Page 68 of Lovers' Dance: Vol. 2

I did not blush, nor did I secretly titter. I was a newly married woman and although Harris Norbert could give my Dante a run for his money in the looks department, he’d better not be searching for any wedding poontang. Everyone knew that went down at weddings, of course, maybe this wedding was different, it was filled with people from the top wealth 1 percentile. Maybe they – I caught a glimpse of a tipsy man trying to feel up some unamused woman. Ha. No poontang for him.

But back to Mr Harris Norbert, aka tall-drink-of-chocolate. I shook his hand firmly.

“Madison DuMont and I don’t drink actually.” So I lied and shit, I forgot to tack the Bradley on my surname. Sue me. He was black, I was black; I wanted to make a good impression. Show him that I represented our people. I was cultured, classy, looking damned good in my dress and heels; and my hair wasn’t as shiny as his but the up-do was my own version of salon sleek sophistication. What hair products did he use? Was it just for men or could I get in on it?

“Ah,” He eyed his own half-drunk flute of champagne before hiding it behind his back. “Neither do I.”

I laughed, ok, it was more of a giggly chuckle. Damn it. Did I just allow a flirtatious moment? No, no, this was building solidarity.

“So bride’s side or groom’s?” he queried.

“Both,” I quipped and reached up to smooth a non-existent stray of hair over my left ear, with my left hand. He spotted the rock and band and I felt much more at ease over forgetting my recently elongated surname. “What about you? Bride or groom?”

“Groom,” he replied then cocked his head at me. “I sincerely hope you don’t take offense, but from the accent you’re obviously American. What on earth are you doing over here?”

The Gravitational Force of Blackness. It was an amazing thing. When numbers were low, the sight of another like you sparked the pull. Slowly eyeing each other before risking the tentative seek and bond process. Solidarity in numbers. It was something I hadn’t really paid attention to prior to meeting Matt. London was very multicultural, but it was becoming more and more difficult for me to forget the overall percentage of black people in the UK was a mere 3-5%; other minorities did a touch better. It was completely different from the States, and where my daily life was filled with seeing and interacting with people of many backgrounds, my life when itintersected Matt’s did not. The wealth barrier at his level was almost impenetrable, and that made me sad.

“I’m actually English, but fostering good international relations is my game,” I quipped back. “My aim is world peace and inventing the best hot sauce known to mankind.”

Harris choked on a laugh, eyes widening in disbelief. This was my attempt at showing him I was funny too. I had to impress him before he realized I wasn’t one of them. That I didn’t truly belong. Was it messed up that I felt the need to impress him? This was messed up on so many different levels.

“So you work for the UN?” he queried dryly. “And what exact ingredients are you planning on putting in this hot sauce?”

“Trade secret, I can’t tell you that.” I replied with a grin.

He eyed me for a second then returned my smile. “Well, I’m a hedge fund manager based in Dubai.”

I was certain my eyebrows had merged with my hairline. Damn it. For sure we had nothing in common other than skin tone. “That’s sounds-”

“Completely boring,” he cut me off with a shrug. “I’m more interested in this hot sauce idea of yours.”

Again I tucked imaginary loose hair over my ear, yes, with my bejewelled left hand. There would be no misunderstanding here. No poontang on offer, just the desperate wish to not feel like a racial quota being filled. If there were more than one, then it wasn’t really a token black situation.

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” I replied with cheek.

Harris laughed again, finally bringing his flute from behind his back to take a sip. “I thought you wanted world peace. Threatening murder doesn’t lend to world peace.”

And fragile solidarity was forming. Yay! Soon enough Harris and I were embroiled in a discussion about the advantages and disadvantages of living somewhere other than your home country.

It was wrong, the way I automatically allowed myself to feel at ease with him. He was no different to the majority of people here tonight, highly educated and extremely wealthy. But where I would unconsciously be on guard with someone else, I wasn’t with him. He was black. Shit. Did that make me racist? Reverse racism wasn’t an actual thing.

“Harris?”

I turned at the sound of Matt’s incredulous voice, so did Harris. And his face split into a wide beam.

“Good grief, Matt.” Harris exclaimed. “It’s good to see you.”

My gaze roved over Matt’s features as he closed the distance between us. He had a glass in his hand and I was certain he’d been imbibing more alcohol during his time away from my side. A vigorous hand shake took place between them and I kept my blinking to a minimum. Was I slightly shocked? Yes. Did I want to delve into the reason I was shocked? No.

“God. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? How long are you in London for?” Matt asked cheerily.

“I fly out the day after tomorrow.” Harris advised. “Couldn’t miss Nathan’s wedding. I still can’t quite believe he’s done it.”

Matt turned to smile at me then. It was one of his panty soaking smiles.

“Where are my manners?” Harris shook his head in self-reproach as he waved his now empty flute from Matt to me. “Matthew Bradley meet Madison DuMont.”

Matt arched an eyebrow and beckoned me over. “I know who she is, and it’s Bradley, not DuMont.”

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