Page 51 of Kandi's Crush: A BWWM Sweet Billionaire Romance

“What about Pierre? How is he?”

I plastered a fake smile and added an even faker, “He’s awesome.”

“Gotcha! He stopped by the restaurant this week. He said he hasn’t spoken to you since the ball.” She leaned forward in her seat. “What the fuck is going on? I’ve stopped by your apartment to see if you wanted to watch movies or have girl time, and you weren’t there. ?Your car is never in your parking spot. Then, you stroll in here late with freshly fucked painted all over your face. What are you holding out on me? Are you dating Chadwick?”

“Nothing is going on. I’m looking forward to the start of my last semester and spending time with my family.”

My words came out too practiced, and they had done nothing to diffuse her curiosity. It was now her life’s mission to understand what was going on with me. She looked me over one more time before stopping at my wrist. ?Oh, shit. ?I’d forgotten to remove my wedding day gift—a gold Cartier Love bracelet. She adjusted her reaction, sadness taking over her tone.

“I hate that there are secrets between us. You’re my best friend, and I don’t like that you don’t feel you can trust me. I hope everything is okay.”

I grabbed her hand and squeezed with emphasis on each word.

“You’re my best friend, and I love you. I want you to know that I’m happy. I want to take time to enjoy my happiness and not overthink. Everything will come out in due time.”

“I pray that one day you’ll feel comfortable sharing with me.”

With a club soda in my hand, I walked around the St. Clair’s backyard, speaking to their friends and loved ones. I’d spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon with sadness in my heart. Brunch with Natasha had been nice, but the secret had loomed over our conversation. When we’d departed, she gave me a friendly hug and patted me on the back three times before we’d walked in separate directions. A far cry from our usual parking lot chit-chats that would sometimes span hours.

Maybe I was being too sensitive. I needed to get myself together. And in New Orleans, when life brings you down, you party.

Martin and Genevieve St. Clair were celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary with an extravagant, catered barbecue. They’d invited their seventy-five closest friends, including my mother, aunt, and grandparents.

Chadwick and I had arrived in separate cars and fifteen minutes apart, lest someone spy us arriving at the same time and put two and two together. Before we left the loft, I asked him for his wedding band.

My husband didn’t like the deception. He felt that it was a lot more trouble than it’s worth. He’d shook his head and reluctantly twisted the ring off his finger. Wriggling his fingers in my face, he asked how to disguise the imprint of the ring.

I’d naively asked why anyone would look at his ring finger. He reminded me that women always look at ring fingers. He was right. A single woman would look for a wedding band on his finger. I jokingly told him to keep his hands in his pocket, but deep down I was serious. I fought back the wild streak of jealousy that rose in my chest. I didn’t want to think of another woman talking with him, smiling at him, or worse, touching him.

I sat at a tablecloth covered picnic table with my mother and aunt. They’d found the perfect spot in the backyard overlooking the raucous party. On the stage was a Zydeco band, each member wore a brightly colored outfit. The centerpiece was a woman wearing a neon green crinoline playing a washboard while dancing on stage.

Lubricated from the flowing drinks with the very generous pours, a few brave souls danced with each other. The line to the bar stretched ten deep. The servers began passing bottles of water in addition to a variety of hors d’oeuvres on trays.

“Chère? Do you think Keely would help us with our social media marketing?” Auntie Marie yelled over the loud music. “We’ll pay her. We have a hundred and thirteen followers and half of those are family. I think we can expand our customer base with more followers.”

I nodded, not listening. I watched Mrs. St. Clair as she pranced around the backyard, flitting from guest to guest. I was most interested in Mr. St. Clair’s reaction to her. The two were golden bronzed and appeared refreshed from a recent holiday in St. Lucia. He would search the yard for her and smile when his eyes landed on her. They were so cute and obviously in love.

“I don’t know if it is worth it. I don’t believe that social media likes translates into contracts.” My mother frowned. “I think we should focus on more community events and move into online ads.”

On the day after the ball, I broke the news that Pierre and I did not work out. The news disappointed my mother, but she is persistent. She vowed to look through her contacts list in search of another potential love interest. At that point, I gave up. There was no sense of arguing with her about not fixing me up. She’d ignored my refusals. I doubted that she would ever understand my feelings.

I excused myself from the table when the sisters began to brainstorm different marketing strategies. They couldn’t enjoy a moment of celebration without bringing up business.

My mood brightened when I watched my husband with his parents. A photographer walked around taking photos of the partygoers. At one point, he gathered Genevieve, Martin, and Chadwick for family photos. With glasses held high, they posed with silly grins. After the photo, Chadwick scanned the backyard and our eyes met. He walked over and whispered into my ear.

“Our families are here. This is the perfect opportunity to break the news. How about it?”

“Let’s wait a little while longer,” I stammered, trying to come up with an excuse to delay the news. “Today is about your mother and father. Not about us.”

“You are correct. I’d like to discuss this later tonight. I can be persuasive when I want to.” He said, adding a wicked wink.

I leisurely roamed through the backyard, drifting from conversation to conversation. I held Chadwick’s baby cousin, caught up with a high school classmate, and even danced with Mr. St. Clair.

My heart fluttered when I walked to the keg. Chadwick and his bonehead friends huddled around it and surveyed the party.

“Just like the old days. What are you four planning?” I walked over with a breezy smile plastered on my face. I picked up a blue Solo cup from a neighboring cocktail table.

Denham Roberts the fourth, affectionately known as Quad, the biggest and dumbest of Chadwick’s friends, stood in front of the keg, blocking my access and wearing a falsely stern expression.

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