Page 54 of Beautiful Broken Love

It was a Thursday, and I couldn’t concentrate for the life of me.

Not only because of how I let my imagination/fantasy run wild the night prior but also because the picture on my desk, which revealed me and Lewis, was drowning me in guilt.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, turning the frame to the left.Ugh.I was being so petty and ridiculous about this.

So what? I fantasized about Deke. I was sure many women in the world fantasized about him. And it wasn’t like he or anyone else would ever find out. I wasn’t going to see him again for several months, and that would be to renew our endorsement contract (if he even wanted to do it). I figured by then, he’d have completely forgotten about our emails and found himself a new lady to flirt with.

There was a knock at the door, and then it rapidly swung open, before I could say anything. “What’s up, sis!” Octavia barged in with a black jumpsuit on and a peach-colored bag hanging from her shoulder. “Why are you sulking in here?” she asked, dropping the bag on the coffee table.

“I’m not. I’m fine.” I placed my pen down and straightened in my chair. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, right.” She opened the peach bag and dug out a glass container, giving it a little shake. “I made that chopped salad you really like—you know, the one with the cranberries and walnuts.”

I gasped. “You didn’t!”

“I did, and I made you some double chocolate chip cookies.”

“Stop! You know I love your cookies, Tavia!” I really did. Octavia learned to bake when she was twelve. She was really good at it then, but a master at it now. I often teased her about going on one of those Food Network baking competitions. “Remind me again why we did that Pilates class?”

She snorted, handing me a container of salad. I took this moment to sit on the sofa and take a break from work. Maybe after a good meal, I could get my head back into business and stop with all this Deke nonsense.

But of course there were hardly ever any free moments in my life. This one ended when Tish stuck her head through the gap of the door and said, “Chester is on the line.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Tell him I’m having lunch, Tish.”

Tish sauntered into the office and grabbed the container of cookies. “I would, but he says it’s urgent, and you know how he gets.”

Octavia stood and snatched the cookies away from Tish. “I know you aren’t thinking about eating these without asking me.”

“Octavia, give me a cookie before I fight you in this office,” Tish hissed at her, trying to reach for the container. Octavia was reeling her elbow back, so Tish missed every time.

“I will—but only if you agree with me that Brent Faiyaz is better than Frank Ocean.” Octavia cocked a brow and smirked.

“Are you still on that?” Tish shifted her eyes toward the ceiling before dropping them to Octavia again. “Okay, fine. Brent is better. Now give me a damn cookie.” Tish snatched the container away, and Octavia cackled with glee as she sat back down with her salad.

I thought my relationship with my sister was a hot mess, but Tish and Octavia took the cake. They may as well have been sisters too.

I’d met Tish in community college, both of us weaving through the aisles of the campus bookstore, trying to find the same book. There was only one copy left, and she grabbed it first. That day, we laughed about it and agreed to split the cost of the book. Then we swapped numbers so we could text each other when we needed it. Eventually, our texting led to study sessions and general hanging out. I never looked back after that. She’d become my best friend, and my family had adored her as soon as they’d met her.

“Send the call through, Tish,” I said, returning to my desk. I forked through my salad as my best friend walked out. A few seconds later, my desk phone rang.

“Chester! Hi!” I answered with way too much enthusiasm.

“Davina, how’s it going? Listen, there’s something important I need to ask you.”

I refrained from sucking my teeth. It was just like Chester to jump straight into business. Thehow’s it goingbid was merely to assure himself that he was a nice person who cared about others’ well-being. News flash: he didn’t care much at all.

Chester Hughes was your typical mega-rich male born from the pipeline of generational wealth. Egotistical, with bucketloads of money and very slim patience. He was nearing sixty, was bald, and had heavy wrinkles around his mouth from all the frowning of disapproval he’d done throughout his life.

“Okay. I’m all ears.”

“How do you feel about baby products?” he asked with a hint of rare excitement.

I couldn’t avoid the slight dip in my brows. “Baby products?” I glanced at Octavia with awhat the fuck?look.

“I might have a great opportunity for you that could expand Golden Oil exponentially.”

The dip in my brows transformed to a slow incline. Now he was talking. “Go on.”

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