Page 137 of Fiery Romance

“One of those black women?”

“Yeah, the type that doesn’t like white people.”

I blink slowly because I hadn’t expected this level of stupidity. “And what makes you think that?”

“You own your own business. You’re a boss lady. You’re all about the culture. And honestly, I was really attracted to that. Women like you don’t get enough credit for holding black men down.”

My patience is running thin with Byron.

I know I’m no saint either. I was with another man during our date, but I don’t think that gives him the grace to sit here and spout utter nonsense.

“Why do you think I wouldn’t like an entire race of people just because I own my own business? Do you even hear yourself?”

“Okay, maybe I said that wrong. I more specifically meant that you don’t seem like the type who’ddateoutside your race.”

He’s trying to backpedal after putting his foot in his mouth, but I entertain him because I’m genuinely disturbed by his thinking.

“You’renot black,” I point out.

“No, I’m Columbian.” He runs a hand over his head in a practiced way. I bet he has a social media account where he whips his shirt off in front of the camera, flexes his abs while fixing coffee and makes that same face.

“Exactly.”

“But I’ve got a tan, right? So I might as well be black.”

I scratch my head with one of my nails, trying to figure out if he’s for real. How did someone who seemed so charming at the start of this date become more and more unappealing with every word from his mouth?

Rolling up my napkin, I push my chair back and climb to my feet. “Thank you for meeting me, Byron. But I don’t see this working out.”

“What? Why?”

There’s a whole lot I could say but, rather than answer, I just gather my purse. “I hope you find the girl you’re looking for, but she’s not me.”

Byron looks confused, but he doesn’t stop me.

I hurry outside and catch a cab.

Once I’m back home, I change out of my clothes, fall into bed and try not to think about Clay.

But he’s right there.

Right behind my eyelids.

His hands burning my flesh.

His mouth on my neck.

I want you.

I want you.

I want you.

Rolling out of bed, I drop to the ground, haul my memory box from underneath the spring board and go through the album inside.

It’s pictures of me and Taz.

Letters.

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