Put A Ring On It (13 page)

After a couple of days on the job, Harlow heard through snatches of conversations that the owner was a black man. He lived in New York and came to the Philadelphia dealership only a few times a month. She could tell from the reverence in the employee’s voices that the boss was well-liked and respected. Photographs of Drake posing with athletes, businessmen, and politicians, adorned the walls. She heard that her boss was a sought-after bachelor who dated women on both coasts, but there were no rumors of hanky panky with any females on his staff.

When she was finally introduced to Drake, Harlow’s heart did a somersault. She was prepared for his distinguished good looks, but she wasn’t ready for the electrical jolt that coursed through her when he shook her hand. From the startled look in his eyes, she had a feeling that he’d felt the sensation, too. When Drake released her hand, he welcomed her to the company and wished her good luck. She thanked him, and then eased back into her seat. It was difficult standing while the earth was quivering beneath her feet.

After their initial meeting, Drake didn’t seem to notice her at all. During his brief visit at the Philadelphia dealership, he was polite to Harlow, but he pretty much ignored her. In the course of a day, he rarely said more than “good morning” when he arrived and “good night” at the end of the workday.

I thought we made a connection. Guess I was wrong. What did I expect? I was told that he didn’t mix business and pleasure. Besides, a distinguished man like Drake can pick and choose among hundreds of beautiful women: fashion models, successful businesswomen, celebrities. Why would he want to get chummy with a receptionist? I better stay in my lane before I get my feelings hurt.

After a few days, Drake returned to his life in New York. Harlow was relieved. Her schoolgirl crush had been a huge distraction.
Now she could get back to the business of being a super receptionist who would soon be promoted to sales.

A beautiful floral arrangement was delivered to the reception desk the next day. Harlow was told that corporate wanted to enhance the company’s image by jazzing up the lobby area. Each week, a different eye-catching bouquet arrived. Harlow pretended that the flowers were sent to her personally—a gift from Drake. It was a harmless fantasy.

Months later, on a Friday after work, Harlow was pushing a BMW sedan that she got on loan from Elite. Getting an occasional free luxury rental for the weekend was one of the perks of her job. Tomorrow night, she and Vangie were going to hit the clubs in style. Vangie didn’t have a babysitter, so they didn’t have any plans for tonight, but Harlow was anxious to get to Vangie’s apartment so she could show off her latest rental.

Needing gas, Harlow pulled into a Sunoco station. While pumping gas, she noticed that one of the back tires looked a little low. She hated fooling with air pumps. It was awkward and unladylike. Harlow wasn’t in the mood for bending or squatting, but dealing with the air situation was preferable to having to call someone to change a flat.

Harlow drove over to the air pump and parked. She searched inside her purse for quarters, but found only nickels and dimes. Damn!

Almost as soon as Harlow armed the car and had started making her way to the cashier, a sleek dark car glided onto the lot—a Maserati Granturismo—not your average car. She glanced at the car with curiosity as the driver parked behind her car.

She could have fainted on the spot when Drake Morgan emerged from the Maserati.

“Need some help?” Drake asked, displaying a beautiful smile.

“Hi, Drake. My supervisor let me borrow the car for the weekend. I hope that’s okay with you.”

“It’s cool. So what’s the problem with the whip?”

“Well, the tire looks a little low. I was going inside to get some change for the air pump.”

“Did you check the pressure?”

She looked surprised. “Should I have?”

“Let me help you out.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, trying to be considerate of the fact that her boss was wearing a suit, a crisp white shirt, and tie. He was looking too dapper to be crouched on the oily ground.

“I’m going to have to insist. That’s one of my cars, and I don’t want you damaging the tire.”

“Right. Okay.” Her face flushed with embarrassment.

“Unlock the door.”

Harlow hit the keypad. Drake opened the driver’s side door and read something on the side panel. He walked back to the Maserati and took something out of the glove compartment.

“This is a digital tire gauge. I hear that you’re hoping to advance to a sales position, so you’ll need to know the basics about cars,” he said, sounding amused.

“Absolutely.” Harlow felt so stupid, but she was relieved that Drake didn’t seem irritated. In fact, he seemed to be in a very good mood. They’d never exchanged so many words, and it was thrilling to hear the rich timbre of his voice.

“Good thing I was driving past and noticed the Elite sticker on the vehicle,” he said as he crouched and unscrewed the valve cap, and checked the pressure.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

Drake stood up and put quarters inside the slot of the air pump. Pulling the hose, he squatted in front of the tire. Harlow gazed
at him, admiring his take-charge attitude and his willingness to get his manicured hands dirty.

“All finished,” he said as she replaced the hose on the air pump. “Did you take notes?” His smile was dazzling.

“Sort of,” she said, nodding.

He lifted one brow. “You’re quiet. You need the gift of gab to be in sales.”

“I’m not usually quiet,” she told him. “I’m a little flustered because I’m not accustomed to talking to you,” she said, adding a little sass in her voice and posture.

“I guess I haven’t been very friendly.”

“You’re a busy man. I understand.”

“There was something about you…the day we met.” He smiled. “Something strange happened.”

Harlow recalled their handshake and the resulting electrical jolt. Looking into Drake’s dark luminous eyes, she asked, “You felt it, too?”

“I felt something. I can’t describe it. But whatever it was, it had me shook.”

Time seemed to stand still. People meandered in and out of the mini-mart. Some stopped and gawked at the Maserati, but Harlow was barely aware of their presence. She only saw Drake.

“Do you have plans tonight?” His voice snapped her out of a trance-like zone.

“No.” Her plans with Vangie could definitely wait.

“Do you like the flowers I’ve been sending you?”

Harlow’s mouth fell open. “They were for me?”

He stroked his chin and nodded.

I knew it! I can’t wait to tell Vangie.

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Not at all.”

“Can I take you to dinner?”

“I’d love that.”
Sorry, Vangie. I’ll holla at you tomorrow.

That first dinner led to more dinners, extravagant gifts, and romantic retreats. With Drake, every day was Valentine’s Day. Before long, Harlow moved into Drake’s lavish apartment in New York. Perhaps it was unwise to make Drake her life. She stopped working, dismissing the idea of a career. With Drake, she discovered that what she really wanted out of life was to be a wife and a good mother.

Back in the moment, Harlow checked her cell, hoping for a text from Drake. There was nothing. She was starting to fear that her Cinderella story would not have a fairy tale ending.

N
ivea was in bed. Miserably, she stared at the ceiling. Loneliness, stress, and worry cheated her of badly needed sleep. When her cell pinged, she grabbed it, expecting a desperate text from Eric. She brought the phone close to her face and clicked the button.

There was no message from Eric. Instead, she was frowning at an over-dressed Christmas tree, sent by Vangie, of all people. But it was the puzzling caption that put a dagger of jealousy in Nivea’s heart.
Vangie, Shawn, and Yuri! What the hell?

Irritated, Nivea immediately called Vangie. “What’s going on, Vangie?”

“Hey, girl, that tree is something, isn’t it?” Vangie said.

Nivea refused to throw her a compliment. “You were here yesterday, and you didn’t mention anything about getting back with Shawn.”

“It didn’t seem appropriate, considering what you were going through.”

“I’m still going through it. I think it’s totally insensitive of you to hit me with this news at a time like this.”

“What’s wrong with sharing my good news, Niv? I never noticed your sensitivity to my financial situation when you were bragging about how much you make and how much you spend on your clothes and shit.”

“I didn’t know you had all that hidden animosity toward me. Well, I guess you picked the perfect time to kick me while I’m down.”

“I’m not kicking you. I’m merely sharing my happiness. Did you expect me to keep Shawn and me a secret until you get over Eric?”

“I am over Eric!” Nivea shouted. “Look, Vangie. I wish I could say I’m happy for you, but I’m not. Shawn hurt you deeply, and you’re a fool if you take him back.”

“We’re getting married. Yuri deserves both his parents,” Vangie blurted.

Nivea gasped.

“Shawn is cutting hair at a shop, making so much money he’s thinking about investing in the business, or opening his own shop.”

“That’s crazy. A month ago, you were crying the blues about having to ask Harlow to pay for Yuri’s Christmas presents.”

“Things have changed. Instead of lecturing me, you should be congratulating me. But I guess you’re too selfish and full of yourself to share anyone else’s joy.”

“For years you’ve complained about what a terrible father Shawn is. I was there when you caught him with that other chick. I was standing by your side when he packed his things and callously walked out the door, leaving you to raise Yuri by yourself. And over the years I’ve witnessed you having to squeeze a dollar, trying to make ends meet. Every other month, you have to hide your car in the safety of my complex to keep it from getting repossessed. Why should I be happy that you’ve allowed Shawn to slither his way back into your life?”

“I’m busy, Nivea. I don’t want to have this conversation with you.” Abruptly, Vangie hung up, and Nivea rolled her eyes at the phone.

First her sister, now Vangie. Before long, Harlow would be getting married.
Everybody’s getting married except me!
Wide awake, and without any hope of a peaceful night’s sleep, Nivea threw off
the covers and got out of bed. She slid her feet into slippers and shuffled off toward her kitchen, deciding that a stiff drink was most definitely in order.

The next morning, Nivea stumbled inside her bathroom and cringed at her reflection in the mirror. Drinking hard liquor late at night had her hungover and looking haggard. Trying to get rid of the nasty taste in her mouth, she brushed her teeth and rinsed twice with Scope.

She glanced in the mirror again, hoping the elapse in time had improved her image, but she still looked like shit. She rubbed her bloodshot eyes. There seemed to be a sudden shift in the atmosphere. Nivea grabbed the edge of the sink and held on. As the world spun, her head throbbed at the same time.

This kind of sickness was a hefty price to pay for trying to drink her troubles away. Maybe she should stay in bed and take care of herself…skip her parents’ annual Christmas Eve breakfast.

But who was she fooling? If she didn’t show up, she’d never live it down. Her mother would call, and if Nivea didn’t pick up, she’d leave venomous messages, hurtful voicemails that cut to the core. The truth definitely hurt, and Nivea couldn’t bear to hear her mother’s voice once again accusing her of being bitter and jealous of her sister, Courtney.

I have no reason to be envious of Courtney. I’m a successful pharmaceutical sales rep and she’s an idiot-moron.

Behind the wheel of her car, Nivea drove cautiously, but sleet was gusting down, falling rapidly, creating treacherous driving conditions. The glare of the sun didn’t help the situation. Nivea fumbled around in her handbag for her designer sunglasses. It
seemed crazy to drive in such hazardous conditions to try to prove to her mother that she wasn’t feeling bitter or jealous toward her sister.

Holding an armful of beautifully wrapped gifts, Nivea rang her parents’ doorbell.

Her mother opened the door. Mrs. Westcott glanced at her wristwatch, and then at Nivea. “Merry Christmas, dear,” she said with an edge.

“Merry Christmas, Mother. Sorry, I’m late,” Nivea replied as she entered the foyer.

“Put the gifts under the tree.” She waved her hand in the air distractedly and hurried toward the kitchen to bark at the caterers.

In the living room, Nivea placed her gifts under the eight-foot tall artificial tree.
If Vangie wanted to see a tree worth photographing, she should see this realistic-looking Denmark Fir.
The stunning, two-thousand-dollar tree was positioned between the baby grand piano and the elegant staircase. A chandelier hung near the top of the tree, casting a golden glow. It was a majestic sight, a picture worth taking. Nivea pulled out her cell. She had to stand back several feet to capture the entire tree and the presents.