Page 71 of Tender Offer
Madison
“Put those heels to work, Regine.”
I hop over a small puddle and pull my vintage faux fur midi coat to my chest. My best friend, who’s leading us to God knows where, tightens his grip on my hand as we rush with no destination in sight.
“If you tell me where we’re going, I could get us there faster,” I say, sidestepping another puddle. “Why are we on the Upper East Side, anyway? There are martinis and empanadas closer to my apartment.”
“Hush.”
I’m complaining with good reason. One, there is no justifiable excuse to go this far for food. What isn’t around the corner is a click away on an app. Two, the clouds only broke ten minutes ago, which means the puddles I’m dodging can show up their sisters if it rains again. We have no umbrellas nor any critical need to be outside. That brings me to point three: We keep birthdays casual.
Takeout.
Toes in a foot spa.
The Real Housewives of Potomac.
Sometimes if Kojo doesn’t complain about watching his acquaintances act a mess, we throw inRealHousewives of Atlanta. The point is, we have a tradition of keeping our birthdays in the house where they belong. With all the ripping and running around we do for our careers, recharging is necessary.
Kojo flies to me when I’m in New York, and I fly to him when he’s in Atlanta. I came home days after Noura’s premiere, an event that landed my client’s name on the lips of every reporter who attended. With Preston still away for work, I didn’t want to spend my birthday alone. So, I’m home for a week, and I’ll ring in another year closer to forty with my best friend.
“Here we go,” Kojo says. His pace quickens down 106th Street, my hand still in his like we’re late.Whatwe’re late for has yet to reveal itself.
“Let’s go see Central Park.”
And this is where I leave him.
When my heels reroute in the other direction, the crystal fringe on my dress whips across my legs like a hair toss. I did not leave the heat I pay for and the cake on my counter to play tourist.
“Nope, we’re almost there.” The newsboy cap covering Kojo’s fade tips toward the end of the street. A lamppost awaits, cloaking a broken sidewalk in shadows.
“Where isthere?” He erases the step back I take with his wingtip boots, and his peacoat invades my personal space. I’m spun by the shoulder, and we’re off once again on our adventure, which might end in a felony.
“Live a little, Regine. It’s a celebration!” His grin widens at my scowl. “Don’t act like we didn’t have fun tonight. You only turn thirty-eight once.”
“And I prefer to do it without getting run over by a cyclist,” I grumble.
Today wasn’t a bust. After breakfast and a rainy day of movies, Kojo told me to dig deep in my closet for something vintage. He took me to a bar on the Upper East Side because of itsMadisonAvenue location, which was about as believable as his smirk. There were drinks and off-key singing, both of which we could have found in my neighborhood.
In hisNewsiesoutfit, Kojo is a complete Broadway musical, which is another surprise tonight. I’ve never seen him dressed so proper. He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater with a dress shirtandtie underneath, and corduroy pants. His dreads are in a bun under his cap.
He’s either teaching law somewhere or trotting off to the English countryside.
Cars slow, illuminating the crosswalk. The heat of the engines rises in the headlights as we cross over to Fifth Avenue and follow a path of large stone tiles into Central Park.
LED candles in white paper bags light the pathway to a manicured landscape surrounding a fountain. Across from it is one of those igloo structures made for outdoor dining. Light from the nearby high-rises catches in the night sky.
Incredible.
“What is this?” My inhale becomes a gulp of air when Preston steps out of the dome. His smile reaches me from the feet between us and the soft music that filters in from somewhere beyond the foliage.
“In case it wasn’t clear, Regine, that man loves you,” Kojo says from my side. I hear him, but I can’t take my eyes off said man, who’s making his way to me.
Musk with a hint of nutmeg embraces my senses with the gentleness of a forehead kiss. In a long black coat and pants,Preston is a model of sex and seduction. A matching beanie covers his hair, and framing his face is a trimmed goatee.
The urge to run to him careens over the realization he’s here in New York.
“What are you—”
