Page 15 of Played
“No, it’s—oh fuck.” I groan, squeezing my eyelids together. But when I open them, the person climbing out of a Mercedes parked behind my car is still there. Still approaching the house with two bouquets of roses in his arms.Ma, what the hell?
He isn’t familiar to me, but then again, he is. I don’t need to have met this man before to understand who he is and why he’s here. I’ve met about eleven of them before in the last year. He makes a clean dozen.
“Oh, good, Kyle. You made it,” my mother announces from the porch behind me, as if we all can’t seeKylestanding there. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I half turn as Ma descends the front steps, a wide smile stretched across her pretty face. At forty-eight, she could easily pass for a woman in her mid- to late thirties, even with the strands of silver glinting in her tight shoulder-length natural curls. Laugh lines crease the corners of her brown eyes, but otherwise, her walnut brown skin is smooth, gorgeous.
She might be able to pass for my older sister or younger aunt, but I can never forget this is the woman who birthed and raised me. And right now, it’s only my respect and love for her that’s keeping me from turning and demandingWhat the fuuuuck?
’Cause a bitch is tired of Viviane Wright playing the Millionaire Matchmaker. Sans the millionaire.
“Oh, we have another guest.” Ma glances at me, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me you’d invited someone else to dinner? Hi.” She stretches out a hand toward Solomon. “I’m Viviane Wright, Adina’s mother. And you are?”
I snort, and Solomon cuts a look at me even as he accepts Ma’s hand, shaking it.
“I’m Solomon Young. A ... friend of your daughter’s.”
“TheSolomon Young?” Kyle grows animated like a live-action cartoon. “Oh my God, I knew you looked familiar.Wow.I can’t believe this.” If he held up a sign withI#19painted on it, I wouldn’t have been more stunned.
This guy.I glare at Solomon. Somehow this is all his fault.
Ma shifts her attention back to me, a little furrow wrinkling her forehead. I shrug.
“I’m sorry, I hate to sound rude,” she says. “But should I know you?”
“Only if you’re an NHL fan, ma’am.” Solomon dips his chin. “I play for the Pirates, Providence’s team. But I understand if I’m not familiar to you. Adina informed me you’re more football fans than hockey.”
I almost snort again, but as if he’s read my mind once more, he slides a don’t-get-fucked-up glance my way, and I huff out a breath.
And squeeze my thighs. Because goddamn. That was hot as hell.
“Ah, okay. Well, that’s ni—”
“Can I get a selfie?” Kyle cuts Ma off, already dipping inside of his dark-blue sports coat and emerging with his cell in hand. “Do you mind? Your arms are longer.” He passes the phone to Solomon with a wide grin. He’s not lying; Kyle isn’t a short man, but Solomon is a damn giant. I might’ve looked up his stats: six feet, four inches and two hundred and thirty-five pounds. “That’s awesome. Thank you, Solomon.” Kyle cheeses as if they’re pals.
Though that stoic, slightly menacing mug remains on his face, Solomon does take the phone, holds it at an angle, and snaps a couple of shots.
“Oh man.” Kyle shakes his head, fingers flying over his phone after he accepts it back from Solomon. “I have to post these now. No one would ever believe me.”
This whole thing has taken a sharp turn into the surreal. And bysurreal, I mean the what-the-fuck-is-happening-here zone.
Ma clears her throat. “Uh, Kyle. Kyle?” She calls his name again, and this time, his head pops up, a grin still lighting up his face.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dr. Wright.” Chagrin seeps into his expression, and he tucks his phone away again. “I just got a little”—he waves a hand toward Solomon—“excited.”
“Yes, I see,” she murmurs. “Can I introduce you to my daughter?”
“Of course. My apologies.” Shifting closer to me, he holds his hand out, and a whole lot ofHell nosurges inside me. A handshake now, and I find myself on a painfully awkward and tedious dinner a couple of days from now that my mother’s coordinated. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your mother speaks very highly of you.”
“Thanks,” I say, quickly shaking his hand and dropping it. “You too.”
“If I may?” He lifts the forgotten-for-a-selfie bouquets in his hand. “These are for you.” He passes one to Ma and then extends the other to me. “And these are for you. Your mother didn’t lie. You’re as beautiful as she said.”
Nope.
Uh-uh.
Not today, Satan.
