Page 15 of Kandi's Crush: A BWWM Sweet Billionaire Romance

I slipped on my sunglasses and stepped out in the midday sun. I tilted my head toward the sky, letting the sun rays hit my face and taking a deep breath. My grandmother always touted the benefits of sunlight. She believed that it could not only kill germs but could elevate your mood. The sun’s rays weren’t quite doing the job today, though. At least I successfully survived my second official duty as the Director of Operations—unpacking boxes.

Mission fucking accomplished.

“I had a long day. I’ll take whatever you guys are having,” I announced rudely from the foyer of Natasha’s apartment, closing the door behind me. Keely and Simone were seated at the breakfast bar, and each held a glass of red wine.

My best friend, Natasha, and I lived in the same apartment complex, though we were in different buildings. Her one-bedroom apartment was like mine in terms of style. She decorated the sparsely furnished living room in Overstock and Amazon.com chic. Natasha was a sous chef at her family’s soul food restaurant, so her kitchen looked like a Williams-Sonoma store blew up. She had the latest and greatest kitchen appliances and dinnerware. It only made sense to have our girl-time at Natasha’s place.

Though the four of us were all close friends, Natasha and I were best friends. It was a fact we did not hide.

“My girl . . .” Her bright smile faded at the residual tension marking my face. “Damn. It looks like you need a drink. Something to help you shake that mood? You’re in luck. You can either have a glass of wine, a margarita on the rocks, or a shot of tequila. There’s a Spanish rosé that pairs nicely with the cheeseboard. Simone brought a bottle of Tito’s. Your choice.”

I threw her a look that made it clear mixed drinks wouldn’t be nearly potent enough. She reached into the cabinet producing four tiny shot glasses. She filled each glass to the brim. We each licked our palms and sprinkled salt on them.

“On the count of three,” she whooped. “Un. Deux. Trois.” Each lady tossed back the tequila in record time. I winced as the sting of the clear liquid shot down my throat, and we shuddered at the sour juice from the limes.

The four of us had attended Holy Cross, a Catholic high school for girls. My mother had approved of our friendship with the goal of preserving my innocence in a world where girls, in her opinion, grew up too fast. My mother wasn’t aware of half of the shit we’d been into. Nothing too serious, but we’d drunk, partied, and experimented with marijuana. With each passing school year, our friendships had strengthened while the hemlines of our pleated skirts had inched higher, and our necklines lowered.

We spent our days cruising around the city in Keely’s Escalade. We’d flirted with guys who didn’t want us and avoided guys who did. We had spent our time dispensing bad relationship advice and even worse fashion guidance. It had been Simone’s idea to cut my mid-back length curls to a chin-length curly bob. My hair looked more like Dora the Explorer than Rihanna, and it had taken two years to grow it back out.

Natasha could put together quite the spread. She pulled out a wood and marble platter and arranged sliced cured meats, cheese, and crackers. She took special care placing the fruit and nuts. Once satisfied, she directed us to the living room. I flopped on the floor next to the coffee table and tilted a wineglass filled with a dark pink rosé to my lips.

“Oooh. Kandi,” Simone cooed, her blue eyes sparkling. “You’ve been working for the beautiful Chadwick St. Clair. Did you ever think he would grow up and become New Orleans’ most eligible bachelor? I can only imagine the number of women swinging from the rafters. He must buy condoms in bulk.”

“He buys them at Costco!” Natasha giggled. “I heard he has something slutty in his pants.” We squealed before breaking into giggles. She swallowed her laughter. “No lie. Regan Dupree is friends with my sister, Savannah. Regan said he has a snake.”

I snorted, remembering the time I caught her in the backyard with Chadwick.

“A garter snake? Or an anaconda?” I asked. “I’m not interested in what he has going on in his pants. Besides, I can’t say anything about him. I’m bound to the terms of a little thing called a non-disclosure agreement.” The gears appeared to be turning in Simone’s head. She routinely added one plus one and got three. Her interpretations of events and reactions were always incorrect. “Simone, say what’s on your mind before your head explodes.” I braced myself for her response.

“I can see it now.” Her voice became dreamlike, and her eyes had a glazed, faraway look. “You’re bent over, scrubbing the oven. He stands in the kitchen watching your heart-shaped, cornbread-fed booty as it swings back and forth. He’s hypnotized. Bam! Out of nowhere, he comes up behind you and rubs his big, hard anaconda on your ass.” She clutched her hands into fists and shook. “Ooh. I sense that Chadwick St. Clair has a huge dick. He has all the hallmarks.”

I cringed a little but played it cool.

“So, you have given my work life some thought, huh? Enlighten us on the hallmarks of an insanely big dick.”

“This is Simone’s Not-Yet-Patented Big Dick Checklist.” She was already drunk. She grinned and her normally big eyes were closed in narrow slits. I wondered if I’d prepared my guest bedroom for overnight guests. She couldn’t drive home, and we wouldn’t dare put her in an Uber. “First, it’s in his walk. Does he lean to the side? If so, he has a baby’s arm holding an apple between his legs, and it’s likely dragging the floor.”

“Not true,” Keely chimed in. “But I like the direction of this conversation. Keep going.”

Simone rolled her eyes dramatically but continued.

“Second, are his hands small? Thin fingers mean a thin dick. Stubby fingers equal a short dick. Big, long fingers mean a nice manly side of beef.” She wiggled her fingers theatrically. Our groans were not the response she expected. Ignoring us, she said, “Third, a man with a big dick doesn’t advertise.”

“I agree,” Natasha nodded, raising her brow. “A big dick energy is typically quiet because the man is confident. It’s always the guy you least expect. It’s frustrating because celebrities have ruined it by assigning the energy to random guys who live in their parent’s basement.”

Simone hummed in agreement.

“Tash, bring it in here.” They gave each other a high five before Simone turned to face me, “Is Chadwick quiet?”

I thought about the question before I answered.

“I would say he’s easy-going and loyal. He always makes time to offer advice, and he’s acutely aware of life and love. He truly cares about people.”

“That’s nice, but for once we need the non-pageant answer. It’s just us girls. Objectify him!” She took a sip from her wineglass. “Yep. He definitely has something going on in those pants, especially with the way the women go crazy for him. I bet that loft turns into a brothel at night.”

For some inexplicable reason, the thought of other women in Chadwick’s loft and basking in the spotlight of his attention bothered me.

“Come on, guys. Let’s talk about something else. I came here to get away from work.”

---