Page 11 of The Black Wife Blessing

"She's my fiancée," I blurt out, which makes all the ladies in this room flinch.

The silence that follows my declaration feels like a physical weight. Monica's wrist tenses under my fingers, and I loosen my grip but don't let go. Mother's face cycles through several expressions - shock, confusion, and finally settling on something between outrage and disbelief.

"I beg your pardon?" Mother's voice comes out strangled.

Lola's perfectly made-up face twists. "You're engaged? To the help?" She spits the last word like poison.

"Watch yourself." Ice coats my words. I know I just met her, but considering how happy she's made me feel during our brief conversation, I won't let someone like Lola Sinclair minimize her.

"This is absurd." Lola shakes her head indignantly as she spins around. "I can't believe you wasted my time, Catherine." The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the break room's cheap venetian blinds.

"Henry." Mother's lips press into a thin line. "We will discuss this later. At length." She hurries after Lola, but pauses at the door. "And I expect answers. Real ones."

The door closes again, softer this time. I drop Monica's wrist and run a hand through my hair.

"I'm so sorry about that. I didn't mean to drag you into?—"

A snort cuts me off.

Monica's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. "Fiancée?" Her eyes dance with amusement. "That's what you went with?"

"It was the first thing that came to mind." Heat creeps up my neck and my collar suddenly feels too tight. "I couldn't let her steamroll over you like that. You didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire of Blackwood family politics."

"So you decided to promote me from 'just a chef' straight to future Mrs. Blackwood?" She raises an eyebrow, those brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Talk about a career advancement. Do I get dental with that?"

"Look, I panicked, okay?" But her laughter is infectious, and I find myself grinning despite the clusterfuck I've just created. "Mother's been trying to set me up with society princesses for as long as I can remember. You should've seen the last one - brought her own wine critic to dinner. The guy actually spit into a fucking bucket at Eleven Madison Park. We got asked to leave."

"And now you've gone and disappointed poor Lola Sinclair of the Napa Valley Sinclairs." Monica wipes at her eyes, still chuckling. "Your mother looked ready to faint. I thought she might actually clutch her pearls like in those old movies. Does this mean I should start practicing my society laugh? You know—" She demonstrates a delicate, obviously fake titter that somehow makes this whole disaster seem hilarious.

I shake my head, unable to stop grinning at her ability to find humor in this disaster. "Thanks for being such a good sport about all this. Most people would've stormed out after that shitshow."

"Please. Your mother thinking I'm engaged to you is the least of my problems tonight." Monica reaches into her chef coat pocket and pulls out a sleek business card. "Here. You should probably have my contact info, seeing as we're getting married and all." She hands it over with a wink.

My fingers brush against hers as I take the card. The elegant script reads 'Monica West - Executive Chef' with her phone number and email below. The cardstock is thick, professional - a stark contrast to the playful glint in her eyes.

"I better get back before my team thinks I've abandoned them." She adjusts her chef coat and picks at the bandage on her hand. "Those lamb chops won't plate themselves."

I watch her move toward the door, struck by how she commands attention without even trying. The confidence in her stride, the way her curls escape that messy bun, the flash of her smile as she glances back one last time before disappearing into the hallway.

Looking down at her card between my fingers, I know with absolute certainty that I can't let this be our only interaction. Not just because I've royally fucked myself by claiming she's my fiancée in front of Mother - though that's definitely going to come back to bite me in the ass. No, there's something aboutMonica West that makes me want to know more. The way she handled Mother's snobbery with grace. How she laughed instead of getting angry. The spark I felt every time our eyes met.

I slip her card into my wallet, right behind my driver's license where I won't lose it. Mother will be hunting me down any minute now, demanding explanations I don't have. But all I can think about is when I'll see Monica again.

9

MONICA

The foam in my latte swirls into abstract patterns as I stir, lost in thought about Henry Blackwood's text from this morning. My phone sits face-up on the cafe table, displaying his message: "Need to discuss something important. Meet at Cafe Luna at 2?"

The memory of Leo's birthday party makes me shake my head and grin. The way Henry had blurted out we were engaged to his mother - the sheer panic in his eyes. For someone so polished and put-together, watching him flounder had been oddly endearing.

I check my reflection in the cafe window. My curls are behaving today, thank God, though I had to fight them into submission this morning. The breeze outside sends leaves skittering across the sidewalk.

Those piercing blue eyes of his flash through my mind again. The way his whole face lights up when he smiles. That perfectly tailored suit he wore at the party. I bite my lip, trying to focus on more practical matters. Maybe he needs catering for another event? That would be incredible exposure for my business.

"Get it together, Monica," I mutter into my coffee. "He's way out of your league."

But that doesn't stop me from remembering how his hand felt in mine before his mother barged in on us in the break room, or the way his cologne smelled when he leaned in close. The fake engagement thing should be awkward, but somehow it just makes me laugh. The whole situation is ridiculous - like something out of a rom-com.

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