Date Cute Marry Rich

by Alexis Nicole

Genres: African American; African American Urban; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Twenty-one-year-old college student Alexis Nicole (Full Figured 2) proves once again a talent and insight beyond her years, with an intriguing story of three best friends trying to make their dreams come true in New York City. Fashion editor Skye's living the life, but she's got more than she can handle when a wealthy businessman and romantic artist both vie for her affections. Hairdresser Devin works at the hottest salon in the city, but life gets complicated when he becomes infatuated with a lover keeping dangerous secrets. And Cheyenne's been dating her boss for the past four years, but she doesn't know he's married. . .until she gets pregnant. It's a good thing these friends have each other to get them through!

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Urban Renaissance

Print pages: 288

Sample

Four bad dates. No, not bad dates. Four horrible dates.

That was why I was so sure that this was going to be the one, because it was the fifth date that I’d had in the past five weeks and five had always been my lucky number. I was born in the fifth month, on the fifth day, in 1982. Okay, so eighty-two doesn’t end in five, but you get my point.

So, I had endured all those bad dates over the past few weeks because of what I knew for sure, and that was that the fifth date would be on point.

“You don’t have to say it, Skye. I can tell you’re extremely impressed.”

I looked up only because my parents, the Reverend and Mrs. Davenport, had raised me right, but really, I just wanted to keep staring at my appetizer, which was so much more interesting than the man in front of me.

“So, tell me,” said Carter Wellington, leaning forward. His light brown eyes really were beautiful; they sparkled over the flickering candlelight. “Have you been out with anyone like me?”

Was he kidding me? No! I wanted to stand up and shout that for everyone in this five-star Fifth Avenue restaurant to hear. But, instead, I just gave Carter my raised-right smile and stabbed my appetizer, the Oysters and Pearls, which Carter had insisted that I have.

I pushed the white sturgeon caviar as far away from the oysters as I possibly could. Oysters I could handle, but I’d told Carter that I didn’t want any part of caviar, no matter how highbrow, how sophisticated it was to chow down on fish eggs. But he’d insisted, as if he had any right to tell me what to put in my mouth. Since he was paying and I didn’t want to show my butt in front of all these stuffy people, I finally agreed. If he wanted to throw away his money, who was I to tell him not to?

“So, tell me all the great things that Chyanne told you about me.”

It was a ridiculous request, but a rhetorical one as well, because he never even took enough of a breath for me to get in a word. He just kept on about all the things he was sure Chyanne had told me.

Chyanne Monroe. My best friend. I was going to kill her!

“Oh, Skye, I have the perfect guy for you,” she’d told me last week. “Carter Wellington. He’s so cute!”

Cute he was. It was everything else about the arrogant, self-centered man that was driving me crazy. I couldn’t figure it out; what had I done to Chyanne—my best friend, who was really more like my sister—to deserve this?

“I’m sure Chyanne told you that I was just promoted to partner, and that is no small feat at a company such as Bailey, Booker, and Smith.”

I didn’t have to say a word; Carter just went on. It was amazing, really, that he still had so much to say, since he’d been talking like this from the moment I stepped out of the cab.

When the cab had first stopped in front of Ocean Blue, I’d been impressed that Carter was standing right there. He’d opened the door for me, given the driver a twenty, even though the ride hadn’t even hit ten dollars on the meter, and then he’d given me one of those Sunday church hugs, where our pelvises were miles apart.

Impressive was the word that came to my mind. But I wasn’t surprised. It was my fifth date . . . on point, remember?

But right there, in those thirty seconds, that was when the good part of the date ended.

“You really are a lovely girl,” Carter had complimented me as we stood at the bar, waiting for our table. He nodded as if he approved of the tight navy blue dress that I’d carefully chosen to wear tonight.

But then, when his eyes did a slow crawl up my body, then down again, it began to feel old man creepy. I’d crossed my arms in front of my body, trying to hide myself, until Carter finally looked me in my eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Lovely. And that’s important for a man like me because of how handsome I am.”

What?

He went on. “You know, if I weren’t a top attorney, I would be a top model—the male kind, of course.” And then he chuckled, as if he’d said something funny.

I just stared at him.

From that point on, he talked. Even as they escorted us to our table, in the exclusive restaurant that sat only twenty-six, he talked. As we settled, he talked. As they brought our drinks, he talked. As the waiter tried to take our orders, he talked.

We were only eating our appetizers and I already knew that the native New Yorker came from a long line of talkers—he was a sixth-generation attorney who had attended the best private schools from kindergarten; had graduated at the top of every class, in every school; just missed being president of the Harvard Law Review by a few votes; and was now well on his way to having Wellington added to the masthead of the law firm where he’d worked since graduating from Harvard seven years ago.

When Carter began his soliloquy on his early days at the law firm, I let my mind wander. If he was just at his first day at his job, he had many more years to go and I needed to fill my mind with happy thoughts.

But it was hard to—because across from me sat that man who’d become so typical of my New York dating experience.

New York—the concrete jungle where dreams were made of.

I’d come to the city with my fair share of dreams. My career was first, of course. One day I was going to be a world-renowned designer. But that didn’t mean that I wanted to conquer the fashion world alone. I wanted a man by my side, someone who I could relate to, someone who I could spend this marvelous life with.

But meeting that special someone was much more difficult than getting into New York Fashion Week without any connections. Maybe I shouldn’t say “meeting,” because, truly, meeting, getting together, hooking up was quite easy in New York. There were plenty of guys to meet, to date, if you wanted to do that forever.

My challenge was that I didn’t want to just date around; I wanted to meet someone who wasn’t a tool. But there were a bunch of tools running around New York. Take my first date, Darren: He was tall, dark, and built, which I expected since I met him at the gym. He was hard not to notice, especially when his skin glistened with perspiration after bench-pressing two hundred and twenty pounds. That, by itself, was a turn-on.

The first week, I watched him, and then, in week two, we watched each other. After all that wordless flirting, he stepped to me and asked me out. I happily accepted.

We went to a little pizza place down in the Village, which was cool with me because I wanted to get to know all parts of the city. The restaurant was quaint and romantic . . . and it was also the place where Darren had the best of times with his ex.

“This is where we met,” he told me.

I didn’t know what to say. I tried to change the subject, asked him how long he’d been working out.

He replied, “Six years. It was Shaunte, my ex, who got me started.”

By the time we left that restaurant, I knew everything about Shaunte, except for her Social Security number.

After that, I changed my workout times.

Then there was Kevin.

Ah, Kevin, the model—underwear model, to be exact. So, you know he had it going on. We bonded one day in the Starbucks line, when he asked me where I worked and was so impressed that I was a designer. By the time we both had our drinks, he had asked me out and I was thrilled.

“Let’s do this, like, tomorrow,” he said, as if he couldn’t wait to see me again. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

The next day we had our date—at Starbucks! I sucked it up because, you know, he was a starving artist, sort of, and I certainly understood that. But right when I started sipping my Chai Tea Latte, Kevin whipped out his portfolio. He flipped through the pages of him in various poses—with underwear, without underwear, clothed, half clothed.

I watched, in shock and awe. I mean, we were right across the street from my job. I didn’t want anyone to walk in and think that I was looking at porno.

Right when I was ready to ask him why he was showing me all of this, Kevin popped out, “So, can you hook a bruh up? I mean, I’m so much better than just showing off what I’ve got, you know what I’m sayin’?”

I was as stiff as a board, not wanting to look to my left or my right. I just kept praying that no one would recognize me and see that I was looking at this big-ass black case filled with naked pictures. Okay, yeah, not all of them were naked, but there were enough full frontals for a full spread—pun intended—in Playgirl.

“So,” Kevin said, pressing me, even though I still sat stunned. “Can you help me out? I mean, you do all those runway shows, right?”

The only thing he could do for me was not come after me when I stood up and ran out that door.

I was gun-shy after that. But then I met Evan Morris.

Okay, so who wouldn’t be affected by the star running back for the New York Jets?

I met Evan at an NFL fund-raiser for autism. Leigh Carrera, a well-connected party promoter whom Devin met a few months ago, had gotten our whole crew into this event. Evan was speaking when we walked into the room, and I was drawn in by the way he talked from his heart about his autistic niece. He quoted statistics, telling the crowd that one in every one thousand children is autistic. When he finished, I was one of the people on my feet, applauding his sincerity and commitment to such a worthy cause.

As the crowd mingled, he’d walked right up to me. I was shocked by the fact that, first of all, my girls and I stood out in this crowd of fabulous people, and then that Evan was most interested in me. For the next two hours he gave me all his attention, and we just talked, about everything from school to our careers, to both being new to the city. Before the night was over, he had my number, and two days after that we had a date.

All thoughts of every other guy I’d ever known in my whole life went totally out of my mind the moment Evan sent a driver, complete with the hat, to my front door. The driver, Marcus, helped me into a shiny Escalade and then took me for the twenty-five-minute ride outside of the city.

Yes, I’d agreed to go to Evan’s home, but he’d convinced me that it was difficult for him to go out and enjoy a private dinner because of who he was. That made sense to me.

“And, I really want to get to know you, Skye,” he’d explained.

That made even more sense.

On the ride to his home, it was hard not to snuggle into the soft leather and think about what was ahead. Last night Evan had called, put me on the phone with his chef, who asked me what my favorite foods were; then Evan got back on the telephone and promised me a night to remember.

I couldn’t wait.

It had started out like the dream I’d expected it to be. Drinks in the massive living room, followed by dinner served at the twelve-seat dining room table, where Evan and I sat next to each other.

The whole time the ambiance was perfect; old-school Luther played in the background, the company was amazing, the conversation was stimulating, and this man was nothing but a gentleman. I was really feelin’ Evan, and that was why when he leaned over and kissed me, it was all good, until he took my hand and lifted me from the sofa.

I asked him, “Where are we going?”

“To the bedroom,” he whispered, “for dessert.” Then he winked at me.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said, pulling away from him, “but I’m not dessert.”

Why did I say that? That perfect gentleman turned straight into the boogeyman. I swear, that man’s head started spinning, and he started talking about how I had to be crazy. Didn’t I know why he’d invited me to his home?

Now, it wasn’t just because I was a pastor’s kid that I wasn’t going to jump into bed with this fool. My father and I didn’t agree on too many things, but what happened on the first date was one place where the reverend and I were in accord.

That date ended up costing me a fortune, because there was no driver to take me home. And since it was too far to walk, I had to ask Evan to call me a cab. I was steaming through every mile of that seventy-five-dollar ride back into the city.

Oh, yeah, I was hot! But unfortunately, I wasn’t hot enough to give up. Because next came Melvin. . . .

There really wasn’t much to say about the guy I bumped into at the dry cleaners, because when we got into the movie theater for our first date and the lights went down, his hand went straight for my blouse. I tossed my box of popcorn over his head and ran out of there as if someone had just yelled, “Fire!”

But even after all that, all those hell dates, I was here with Carter because I had faith in my lucky number.

Carter broke through my thoughts. “So, Skye,” he began, “I guess you’re kind of quiet.”

Uh, no! It was just that I didn’t believe in two people talking at the same time. And since he’d talked through our appetizers and entrées, there hadn’t been room for me.

“No,” I said, finally answering him. “I’m generally not this quiet.” I hoped he’d get the hint.

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “I understand,” he said gently and knowingly. “You were just so fascinated with what I had to say. That happens to me all the time.”

Fail! Major fail!

This fool had to be kidding me.

“Would you like to order dessert?” the bow-tied waiter asked.

“Yes,” Carter said.

“No,” I said at the same time.

We looked at each other.

He’d won the appetizer battle, but there was no way I was giving in this time. I needed to get away fast, and I had the perfect escape plan.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you before. I have an early call in the morning. A photo shoot. I have to be on the set before six a.m.”

“Oh.”

“And you understand. . . .” I waved my hands toward my face. “I need my beauty sleep.”

“No,” he said, as if I’d really expected him to answer that question. “I don’t understand. I don’t need any kind of sleep to look this way. But if you do . . .”

Somebody needed to slap this man. But since I wasn’t into violence, it wasn’t going to be me. Instead, I was just going to get out of there.

The check hadn’t even come, and I was already standing up.

“Well, at least wait and let me walk you out,” he said.

“No, that’s no problem at all,” I said. “I can catch a cab right out there.”

He looked as if he was unsure; at least he was that much of a gentleman. But then something caught his attention at the bar. I followed his gaze to the woman he’d made eye contact with. At any other time, with any other man, I would’ve been pissed. But this time I wanted to walk over to the woman and tell her to take my seat.

I just gave him a short hug when he stood. I resisted the urge to thank him for nothing and thanked him for dinner instead. I almost jogged out of the place.

It was almost ten o’clock, but this was New York and Fifth Avenue was lit up like the middle of the day. Dozens of cabs zoomed past, and I only had to take a few steps to the curb before a yellow cab stopped.

I was already dialing Chyanne’s number before I’d even given the driver my address. When he pulled away from the curb, I pressed the phone to my ear.

I didn’t curse, but I was about to cuss my best friend out for real!

I was halfway between apologizing and laughing my butt off.

“I don’t even think he knows my name.” Skye was still huffing through the phone.

“He never stopped talking!”

“I’m so sorry.” I giggled.

“Oh, you think this is funny?”

Okay, it wasn’t often that Skye got upset, especially with me. So, I backed up, swallowed my laughter, and apologized again. “I really thought he would be good, Skye. I mean, he seemed to be a decent guy, and he’s a rising star in the corporate law department.”

“I know . . . he told me.”

I had to work hard to keep my laughter inside. Taking a breath, I said, “I guess I should have vetted him some more.” And then, because I wanted to change the energy, I added, “Forgive me?”

I knew I had her then. Those two words—forgive me—were the pass that got all of us out of all kinds of trouble.

“Well, I will accept your apology on one condition.” She paused, as if she was waiting for me to ask her what was the condition. But I wasn’t going to say a word; I needed a moment so that the next time I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t still be laughing. Skye said, “You are never, ever, as long as you are black, allowed to set me up on a date.”

“As long as I’m black? That’s a long time,” I said, wanting so badly to bust out.

But when Skye added, “I’m serious, Chy,” I agreed.

I didn’t mean to be laughing at my best friend this way—it was just that the way she described the date was hilarious, though I’m not sure it was any funnier than those other dates she’d had lately. Skye really needed to consider doing a dating reality show, and after she calmed down a little, I was going to talk to her about that, because what she was going through could make The Real Housewives of Atlanta look like a serious documentary. Really, though, reality shows and all other kidding aside, all I wanted was for my bestie to find the happiness that I’d found.

“Chyanne!” The voice called me from my bedroom.

Speaking of my happiness, I said to Skye, “I promise I won’t set you up on another date.” Turning the conversation serious, I added, “But I won’t have to, because I know that God has someone for you. He’s just making him get right, and when he does, that man is going to walk right into your life.”

“You’re sure, huh?” Skye asked me.

“Positive.”

“Is he going to be cute or rich?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“That he lets me get a word in edgewise,” she said, referring to her date with Carter.

This time Skye laughed with me.

“Chyanne!”

“Coming, Malcolm,” I yelled out. To Skye, I said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard. Go take care of your man.”

“I will, girl. Love you.”

“Mean it,” she said, completing our own little special good-bye.

The moment I hung up the phone, my bedroom door opened and Malcolm, my happiness, strolled into the living room, wearing nothing more than a towel and a smile.

I sighed as he slipped his hands beneath my silk robe, which was barely closed, and embraced me. His torso and shoulders still gleamed from the shower he’d just taken. Or maybe it wasn’t the water—maybe it was our lovemaking that had his skin, his torso, and shoulders glistening. Either way, he looked good to me. I held my breath as his embrace tightened. Was my baby ready for round number three?

“How’s Skye?” he asked me, finally backing away.

“She’s cool.” It wasn’t that I was lying to Malcolm; it was just that I didn’t want to waste time talking about a date that was a bust. I stood on my toes to kiss him. It was the only way my lips were going to reach his, since he was six foot two. I wanted him to change the subject. I wanted, badly, to get this man to take me back to bed.

The kiss was much too short for me. And then came the dreaded words. “Okay, I’m going to get out of here.”

He twisted to turn away, but I held him back. “No, baby. Stay.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. “I want you to stay the whole night.”

Gently, he pried my fingers away from him, one by one; then, without saying a word, he tracked into my bedroom. I was ready to make my argument, but he. . .