves a hand before reaching for his drink. “The ex.”

“It’s Preston.”

“ Preston ? Please tell me he’s not a boat-shoe-wearing elder who takes his teeth out and needs his butt wiped. You know I don’t mind an age gap, but I draw the line at Dick Van Dyke.”

“Kojo!” I howl at the plea in his eyes. Like he doesn’t fawn over Jeff Goldblum. “Preston is in his early forties.”

“Oh, thank God,” he says through a long sigh. “I thought your business was struggling and you needed life insurance.”

“Never that.”

He recrosses his legs and sits back, more relaxed now that he knows I’m not dating anyone sixty years my senior. His eyes close. “Paint the picture for me.”

“Over six feet tall. Dark hair. Warm honey skin. In shape but not bulky. Dimples.”

“Ooh. Elis had dimples.” Kojo licks his lips. “Who does he look like?”

A nightmare wrapped in a fantasy.

I sigh. “Mariano Di Vaio but with melanin. His mother was Black Sicilian.”

Preston was a newborn when she died. Black women have the highest maternal mortality rate in the country, an unnecessary fate too many mothers experience, including his.

Doctors mistook her discomfort as common pregnancy symptoms, but it turned out to be sepsis.

Antonia Parisi took her last breath hours after giving birth.

She died alone, her pleas for anyone to listen to her falling on deaf ears.

That’s the only story I know about Preston’s childhood. He never spoke about his father—only his maternal grandmother and a brother who was in school.

“He sounds fine.”

“He is,” I confess.

“So what’s the problem?”

I grab the empty takeout containers on my way to the kitchen. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time before I go between Demi’s legs for dessert.” His hip check is a signal to move so he can do the dishes.

My kitchen isn’t the smallest, but it doesn’t fit multiple people in it at once.

I slide over to one of the brass barstools, my feet lazily swinging in slouch socks.

I enjoy dressing up to go out. But once I’m in, I’m all about comfortable loungewear.

The oversized flannel shirt I’m wearing is quite comfy, thank you very much.

“So?” Kojo places the glass he washed on the drying rack.

“So. You already helped me mend a broken heart from him once. I’d rather not go down that path again.”

His face twists. “When did I do that?”

“Fifteen years ago,” I say. “In Paris.”

The steady flow from the kitchen faucet is the only sound in the room.

Memories surge, taking me back to the night I ran away from a man who tore me down with his words and a look I’ll never forget.

It was the same night I met Kojo, who was putting on a makeshift fashion show in front of the venue I rushed out of like Cinderella minutes before midnight.

His face held the same look then as it does now. Drawn brows. Pursed lips. Eyes sweeping over me for injuries. He wipes his hands on his black chinos and reaches me in two steps for a hug.

Kojo and I spent most of that evening walking, the threads of our friendship reaching out to bind us together.

I never mentioned Preston’s name, but I told him everything.

In hindsight, disclosing so much of myself to a complete stranger in the middle of the night in a foreign country was wild.

But that’s me and Kojo. We’re platonic kindreds who fit together effortlessly.

Little did I know, he also attended Bodie and was in France for an internship he’d gotten through a fashion connection.

He was my rock those last few months in a foreign city. He helped mend me back to life in ways I’ll never be able to repay. I’ve cried myself to sleep too many times reliving the love Preston and I had before it crashed and burned. I’m not doing it again.

“What do you need from me?” Kojo brushes my hair from my cheek and presses a kiss to it.

“I’ll be okay. Seeing him again threw me for a loop, you know? He just showed up to my room with the breakfast I ordered like it was nothing.”

“How was he there with that basic toast and jam you call a meal?” We chuckle.

“Leave my food alone since you won’t share yours.” I push him away with a laugh that stretches into a sigh. “On the way to the airport—”

“You shared a ride?” Kojo presses a hand to his chest and gasps. I meet his gaze and burst out laughing.

None of this is funny, but how can I keep a straight face when he’s staring like Durand Bernarr in front of a camera?

I wipe tears out of my eyes. “It was the only way to get home. He got a car and drove me to the airport himself.”

“Aww—oop!” Kojo catches the compliment he was about to give and tosses it over his shoulder. “Nothing wrong with a ride, and a free one at that. How did he end up at the same hotel? Was he there for the retreat?”

“No,” I say. “It’s the wildest thing. He owns the resort and just so happened to be there on vacation. This man owns several hotels here and abroad. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Kojo scurries over to his coat, which is draped on a living room chair. “What’s his last name?”

“Donnelley.” Why does it matter?

He’s back at my side with his face glued to his phone. Identical brows plummet, and a finger zips across the screen.

“What are you doing?”

“The hotel I’m staying at is a Donnelley Brand.”

“ Okay . He has money. So what?”

Wealthy men never impressed me. Their hearts are usually stone, and they treat anyone they deem beneath them like shit. That’s one of the things that attracted me to Preston. He was different…until he proved to be the same as the rest.

“Regine!”

“What?!” I jump at his shout. He scared the shit out of me.

There’s only one other time I’ve seen Kojo look like this, somewhere between excitement and death.

We were in the same room as André Leon Talley—may he rest in peace—and I had to catch this fool after he touched the hem of his garment.

Kojo is Preston’s height. Silk is slippery, and we almost ended up on the floor.

Now his eyes lift with a world of questions.

“Is this him?”

“Yes,” I say to the photo of Preston in a tux at some event. Fabric does look good on him.

“He doesn’t just own a few hotels. The Donnelley Brand is worth billions. You’ve been with a billionaire and didn’t know?! Girl! ”

“What?” I snatch the phone. Sure enough, there’s an article that reports his family to be worth over three billion.

No wonder he was so tight-lipped. A billion is a lot of zeroes, and he has three! Well, his family does.

This can’t be the same man who inhaled McDonald’s burgers and watched ’90s movies with me when his schedule allowed. I never thought I’d meet a billionaire, but it turns out I loved one.

I need another drink.