Page 47 of Can't Get Enough

“I really don’t care.” She stands and walks toward the door. “Don’t forget your favorite housewife is calling at noon after your meeting with the network.”

Technically Imani Jo is an ex-wife, but the drama surrounding her divorce from the NFL player is what landed her on the show in the first place.

“We’re just back-to-back today.” I press my fingers to my temples, preemptively massaging the pain Imani always gives my head. A pain in my ass, too. “I’ll be ready. Could you close the door? I need to focus on the contract we’re discussing before this call.”

I dig into the details and red line the changes we need to make to the agreement. Changes the network must have known I would demand.

“Y’all really tried it, though.” I chew the tip of my pen and shake my head. “Playing in my face and pissing me off. Oh, I’m ’bout to get this bag for real.”

My phone screen lights up on my desk with an incoming text. I nearly drop the pen when I read Maverick’s name.

My fingers creep toward the phone like it might bite me if I get too close too fast. I slide the phone to the edge of the desk so I can read the message.

Maverick:Thought these might be of interest to you.

My breath hitches when I see it’s a link to in-person Alzheimer’s support groups in the Atlanta area.

Maverick:I know you said you’d be staying in Charlotte while your aunt recovers from her surgery, so here’s a list ofvirtual ones I found, too. My mom did those when she didn’t feel like going out.

I stare at the message, at his name. My fingers freeze around the phone, tightening with the effort of not hurling it across the room to get it as far away from me as I can. To gethimas far away from me as I can. I cannot bond with him this way. I can’t connect to him. Like each conversation, each text message is a thread strung between us that slowly, inexorably pulls me closer. It’s not his chest, ripped and muscled. Not that dark gold of his skin or that protractor-perfect jawline. It’s not his wealth or power. His kindness, his consideration, his caring is the lure. I’ve been on plenty of dates where men pretended to listen long enough to get in my bed, but probably couldn’t tell you one real thing about me beyond that I have a glamorous job and give good head.

This is not that. I know it’s not.

Maverick:You may see this message later. I know you’re busy. It’s not hard information to find, but sometimes when we have a lot going on, we just don’t occur to ourselves. And a friend sending you something you could have easily found on your own prompts you to act.

A line of bubbles starts and stops on the screen, and it’s hard to envision this powerful man unsure of the next thing to say, but I sense that in this, whatever bond we’ve formed in just a few conversations and text messages, he’s as uncertain how to safely govern this as I am.

Maverick:I know friends is a stretch since we’ve only been face-to-face twice, but I’m familiar with what you’re navigating and am here if you need anything.

I caress the screen, moved by his sincerity, but firm my lips and straighten my shoulders.

Me: Thank you so much for this. I’m going into a meeting, but wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Have a good one.

Thathave a good oneis how I shut shit down. That’s my exit line and signals I’m done with this for now. I have to be done with this… with him for now. Maybe for good.

The way he made me feel Saturday night is dangerous. Not just the way his eyes flowed over my body, or the way I could feel him watching me throughout the event. There has been something inordinately intimate about every conversation we’ve had, even though there haven’t been many. He has managed to peel a layer back each time, exposing what only a few people ever get to see.

I have goals. One of them is to EP my first show, Chapel’s show. Moving into television and film is the next phase of my career, and I’m not squandering this opportunity, ruining it for a man who makes my heart race. I’ve seen too many women prioritize other people and sacrifice their own dreams. I see mothers do it all the time, further solidifying it couldn’t be me. I’ve seen wives do it. I saw Soledad do it for years with her gutter-rat husband, Edward. Hell, I saw Mama do it with my father, neglecting many of the things she wanted to do for her small business to help him with his. I won’t be led around by my heart and my pussy with some man holding the leash.

I take the screen dark, putting the phone away without waiting for his reply. My goals are the priority.

Nothing will make me lose sight of that.

My desk phone buzzing breaks the quiet of my resolve.

“Yeah, Skipper?”

“Got the network on the line,” she says over speaker.

Sons of bitches trying to get over on my client.

“The hell you say,” I mutter under my breath and press the button to pick up the call. “Gentlemen, let’s discuss this contract.”

By the end of the call, my blood pressure is probably through theroof, but I’ve gotten most of what I want. Some things they won’t budge on and I can’t blame them. Imani thinks that her on-screen diva persona works everywhere, but I got a wake-up call for her. It doesn’t always work in the boardroom.

“So did you shove it all the way up their ass?” Imani asks when I call after the network conversation. “That ridiculous offer?”

“It got pretty far up the ass,” I answer breezily. “Not far up enough to feel good.”

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