A Sultry Love Song. Kianna Alexander
her out of the booth, and once she was on her feet, Marco made a sweeping gesture. “We can step outside. I promise this won’t take long.”
She said nothing, but walked past him in the direction of the door.
He took in her attire as he moved behind her. She’d changed from the business suit he’d seen her in at their eventful interview. Now, she wore a figure-hugging sweater dress, in a soft orange color that complemented her skin tone beautifully. The dress reached her ankles, and had long sleeves, but there was no denying the shapely body beneath the garment. Walking behind her made it fairly difficult to avoid staring at her derriere, but he raised his gaze nonetheless.
Once they were both outside the glass doors of the restaurant, sheltered beneath a black-and-gold awning, she stopped and turned to him. “What is this about, Mr. Alvarez?”
Unable to hold the words back, he spoke. “You look very nice tonight, Ms. Lewis.”
She folded her arms across her chest, but kept her expression unreadable. “Thank you, but I hope you didn’t ask me to come out here just to tell me that.”
He wanted to scoff, but refrained. He sensed that would only make their interactions more unpleasant. “No. This is about the two of us.”
One of her neatly shaped brows rose.
He realized she might be getting the wrong impression, so he sought to clarify his statement. “If we’re going to have a good working relationship, I’ll need to know I can trust you.”
She shifted her weight, and dropped her arms. “I come highly recommended, and I have an impeccable record of getting the job done for my clients.”
“I know that. But we’re going to have to address our past history, Joi. I’m going to want an explanation of what happened between you and...”
She put up her hand. “I’d rather not hear his name. And that is a personal matter between him and me, not something that should be brought up between us.”
“So you’re not going to address it at all?”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing to address. What happened six years ago has no bearing on my ability to perform the job you’ve contracted me for. Are we done here?”
He could see her gaze was focused on the restaurant door. Since she wasn’t going to tell him anything, he didn’t see any good reason to hold her up. “Yes, Ms. Lewis. I’ll see you Tuesday. I like to get my guards acclimated for the first couple of weeks before I step back and let them do their job.”
“Thank you.” As the curt response left her lips, she strode past him, and disappeared into the restaurant.
For a few moments, he stood in her wake. Then he took his probably cold food to his car, climbed in and started the engine.
As he drove through the streets of midtown Charlotte, he engaged his car’s hands-free calling functionality to call his mother.
When her voice came over the speaker, he smiled. “Feliz cumpleonos, Mama.”
Her response was tinged with delight. “Thank you, Marco. You are such a good son. You never forget your Mama’s birthday, no matter how busy you are.”
He chuckled. Today had been a hectic one, but he would never forget a day so special. “Of course not. Did you get the flowers I sent you?”
“Yes, and thank you for those, too. They are gorgeous. But don’t you think you went a little overboard? They must have been very expensive.”
“No price is too high for you, Mama.” Sure, sending sixty-five yellow roses to his mother, all the way back home in Costa Rica, had been costly. But since he couldn’t be there in person, he’d thought it appropriate to send her the flowers in her favorite color, with one bloom for each year she’d graced the earth with her presence.
“You’re such a dear, but you know I hate being fussed over.”
He shook his head, knowing the exact opposite to be true. “Enjoy them, Mama.”
“I am, but don’t spend so much next time. You already work much too hard, and I don’t want you going into debt on frivolity.”
“Yes, Mama.” He knew that was the only response she would accept.
“You know what I really want for my birthday, or for any day, for that matter.”
He sighed. He’d known this was coming, but he’d hoped the grand gesture of the flowers would distract her from it. “Yes, Mama. I know. You want grandchildren.”
“At this point, I would settle for a grandchild, singular. When are you going to settle down and bring me some babies to spoil?”
Keeping his eyes on the road, even as his mind searched for the proper response, he swung his car into his driveway. “Mama, when the time is right, I will settle down. You have my word.”
With love in her voice, she said, “I only want happiness for you, my dear.”
“I know, Mama. I love you, and I’ll call you again in a few days. Give my best to Papa.”
“I love you, as well.”
He ended the call just as he pulled into his garage. A few moments later, he cut the engine. Grabbing the bag from the passenger seat, he took his food inside the house.
The echoes of his mother’s words dogged him at each step.
“Something doesn’t look right.” Joi tilted her head slightly to the right, trying to look at her painting from a different angle. But no matter how she stared, it still bore little resemblance to the potted white orchid she was supposed to be re-creating.
She was sitting on a low stool at Wine and Whimsy, taking their Saturday-evening class. The wine and paint shop, owned by her older sister, Joanne, was her favorite weekend hangout. While she didn’t think she had any talent for painting at all, she recognized the stress-relieving power of creativity.
Joanne, clad in her bright blue apron, eased over to where she sat. “Complaining about your painting again? I could hear you grousing on the other side of the room.”
Adding another stroke of white paint to one of her misshapen petals, Joi blew out a breath. “Mine doesn’t look anything like the display. I suck at this.”
The woman next to her, who was about halfway into her second glass of merlot, said, “It looks pretty good to me. Maybe you just haven’t had enough wine.”
Joanne chuckled. “Loretta’s right, in a way. Relax, and stop being such a perfectionist. Art is all about interpretation, and self-expression.”
Joi looked from her sister to the painting and back again. “Well, that must mean I interpret this flower to be crooked, and I’m expressing it that way.”
“Whatever, girl. I’m going to help somebody who’s actually paying for this.” With a shake of her head, Joanne moved on to converse with another “budding artist.”
Watching her sister waft around the room like a cool breeze, Joi smiled. Growing up, the two of them had occupied very specific roles in their household. Joanne, three years older than Joi, had been the tall, graceful sister with a talent for the arts. Joi had been the shorter, more awkward tomboy, who’d excelled in sports. Both of them had performed well academically, but while Joi pursued her criminal justice degree at North Carolina Central University, Joanne had gotten her bachelor of fine arts from the Art Institute of Atlanta. Following in the footsteps of their mother, Emma, a seamstress who owned a small clothing boutique, both Joanne and Joi had gone on to find fulfillment and success in entrepreneurship.
After spending the remainder of the class trying to even out the crooked petals of her painted orchid, Joi threw