Page 17 of The Black Wife Blessing

"A chef has to." Monica winks, and I swear the old bastard blushes.

Standing here, watching her work the room, something shifts inside me. This isn't just about appeasing my mother anymore. When Monica laughs at someone's joke, I find myself studying the curve of her neck. When she talks about food, I'm captivated by the passion in her voice.

"Your girl's quite the catch," George Preston mutters, appearing at my elbow with a fresh scotch. "Nothing like that vapid bunch you used to date."

I take a slow sip of my drink, unable to argue. Monica isn't like anyone I've dated before. She's real. Authentic. The kindof woman who can discuss million-dollar business deals one minute and argue about the best way to caramelize onions the next.

Fuck. This is dangerous territory. We have rules, boundaries. This arrangement is supposed to be simple - mutually beneficial and nothing more. But watching her tonight, I'm starting to wonder if I've already crossed a line I can't uncross.

Once the night comes to a close, I guide Monica toward the coat check, our hands still linked. The warmth of her palm against mine has become familiar over these past few days, and that's part of the problem. Everything about this arrangement is starting to feel too comfortable, too real.

"Your mother outdid herself tonight." Monica accepts her wrap from the attendant. "I've never seen so many different types of caviar in one place."

"Trust me, that's restraint for her. You should see what she does for Christmas."

The joke falls flat as I realize I'm already thinking about future events, planning ahead like we'll still be doing this song and dance far into the future. Like this isn't temporary.

We step out into the cool night air. The valets scramble to retrieve my car, but I'm in no rush to end the evening. Monica's perfume drifts on the breeze - something subtle and spicy that makes me want to lean closer.

"You were incredible in there." I turn to face her. "Even had old Russo eating out of your hand."

"Please. That was all about the wine knowledge. Though I think your mother's friend Mrs. Cheney actually wants to hire me as her personal chef."

"Don't you dare. She'd never let you leave."

Monica laughs, and the sound hits me right in the chest. When did her laugh start affecting me like this? When did I start counting the hours between our "appearances" together?This was supposed to be simple - show up at events, play the happy couple, keep my mother off my back about settling down. Instead, I find myself watching her when she's not looking, memorizing the way she moves, the expressions that cross her face.

The valet pulls up with my car, and I help Monica into the passenger seat. As I round the hood to the driver's side, reality crashes down. We're not just fooling my mother and her social circle anymore. I'm fooling myself if I think I can keep treating this like a business arrangement when every touch, every shared laugh, every goddamn moment pulls me deeper into something I never planned for.

The smart move would be to end it now, before either of us gets hurt. But as I slide behind the wheel and catch her smile in the dim light, I know I'm already past that point.

13

MONICA

After ducking through three alleyways and taking a deliberately confusing route, we've finally lost the persistent paparazzi who'd camped outside the restaurant for us. I knew getting fake-engaged with Henry was going to be crazy, but some of this stuff still manages to take my breath away.

"That was some quick thinking back there." Henry's shoulder brushes against mine as we walk, sending a warm tingle down my arm. "Using the kitchen exit."

"Occupational hazard. You learn all the escape routes when you work in restaurants." I toss my hair over my shoulder with a grin. "That, and how to dodge drunk customers on New Year's Eve."

The streetlights cast a warm glow across Henry's features, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. He runs a hand through his dark hair before sinking it into his pocket. I try not to stare at how the light catches in those blue eyes of his. This is fake, remember? Just business.

"Speaking of occupational hazards..." Henry pauses at a crosswalk, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the pavement. He hits the pedestrian button with his knuckle andturns to me with a mischievous smile. "Did I ever tell you about the time I nearly got fired from my first job in Europe?"

"No way. Mr. Perfect Businessman almost got fired?"

"Perfect?" He laughs, a deep sound that reverberates through the empty street. "My father had the same misconception when he was still alive. He wanted me to take over the family business straight out of college. Instead, I fucked off to Europe for four years."

The raw honesty in his voice makes me turn to study his face again. His blue eyes are distant, focused on some memory.

"My mother called every day for the first month. Said I was throwing away my legacy, my responsibility." He kicks a stray pebble. "But that job? Working my way up from nothing? First time I felt like my own person."

"What happened?"

"I accidentally sent an email criticizing our biggest client's taste to the client himself instead of my coworker." His lips quirk up. "Turned out the client appreciated my honesty. Became one of our strongest partnerships."

We turn down a quieter street lined with trees. Their leaves rustle overhead, creating dancing shadows on the pavement.

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