Page 1 of The Best Man: Unfinished Business

Chapter One

Harper

Harper Stewart stood in the mirror of the generous room labeled Talent and squared the tailored wool of his Brioni blazer across his shoulders.

The fit was immaculate, giving “Pulitzer Prize–winning author” for days.

He was freshly shaven, and the smooth chocolate of his chiseled face looked just right in the reflection ahead as he mouthed the practiced words he’d soon speak before the television cameras.

He’d made it a point to look his best, color-matching the blazer to his form-fitted turtleneck underneath in just the perfect dark navy blue to complement the deep brown of his skin.

The mirror validated his decision. The blazer-turtleneck combo was the right one, he thought.

“Five minutes to air, Mr. Stewart.” A headset-wearing production assistant ducked his head through the doorframe and just as quickly was gone down the hall in a blur of all black and a quiet squeak of rubber-soled shoes against the floor.

The behind-the-scenes bustle of the show was a beehive of dozens of producers, technicians, and cameramen rushing past Harper’s temporary oasis of calm.

Every one of the passersby reminded him of the enormity of the opportunity—national broadcast television.

He was at the tipping point of becoming a literary tastemaker.

Harper took a deep breath and ran his palm across the top of his perfectly smooth head, careful not to disturb the light dusting of face powder applied by the station’s makeup artist. Harper hated makeup, all that fuss, but the high-definition camera would tell no lies, especially this early and yes, at his age.

Even the best Black can crack eventually, but today was the day to look his finest.

“You good?” Cassidy, Harper’s longtime publicist, entered the room.

Harper turned to her, nodding with an “Mm-hmm” and a smile.

It was Cassidy who’d booked this appearance on the second hour of CBS Mornings, maneuvering him out of TV bookers’ first suggestion of the “natural fit” during Black History Month.

Cassidy did not play. Harper was a Pulitzer Prize winner now, so any month was a “natural fit.” She was always advocating for her talent to get face time in prime slots.

And today it was Harper’s turn to make book recommendations to a national morning audience.

Cassidy got shit done and made sure that when it came to Harper Stewart, everyone came correct.

“It’s almost time,” she commanded. Her nod toward the door meant that they needed to begin their walk to the soundstage.

Harper wanted everything to flow perfectly.

And so far, it had. He’d spent too long as a literary afterthought—present but still invisible.

Everything is under control, he reminded himself.

He was prepared. And when the cameras hit, he’d be charming, memorable, and, most important, worthy of a return invitation.

A short walk and they arrived. The morning show set looked warm, like someone’s living room, with cozy yet generic décor of creams, oranges, and yellows and flowers that were so perfectly placed on the table they seemed fake.

The station signage for CBS Mornings glowed in the background, a reminder that this was a place for important conversations.

America would be up and watching, catching him making tastefully considered book picks over their morning coffee and eggs.

Harper heard the anchor call his name from the other side of the room in a polished female voice that made him sound official.

“And coming up after the break, Pulitzer Prize–winning author Harper Stewart joins us with his must-read books for spring and to maybe get into some Unfinished Business while we’re at it.

Stick around….” Harper smiled and sighed with pride and relief.

Pulitzer Prize winner. He still hadn’t quite gotten used to that being attached to his name.

He had been a New York Times bestseller before—his debut work, Unfinished Business, placed him on “the list”—but it felt asterisked.

The novel was too easily dismissed as Black and successful, an anomaly, a fluke.

Not even a box-office-smash Hollywood adaptation of his work gave Harper the kind of cachet that he now owned.

His Pulitzer Prize–winning Pieces Of Us put Harper on the map.

No longer the unknown, under-acknowledged Black author—Harper had been fully Christopher Columbused now.

The “literary elites” had “discovered” him, only twenty-five years into his career, and made him a household name.

Finally, he had the world’s attention. And that alone drove him to another deep breath.

Great…right? It wasn’t so clear. In fact, nothing this morning was.

He didn’t get nervous at interviews, but for some reason, he was…

off. He hadn’t slept well. Bailey had kept himup.

“Two minutes to air!” another all-black-clad producer shouted from the brightly lit soundstage, barely looking up from her clipboard. Harper thought to check his phone, and reached for it just as it started buzzing. It was already on silent mode, but also, now it was ringing.

He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket, and seeing the number of his alarm company, he figured he’d better answer. “Hello?” he whispered.

“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Harper Stewart?” The voice on the other end was formal, a bit Southern, matter-of-fact and businesslike.

“This is he. Who’s this…?” Harper whispered hurriedly.

“This is Summit Security. There’s a fire alarm alert at your home.”

“What? My home? Are you sure it’s me?”

“Yessir.” The attendant on the phone repeated Harper’s address perfectly. The swell of panic rose into his chest. That smoke alarm was sensitive as fuck, but it never resulted in a call from the security company, unless…it was… real ?

“Well, I’m—I’m not at home. I’m about to go on live television. I—I have an interview….” Harper stuttered the words, looking around wildly for Cassidy. After he finally met her eyes, she slid quickly over to his side.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered.

“There might be a fire at my house….” Harper imagined his four-million-dollar condo burning to ashes while he droned on about the best spring reads.

“What?” Cassidy looked perplexed and mildly annoyed. Harper noted the terrible timing. Especially if …

“The fire department has already been dispatched,” the voice on the phone continued. “Is anyone home?”

“Ummmm…” Harper didn’t really want to answer while this Southern dude and his all-business publicist were hanging on his every word, but the truth was…

Bailey. Harper left her sleeping as the dawn hadn’t even broken when he departed this morning.

Was she okay? Was… The unmistakable deep tone of call-waiting pressed his eardrum interrupting his thoughts.

He pulled the phone away from his head to look at the screen and saw Bailey’s name and photo displayed on the callerID.

“Yes, I think so. Maybe…” Harper turned the phone away from Cassidy’s gaze as he went to swap the line. “Could you just hold for one sec…and maybe not call the fire department….”

“Mr. Stewart I cannot—” Harper’s finger stabbed at the screen before he heard the rest.

“Bailey—?” Harper said into the phone with an urgent whisper. “Are you okay? Is there a fire…?”

Bailey’s voice floated through the air over the screeching sound of the fire alarm.

The panic in his chest had reached his throat by now, closing the passageway.

“Oh, Harper! I was just making some toast—that fresh sourdough looked so yummy I just had to cut a slice…” Her explanation seemed way calmer and less urgent than he needed.

Still, she continued, “But all of a sudden there was smoke from the toaster and now…your alarm…and—”

Harper cut her off quickly. “Bailey, is there a fire?”

“Well, no…no, I don’t—know, I mean I opened your balcony door to let the smoke out, but the alarm’s still ringing…I don’t know how to turn it off and—”

“Mr. Stewart.” The clipboard holding producer was suddenly at his elbow. “We’re ready for you on set, sir.” Harper’s eyes widened as his head swiveled on its own accord to his right. “Forty-five seconds to air.”

Harper willed his feet to move. “Okay, okay, I’m following you,” he said in an attempt to reassure the producer.

In step, he remembered the alarm company on the other line, waiting—and fuck!

the fire department! And…Bailey. He turned his attention back to his phone.

Cassidy was right in lockstep with him and all up in his convo.

“Bailey, I need you to turn the alarm off.”

“Okay, sure. Where is it?” Shit.

“It’s a panel right at the front foyer.” He tried to remain even-keeled, but he was already starting to perspire despite the subzero temps in the studio.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry…I’m headed there now…” Bailey’s breath on the other end confirmed that she was in motion.

“Listen, the fire department is on the way—” Harper warned her.

“Oh my God, no. I’m naked in here….” Bailey gasped.

Despite the circumstances, naked immediately made Harper recall the image of Bailey’s beautiful brown body with those round areolas and that plump firm booty hustling around his living room.

What was also inopportune and certainly distracting was the sound or rather the non-sound of her movements, all breath and no rustling of clothes.

Naked, like she said. They both needed to focus.

“It’s okay. Just go over and turn it off—” Harper calmly yet urgently begged into the phone.

“It is so loud. Freaking me out. I don’t see any numbers….”

“Just put your hand on it to activate it.”

“We’re thirty seconds to air!” the stage manager bellowed.

“Nothing’s happening, babe.” Bailey’s voice hinted at her mounting frustration.

“Just take a deep breath and place your palm on the panel and the numbers will come up.”