Page 23 of Tell Me I'm Not Dreaming
“And yet you all picked him,” Lyric teases.
“Yeah, but that was just purely about sex,” Aimee answers.
Lyric playfully rolls her eyes.
Bridget continues reading.
“Lyric Fuqua is a forty-year-old UCLA educated; Gucci-clad Black queen with an MBA in Marketing. She has worked in PR for years and is the type of woman who knows her worth. Ranson Hamilton is showing that at the age of thirty-four his interest in a romantic partner does not include younger and more malleable ladies, unlike his father Parker Hamilton.”
“Poor Parker and Braxton are catching strays.” Bridget titters before finishing the article.
“Instead, the junior Hamilton is choosing to be in a partnership with a grown woman. And I, for one, welcome this change, and hope to see it in more men of his ilk.”
Aimee and Bridget are having sushi with Lyric in her office. She called her girls the minute her meeting with Roger and Ranson was over. Suchi isn’t there because she’s at work inBrentwood, but she’ll be joining them later tonight for an emergency girlfriends’ dinner at Lyric’s. Her head has been swimming all day from the attention, and she needs her friends to keep her centered.
“I still cannot believe you kissed a millionaire. How did it feel? Did his lips feel rich?” Aimee asks.
“Aims, how would lips feel rich?” Lyric pops an edamame in her mouth.
“Girl, I don’t know. Well taken care of. They’re soft, they’re full, they’re lush, they’re?—”
“Moisturized,” Bridget adds.
“That too!” Aimee points at Bridget in agreement.
“They felt good. Plump and full like I like ’em.”
Lyric says the last part in a playful, sultry voice.
The ladies cackle.
“No, but seriously”—Lyric continues—“kissing him felt natural. It was an organic moment. Even though we don’t really know each other, it didn’t feel rushed. It made sense.”
“Do you think he might be the guy Ukweli was talking about?” Aimee asks.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lyric says.
Her phone buzzes. Her office phone hasn’t stopped ringing. An intern had to assume the role of her assistant so her actual assistant, Tracee, could take a break from saying, “No comment.” Her work cell has been on DND for hours. But this is her personal phone. The caller is listed as private. She answers, hoping the media hasn’t gotten ahold of her personal info.
“Hello, Lyric,” Ranson says.
“Hello, Ranson.”
Bridget and Aimee look at each other, then Lyric, and smile like the big goofs they are.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush. I took a chance yesterday when I kissed you, and I don’t regret it even the tiniest bit. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“Now that I know my job is safe, I don’t have any regrets, either.”
“Your job was never in danger. The minute I saw the article and pictures, I called Roger and told him that I kissed you, and if he penalized you, I would take my business elsewhere, and I would find you another employer.”
“Damn, thanks.” She simpers.
“My pleasure. Let me take you out. We are dating now, after all.”
“Um …”
“Come by and have dinner with us,” Aimee suggests.
