Another Sample Sunday
Here's another mini sample. The book is coming along and should (and *should* is the operative word be out in June. The picture does not belong to me, but I keep seeing these butterscotch delicious men on Google who remind me of Toussaint and the next thing I know I'm right click saving lol. Anyway, I hope everyone is having a wonderful Sunday. Thanks for reading!
Toussaint and Summer never really defined what they were doing. They’d just known they hadn’t wanted to stop doing it. Summer had come onto him at a black film museum opening in Harlem and he’d been so surprised that he’d forgotten to be in awe of her. He, a man who he’d seen Academy Award winning actors naked and in the case of one method actor, almost lose a whole row of toes to frostbite, had been embarrassingly starstruck by the Robinsons. They’d even brought his stutter back for a while—the stutter that had made him a watcher and not a speaker for so much of his childhood.
He’d hated that vulnerability, but she’d flirted with him and flattered him to the point that he’d forgotten being starstruck and had just seen her as the kind of attractive that made him think of bedrooms and breakfast served in bed, before making her his breakfast. She’d led him off to a private room—it hadn’t really been private but any room became private when a Robinson demanded that it be so—and she’d made him stutter for different reasons.
Afterward, the woman he’d thought was a flighty hippie coolly helped him fix his clothes and pointed out the missteps that his stylist was making. He’d been too bemused to be offended and when she asked for his phone number he gave it, not believing for a second her promise to call. He was so busy that he set timers to remind himself if it had been too long since he’d taken the trip across boroughs to his parents’ brownstone so he knew she was too busy to call and too desirable to want to. He’d thought he’d lived out some fantasy and like all fantasies it was fleeting, but she’d surprised him yet again and called. They’d talked all of five minutes before she cheerfully invited herself to dinner that he’d somehow promised to cook. He was no Ali who was able to make pots sing like the singers he took into his studio, but he was way better than Baahir and she’d expressed her appreciation for the meal at the table and later, in bed. And somehow, she just ended up coming around frequently enough that they had preferred sleeping sides, her favorite foods were in his fridge, and one of her bonnets was still in his drawer. The Robinson women were more lethal than Mike Tyson. They could knock a man out without even balling their fists.