Page 14 of Cause When You Love Someone
Before I could reach the porch, the front door opened. A round woman dressed in all black, except for a floral apron, smiled from the doorway.
“Mr. Harden?” She recited my name with a heavy country accent.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to see Ms. Rose.”
She snickered. “You’re here to seeMrs. Rose. Follow me.”
As soon as I entered the house, the comforting aroma of fresh coffee met me in the foyer. A dual staircase filled my sight, along with a bunch of fixtures. There was so much going on that it was hard to appreciate the worth of the framed art and statues.
The lady in the apron spun around and asked, “Would you like something to eat? Drink? A refreshment?”
“No, thank you. I’d like to get down to business.”
As the words left my lips, a woman I could describe as a gazelle started down a long staircase.
“A man that doesn’t mince words. I like that better than the motorcycle.”
She looked me up and down once her heels were on solid ground. I extended my hand to offer a handshake, but she dismissed the gesture.
“Are you ready to start the interview?” I asked in a rush.
She smirked. “One second. We’re getting to it.”
Like a lioness stalking her prey, Mrs. Rose circled me, occasionally squeezing my biceps and shoulders in the process. When her hand journeyed to my earlobes, I stepped out of reach.
“Hold on. You’re doing too much.”
“Yes, she is.”The raspy voice that interrupted the uncomfortable interaction was like music to my ears. I rotated my vision from the inappropriate cougar and eyed the familiar face.
“Mom, if you’re going to make him your new boy toy, you can at least learn a little bit about him.”
“Clarke, shut up. Green doesn’t look good on you.”
“Every color looks good on me.” She sidestepped the older lady and extended her reach out to me. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Clarke Rose.”
Clarke is a pretty name.
“Ishmael Harden. We’ve met before.”
One of her brows rose to the high ceiling. “When? I meet a lot of people every day.”
“It’s not important.” Her mother shoved her back, causing Clarke to stumble.
“Am I supposed to protect her from everyone or just the public?” I asked when the thought landed.
Clarke’s slit-eyed gaze grew wide, but Mrs. Rose plastered on a smile.
“Follow me,” the head honcho declared.
Her heels clinked against the freshly waxed floor as she strutted down the hallway. She twisted her hips extra hard, seemingly trying to capture my attention, yet I peered over my shoulder at Clarke.
Unlike the first time we crossed paths, she was dressed down in a black one-piece made of spandex, and her hair was braided in two French braids.
We entered an office covered in brown walls and decked out in leather furniture. Mrs. Rose ordered me to sit in the seat in front of her desk. I checked my surroundings and watched Clarke sit on the couch on the other side of the room.
“All right, Mr. Harden,” Mrs. Rose started. “Before we get down to the important things, tell me about yourself.”
“What do you need to know?”
