Page 17 of Cause When You Love Someone
“I agree. If I stick around, you’re going to be the death of me.”
Blotches of red ambushed her high cheeks as if I offered a compliment. “I may be able to bring a little spice in your life.”
“No, thank you,” I replied, then stepped back.
Clarke’s focus went to her jeweler when he reappeared with four velvet cases in his grasp. When he peeled the top back on the boxes, diamonds and emerald stones danced under the overhead lights. From afar, I studied every piece of jewelry Clarke picked up. The bust-down necklace was predictable, but the diamond-encrusted ballet slipper charm piqued my interest. Most of the pieces looked like they were for women, yet a watch I’d seen on one of my club brothers was amongst the bunch. The idea of it being a gift for the nigga who had her drowning in her skin earlier almost made me snatch it from her.
“Darwin, I don’t know about this one. That idiot doesn’t deserve a new watch.” She grunted and closed the case.
“It’s already paid in full, beautiful. Take it home and give it to your next man.”
I shook my head at the awful advice and stepped forward to retrieve her bags. The rigidity between us didn’t stop me from being a gentleman.
As soon as we returned to the truck, I noticed Clarke sitting in the back seat with her full lips balled up.
“You didn’t have to purchase the watch,” I suggested. “I know a store like that has a decent return policy. You should’ve given it back.”
“It’s not your place to tell me how to spend my money.”
“I wasn’t telling you how to spend your money. I was reminding you to watch how you spread your kindness. People don’t deserve it simply because you share a bed or bloodline.”
Her vision coasted down to her phone. “Why do you care?”
The quiver in her voice made me tune her out instead of responding. I had already spoken out of turn, and I didn’t want to extend guidance I wouldn’t accept from a stranger.
We made it back to her mom’s house faster than we got to our destination. Clarke rushed out the door, but I took mytime. Truthfully, I thought about getting on my bike and leaving without saying a word. The only thing that anchored my steps into the big house was the idea that I would pass up twenty bands because I had to work with a spoiled brat.
“Ishmael.” Clarke approached me with a brazen grin. “We appreciate you interviewing, but I don’t believe we’re a good fit. I’m actually positive this shit won’t work.”
Her mother entered the room, peering over a teacup. “I beg to differ. If he’s pissed you off to the point where you’re walking around with your hands balled into fists, he must’ve checked you on being reckless. That’s what I like to hear.” She spun around to me. “Mr. Harden, I have a file ready with everything you need to know about Clarke and my expectations. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
Chapter 4
Clarke
Thang 4 U
Years in the limelight made me oblivious to eyes on me, but it was nearly impossible to ignore Ishmael’s presence. I damn near begged my mom to continue the interview process after he left, but my pleas were met with rejection. Part of me believed she only hired him to spite me. I made it clear when we returned from Darwin’s spot that I didn’t like Ishmael, and she thought it was funny. Truth be told, I didn’t know if he liked me either. A week ago, he escorted me to a video shoot where I made a cameo, and I could count on one hand how many times he spoke.
Earlier, I watched Ishmael read his book as the glam team worked on me. His fitted black collar shirt clung to his biceps, and his dimples came into view every time he moved his lips.
Like the last time we were together, he didn’t speak much. He really didn’t have to. His six-foot-five stature demanded attention, and his indifferent expression spoke volumes. My mom believed Ishmael was clean-cut, but glasses and chill demeanor aside, I knew a sinner when I saw one.
“Right here, Clarke!” Poochie yelled from behind the camera. “Give me something fierce! Give me something sexy!”
I shut my eyes, disappointed at the idea that I couldn’t deliver. The beauty shoot was our third look for the day, the only one that didn’t include props that could drown out my dead eyes.
Poochie pinched the bridge of his nose and dropped his camera by his waist. “Clarke, I don’t know what’s making you so uptight, but it’s showing on your face. That means it’ll show in the photos. I thought you were comfortable with turning this into a solo shoot.”
I huffed, knowing he was referring to my decision to complete the photoshoot without Chaz. “I’m sorry, Poochie. I don’t know what’s going on with me.”
The slender photographer combed his fingers through his hair and plastered on a grin I could see through. “All right. Let’s try something. I want you to think of the sexiest man you’ve ever seen.”
Before I could catch myself, my stare shifted to Ishmael, who stood a few feet behind Poochie. In a ripple, the handful of people on set followed the route of my gaze. Though my cheeks burned with embarrassment, Ishmael seemed unfazed by the attention. Even with all eyes on him, he kept his concentration on me as he stroked the holster wrapped around his shoulders.
“All right, Whitney Houston!” Poochie called out. “I want you to take a second and envision yourself in the arms of the sexiest man you know. Move that body how you would move it if only he was watching.”
I shut my eyes, falling into a space that only included me and a man who smelled like citrus and mint. He could be dismissive, but for right now, I would make my bodyguard my muse.
