Page 49 of Not About That Life
Seven
“Have I told you how sexy you look with glasses?”
I’m trying to focus on buying some more property and I have my eye on an apartment building up for sale in Inglewood. Ian’s in the kitchen experimenting and we’re leaving each other be with only Luther Vandross’ “At Christmas Time” between us.
It’s like we fell into a tried and true routine – I do work while he’s cooking. Sometimes, it’s reversed. But it’s a familiarity I’ve longed for when my world seemed to change every few moments. Just a few years ago, I was a high school student. Just two years ago, I graduated from college.
Now I’m engaged to one of the world’s wealthiest men and creating my own empire.
In case the body and hair line doesn’t work out, I need something else to fall back on and what better thing to fall on than real estate.
“You’re the perfect distraction,” I say over the song. The room fills up with aromatic spices and I feel my stomach rumbling.
“You are damn sexy,” Ian calls out from the kitchen. “How’s the market research coming for your hair and body line?”
I’m not researching that, at least not yet. My focus is still on this dilapidated building. It’s rundown, going to cost a small fortune to repair before I can eventhinkabout renting it out to potential renters.
Yet, I’m in love.
I envision a lot I can do with the building. Freshly painted walls. New carpets and blinds. Nice appliances in the kitchens and bathrooms that don’t have cracked floors.
I send an email to Rasil and close that window. Now I can refocus on the researching for the hair and body line, though Emma has that covered. “It’s going well. The market is saturated, though. I don’t know how I’ll make an impact.”
“Try Etsy,” Ian suggests, “you might have more success there before you try the bigger markets.”
“You know what I just might do that.” I close the laptop and stretch. I have so much to do before our plane leaves for New York tonight. I should’ve been packed already but I’m nowhere near ready.
Then again, what does one pack when they’re about to go to one of the world’s finest BDSM clubs? Whips? Cat o’ nine tails? A ball gag? I mean, should I even pack any underwear at all?
“Angel, do you have a minute? I want you to try something.”
“Coming!” I love it when Ian test-drives dishes at home. I get to experience some of the world’s finest dishes that Ian sells for a price that’s probably someone’s rent or car payment and I get it for free. Love my talented bae.
I walk into the kitchen and I’m shocked, but not in a good way. I recognize the familiar scent of the oxtails and I sigh. Oxtails and BDSM? Sounds like a great combination to me.
“I’m testing a new appetizer at Sentiment and I want you to be the first one to see how it tastes and if I need anything.” Ian stirs the large pot. “It’s going to be oxtails in a canapé.”
The proverbial record scratches and only TLC belting out “Sleigh Ride” is saving my throat from yelling. “What?” I cautiously ask.
“It’s another way to serve oxtails,” Ian grins at me, “taking something and adding a new flavor to it.”
“Taking something and adding a new flavor to it,” I repeat. This sounds familiar. This sounds like gentrification. “Okay.”
Ian turns to me and I guess I’m not hiding my emotions because he looks concerned. “Is there a problem, angel?”
“I’m just like…” I sigh. This is going to be the start of a forever argument between us and I just hope the Lord grants me the serenity to accept stupid. “…why must you people always come into black culture, take what you like, and then put your own spin on it? Like why must you Elvis Presley-Pat Boone-New Kids On the Block-Justin Timberlake-Miley Cyrus it up?”
Ian curiously blinks at me and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused. I especially hate how his blue eyes are staring into my soul, silently asking me to remove my panties so he could lick me otherwise. Is he actually thinking that? Probably not. But I’ll think it for him.
“So, you don’t want me to serve the oxtail in a canapé?” He softly blinks.
We both know I have no idea what a canapé is but mama didn’t raise no punk. “I’m just saying if you’re going to serve soul food at Sentiment, the patrons need to know it’s soul food. Emphasis on thesoul.”
Ian scoops a little of the oxtail onto the canapé and puts it on a small dish. “Try it,” he dares.
I’m hungry. I’m always hungry but I’m starving right now and that oxtail smells hella good. They smell like an 850 credit score and clean mountain air. My stomach rumbles with anger, wondering what in the blue hell is taking me so damn long, and my legs are about to give up and walk over to Ian their damn selves if I don’t move.
Reluctantly, I walk over and grab the plate. Damn, my knees buckle and my mouth waters. My stomach is about to jump out of my body and start force-feeding me if I don’t do something quick.
