Page 16 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

It’s not the kind of thing I usually lie about, but that’s because I neverhaveto lie. I’m a grown ass man. Handsome. Paid. That usually gets the panties dropping, but this one told me no. That shit pissed me off.

All last night and this morning, I told myself I don’t care. That I got too much shit going on to be worried about a woman, especially a woman who fucked up what should have been a good night.

I told myself I could text any one of the women in my phone right now and have company within the hour, showing up at my door hot and ready like a Little Caesar’s pizza.

But the truth is, none of them would beher.

I’ve had my fair share, and they all followed the same script—date, dinner, sex, maybe a few weeks of playing nice before one of us, usually me, gets bored and fades out. No surprises. No complications, aside from the tire debacle.

But Raya?

She flipped the script on me. Looked me dead in my face and took pleasure in denying me.

Now I’m the one sitting here, checking my phone, rereading her text messages, debating whether I should book that second date. My ego is telling me to let it go, but my dick won’t let me.

As the guys keep talking, I zone out, remembering a moment from dinner when she looked at me over her glass, her eyes searching mine. It was like she had a moment of recognition and discovered something about me that even I hadn’t figured out for myself.

And I hate that I wanna know what it is.

I think it’sthatmore than anything else…the mystery of her. Women talk so fucking much on the first few dates, it really feels pointless to stick around after we fuck. What else is there to learn? I know your mama’s name, your daddy’s name, where and how you grew up, your zodiac sign—which doesn’t mean shit, and the fact that these chicks think it does is yet another reason I lose interest.

Raya, though…now that I’m thinking on it, I don’t know shit about her. I talked alotthat night. If felt good, too. She was asking some good ass questions. But no answers from her side of the table.

Was I drunk?

Nah.

She really didn’t talk about herself.

So between the lack of pussy and the lack of the usual oversharing, I'm bewildered as fuck. And it’s not like she ghosted. She’s clearly interested.

Alright.

I’ll call her ass back.

Tomorrow.

7

Raya

It’s a perfect day.

The sun is high and bright. It’s a relatively mild late summer day for Atlanta, only eight-two degrees. There’s even a light breeze. I roll my window down for a second just to feel it on my skin.

Then I roll it back up.

The air is still on inside my car. I can’t sweat out my hair. I just flat ironed it this morning, and Ace hasn’t seen it yet.

I stretch my arms over the steering wheel, staring at the glass doors of his office building. The sun catches on the edges, making it hard to see inside, but I don’t need to. I already know the treasure that building holds.

Him.

He’s wearing a tan suit today, looking like Obama incarnate. Clean. Sharp. When he walked in this morning with his briefcase, I got so turned on, it completely altered my plans for the day.

I called in sick. Jonetta dry-cussed me out like church ladies do, but it didn’t faze me. I was too keyed up to face a bunch of feral children.

I shift in my seat as heat ignites in my lower body. Ace carried his briefcase like the weight of the world is in inside. And why shouldn’t he? He’s a builder. A creator. He makes shit happen.

---