Page 12 of Can't Get Enough

“Under the right circumstances, I can dance, but mostly… don’t.”

“And what constitutes the right circumstances?”

“Oh, I’ll know it when I see it.”

We’re not exactly flirting, but I feel completely focused on him right now. Like the whole party is a blur in my periphery and this man has come into sharp focus ever since he sat his fine ass down beside me. There is a current running through our light conversation. It buzzes beneath my skin and disrupts my composure. My belly flips every time he flashes that smile full of white teeth and charisma. I can’t physically feel the heat of his body, but my cheeks get warmer the longer our eyes hold. Melanin hides my blush, but there is no hiding from the feeling. The way my breath shallows when he slants a look over to me. The way my fingers tremble just the tiniest bit around the stem of the glass at the deep rumble of his voice.

This man…shit.

We’ve spent all of two minutes together and already… he could get it? A hard maybe. On vibes and looks alone, not that I select partners based on superficial things, but… those lips and eyes and the bones. The hard curve of his biceps and that bitable tendon stretching up his neck.

And the all-caps SWAGGER on this dude.

Damn. You don’t often meet men like this in real life. I might have to pinch myself to wake up from this wet dream sitting in front of me.

“What do you do?” I ask, not sure if I’m actually curious or just searching for something that will keep the two of us right here a little longer.

He narrows his eyes, studying me as if trying to gauge if that’s a serious question.

“Uh… business, investments,” he says after a small pause.

“Investments.” I take a sip of my drink. “I’m kind of in business and investments, too.”

“Really?” He quirks a brow. “How so?

“Well, I’m a talent manager. One of my clients is here tonight, but in addition to running my management firm, a few of my sorors and I started a venture capital fund focused on Black women–led businesses.”

“That’s fantastic.” His gaze sharpens with interest. “What’s the fund called?”

“It’s the Aspire Fund. We’re about six years into our first funding cycle and we’re raising our second fund now.”

“Going well?”

“Oh, very.”

“Impressive. What made you want to get involved with that?”

I circle the rim of my glass with one almond-shaped nail, following the motion instead of meeting his eyes.

“My mother. She’s a small business owner. She bakes cakes. Really, cupcakes, brownies, pastries—anything sweet and special, she does it.” I draw a sharp breath. “Well, she used to.”

Before he can dig into the past tense, I rush on.

“But it was always a struggle. It was never what it could have been. Maybe that was because she always put us before anything for herself—my dad and me. But it was also because there was never enough money to really do what she wanted to do. If she’d had a leg up like, resources and support, maybe we’d be buying her desserts at the grocery store today. She was that good.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Thank you. We also award grants to women starting businesses who may not be as far along in the process as our founders seeking larger investment. Not much, but it helps. We split our energy between the grants and the founders for venture capital.”

“You still need LPs?”

I blink, a little startled by the question. I’m often pitching and selling and persuading, but big investors don’t like to be schmoozed. I never do that at parties. I’m not used to someone just asking if we’re seeking limited partners.

“That wasn’t, like… a hint,” I tell him. “I wasn’t angling for you to get involved or anything.”

“I didn’t think you were.” He shrugs. “I get pitched a lot of stuff. Pretty much constantly, so I know when someone’s trying to get into my wallet, Hendrix.”

“I guess you…” My brain quickly computes a vital piece of information. “How do you know my name?”

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