Feeling Some Type of Way Page 7

  “Great. I’ll be over there in half an hour.” The line went dead.

  I shot up in bed. What the hell, Batman? Ian was seriously coming over here.

  Here.

  My apartment.

  No roommates.

  Just me and him alone.

  Yikes!

  Ten

  I took the most laborious shower of my entire life.

  I shaved everywhere. Yeah, even there, too.

  Ian was coming over and we were going to be alone. Would he actually make a move on me? I don’t know. But if he did, I don’t want him feeling up my legs and thinking how in the hell did he end up in a forest.

  I took a long, dire minute to admire myself in the mirror. In comparison to Helen and Michelle, I was the thicker of the three of us, even though I could squeeze my big ass into Helen’s tops if needed be. Michelle was probably a 6 and Helen was a 10. So yeah, me and size 12 were best friends.

  Ian’s dates were somewhere between anorexic, and ‘I’ll only have salad but hold the dressing.’

  I wasn’t fat, by any means. If you want to go with the street term, I was slim thick wit it. My breasts were nice and full, and still perky. My waist was small and led to rounded hips. While having an hourglass figure sounds great, it’s also a pain in the ass to buy jeans that fit.

  My sometimes unruly but rather resilient light almond hair was tied up in a top bun as I raced around the apartment, wondering what I should do? Should I light candles? Should I put on some Erykah Badu? No, he wouldn’t know who she is. Hmm…maybe some Kings of Leon? That might be more his speed.

  Or maybe…I should just breathe.

  I decided to look somewhat presentable – jean shorts and a tank top, though it was nine o’clock at night so I’m sure he knew I wasn’t already dressed like this. And I’m sure with the few spritzes of Attraction on my clothing, he would definitely know I didn’t just come home.

  I’m freaking out.

  Breathe, Sister, breathe. Ian might have been talking a bunch of crap. He probably just left Thanksgiving with his family and was bored. He probably had no intention of coming over. He probably didn’t care to visit a college student’s apartment.

  My apartment is a rather nice one: Sleek, hardwood floors covered the kitchen and bathrooms, while each bedroom boasted of a queen bed (we each have our own room for privacy). Michelle’s dad gifted her a flat-screen TV I thought was huge until I saw Ian’s and now it’s rather dwarf in comparison. Open windows shed a lot of light into our place and the central air is a definite bonus.

  Old furniture from the goodwill, cheap furniture from IKEA and Wal-Mart, and a small flat-screen TV that hung on my bedroom wall that covered the not-quite white but not-quite yellow paint.

  A few months ago, I could barely afford to pay rent and my roommates had to help me out. Now, I paid them back with interest and have leftover money, all thanks to Ian.

  I heard knocking at my door and know Ian had arrived. Through the peephole, I see Ian with a dozen red roses.

  Lesson learned: Ian makes good on promises.

  I opened the door and see a smiling (with dimples!) Ian. He’s in a casual V-neck sweater, jeans, and boots. He smells like sex, desire, and a fresh set of Duracell batteries to be used later tonight. He handed me the dozen long-stemmed roses. “I couldn’t come over here without bringing a gift.”

  I closed my eyes and smelled the roses. Yes, cheesy I know. But I don’t get roses often, let alone long-stemmed ones. I’m not entirely sure when this will happen again. “You didn’t have to.” I stepped aside and let him in.

  “It’s Thanksgiving. I wanted to.” He noticed the shoes at the doorway and follows suit by taking his off. They’re Salvatore Ferragamo. Those are four hundred dollar shoes at my doorstep, at the very minimum. I know this because that’s what Sam had on his feet tonight and bragged about the price tag.

  “I wasn’t entirely sure if you were serious so I didn’t warm up the food yet but I’ll get started on that now.” I rushed over to the kitchen and began taking out the various plates of food. I whipped up a plate of food for Ian – the oxtails, mac ‘n cheese, collard greens, gumbo, stuffing with gravy, and fried turkey – nuked it in the microwave and took it out to serve with hot water cornbread.

  I’m curious how long it’ll be before he’ll spit out a bite and say how disgusting it is. He took a bite of the turkey and popped into his mouth. His eyes widened and I brace myself for a mouthful of Ian back in my face. Instead, a smile appeared. “This is incredible!”

  “Really?” I’m genuinely surprised. I know the type of food Ian usually eats and I’m pretty sure soul food is not at the top of his list. “You like it?”

  “This is amazing!” He took a few more bites of everything around his plate. He soon cleaned off the plate as if he didn’t eat at all tonight. I quickly went to the kitchen to grab him a soda and he downed it just as quick as the dinner, following a loud belch. “Excuse me for that.”

  “Not a problem,” I smiled. “Did you eat at all tonight?”

  “I ate but I mostly entertained,” he wiped his mouth, “I had a date.”

  “Oh,” I tried not to sound disappointed but it was a stark reminder of how the relationship really was between us. He was my fantasy lover while I was just nice “Domi” to him. “Who brings a date with them to Thanksgiving?”

  “Apparently I do,” he raised an eyebrow and stuffed his hands in his pockets, “it was someone I knew for a while and we went out a couple of times. She had no plans so I invited her over and…” He shook his head and looked down at the empty plate. “Bad idea.”

  “Oh no,” I feigned sadness but really I’m marking out inside, “what happened?”

  “She misinterpreted my intentions. She thought I brought her over as my love interest and honestly, no.” His brows furrowed. “She got along fine with everyone but it became clearer to me as the day progressed, she was going out of her way to be nice.”

  “Because she felt she was going to be around for a while?” I asked and he nodded.

  “She played with my niece and nephews; offered to help my step-mother in the kitchen; she tried to talk sports and politics with Gerald and our father,” Ian finally rolled his eyes, “and I’m just there, nursing my whiskey sour, thinking, ‘What the hell?’”

  I chuckled. “In her defense, Ian, you invited her over for Thanksgiving. That’s something generally reserved for family and close friends. So yeah, I can see why she thought that.”

  “That was my mistake and never again,” he shook his head, “the next time I invite someone over to Thanksgiving with my family, it would be someone I truly care about and want to be with.”

  Yeah, somehow I don’t think I fit the bill.

  “Now, I wouldn’t mind coming over to your family’s home for Thanksgiving,” he waved a finger at his empty plate, “that was one of the best meals I’ve ever had!”

  I can imagine showing up with Ian at the next Thanksgiving. My family accepts all (well, most) and his race wouldn’t be a factor. His wealth, however, might make Sam cry. “Well, my family gets down,” I proudly smiled, “I’ll send them your regards.”

  “Always, always.” He chuckled. “What did you cook?”

  “I don’t cook,” I shook my head, “I bake.”

  “Okay, what did you bake?” He folded his arms.

  “The best Duncan Hines yellow cake ever.” I nodded. “With the chocolate frosting to boot.”

  “Duncan Hines yellow cake?” He repeated with obvious question marks floating in his irises. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

  Ian is so down-to-Earth that sometimes I forget when people are in a different tax bracket, they’re not familiar with the same things we are. What’s normal to us – going to the bank, eating at McDonald’s, shopping at the mall – is completely foreign to them.

  I have a feeling I’m going to be teaching Ian a whole lot about how the other side lives. “Let me get you a slice.” I walked i
nto the kitchen and grabbed a slice of the Duncan Hines. I also poured a small glass of milk because I know he’s going to need it. “Try it and see.” I handed him the plate and glass.

  Ian examined the cake like it was a science experiment before he took a bite. He didn’t have the same orgy-in-my-mouth reaction to my family’s food, but he didn’t hurl the cake across the room, neither. “Not bad. Maybe a bit sweet for my taste.” He sipped the milk. “How come you don’t cook?”

  “Lazy,” I admitted, “between school and studying, I just don’t want to.”

  “You should. It’ll save you a lot of money.” He mentioned. “Try cooking three times a week and work up to five.”

  I nodded. Three times a week? Just the number of it sounded nuts. At least I could try. “Okay.”

  Ian glanced down at his super-expensive watch as the clock slowly ticked to ten o’clock. I could tell it was because it looked like a clock straight outta Disney. Instead, this wasn’t Cinderella and I don’t have any glass slippers.

  Though, Ian might be my Prince Charming. What? No, he isn’t. A man who has admitted to dating (or just sexing; I tend to believe it’s the latter and not the former) two women in the month I’ve personally known him. Who knows how many are truly out there?

  “I should get going. I’m sure you have a lot of things planned for tomorrow.”

  Yeah, I planned waking up to online shop. No way I’m hitting those crazy crowds on Black Friday. “Not really. Just movies and hot chocolate.”

  “How do you make hot chocolate?” He asked. “With water or milk?”

  “Just water. You can make it with milk?”

  “It’s the only way to make hot cocoa. With marshmallows and whipped cream.” He flashed that beautiful smile again.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” A small sensual air passed through us. Or maybe it was just me remembering to breathe when I’m around him. “You can stay if you don’t have any plans.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me to spend the night with you?”

  Shit. I did just ask that, didn’t I? Crap. That sounds bad. “Well, I don’t mean it like that! I mean, if you want to stay longer and watch movies or a TV show with me, we can do that.” As well. We can do that as well. You know, in addition to the other things we could do.

  Ian slightly chuckled. Either at my stupidity or well, just my stupidity. “Are your roommates coming home soon? I don’t want to be burned or shanked.”

  I smiled at the inside joke. Look at us, we have our own inside joke now. Geez, I’m a bigger noob than I thought. “No, Helen and Michelle are gone for the weekend. Helen lives up in the Bay and Michelle is about an hour or so in Riverside so it’s just me.” It’s just us.

  “Sure,” he pulled out his Bentley key and wallet. “I would love to stay longer and watch movies with you.”

  According to Merriam-Webster, the definition of thirsty is needing water. According to street slang, however, thirsty means too eager to get some play or being rather desperate.

  Is it possible I’m a little bit of both right now?

  Eleven

  After flipping through a variety of movies that neither one of us were interested in, we finally decided to watch an indie flick. I made some popcorn and brought out sodas. I turned off the lights and made my way to my section of the sofa.

  We were bookends.

  Usually people sit at a relatively close distance with each other. Maybe not cuddling, but at least within arm’s reach. We were so far apart on the long sofa, I had a feeling I was in a different zip code.

  We watched the movie in silence, with Ian chuckling at some parts. Not sure if he truly enjoyed the movie or if he wondered how in the hell did his Thanksgiving become such a clusterfuck? Still, he seemed to be enjoying himself no matter the case and that’s what really mattered.

  “So, why is it that you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  His question jarred me from the bright TV screen and I found myself stammering. Here I thought Ian was in his own mind, entertaining himself in BFE while he was really scoping my history. “Wh-wh-what do you mean?”

  “If you had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be here; he would be. Your pulchritude is legendary and your intelligence is astounding. So why are you single?”

  My pulchritude is legendary? Holy shit, Batman! That’s the most incredible thing a man has ever said to me. (Pulchritude means beauty, for those who don’t know.)

  If I was at a loss of words before, I’m truly stunned now. “I’m picky about who I date.”

  Ian nodded as if he agreed with my stance. “Good. Too many wasteful men out there.”

  I decided to flip the script on him. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “I’m just as picky,” he nodded and slouched down on the sofa, “everyone knows the Ferguson name but all they see is the flashy cars, the designer clothes, and the celebrity friends.”

  “Well, that’s courtesy of you, Ian,” I pointed out. His IG account was filled with his expensive toys, celebrity friends, and vacation pics from around the world. He was definitely the flashier of the Fergusons. I’m sure he being named as one of the world’s most eligible bachelors didn’t hurt his cause.

  But he was a quiet flashy, if that makes sense. Other than he switched dates as much as I switched TV channels, you never heard about him getting it poppin’ in the club or acting like an asshole like some of these celebrity wannabes. Even online (because yes, when you have a crush on someone you Google the hell out of them; don’t act like I’m the only one), his fangirls talk about their encounters with him. How handsome he was (true), how polite and kind he was (also true), and how amazing he smelled (that is damn true).

  I guess when you’re a successful restaurateur at 33, you don’t have time for the unnecessary bullcrap.

  “I know my role,” he shrugged as if he took the blame but he still didn’t see what was wrong, “it’s when a woman sees all of that but wonders why you can’t see her because you’re hosting a celebrity party…when you’re catering a private event…when you have to shut down the restaurant because a wealthy client wanted to celebrate his son’s bat mitzvah…” His voice trailed off and he gave a defeated shrug. It seemed to be an issue he’d dealt with for a while.

  DJ Khaled always mentioned he suffered from success and I thought it was a joke. The only thing that man suffered from was too many trips to the buffet table. Now hearing Ian wax poetic, I get it. If Ian wanted to be successful on his own, it meant he couldn’t give the same focus to his dating life.

  I would feel sorry for him but I’m sure as lonely as he gets, his dick stays wet as evident by our first encounter at his penthouse.

  “They see the success but not the hard work that goes behind it,” I mentioned.

  “Everyone does.” Ian replied. “That’s what rappers sell. That’s what those late-night scamming informercials sell. That’s what the reality shows sell. They show the big homes, the flashy cars, the designer purses and clothes. They don’t see the 12-hour days. They don’t see us working seven days a week. They don’t see us working major holidays.” Ian sighed again. “Every Valentine’s Day, I’ve spent it at my restaurants, not with a date.”

  I mean, if you want a Valentine’s date in a few months, my schedule is wide open, boy. “I don’t see you crying over that.”

  “Because I didn’t. They did.” Ian seemed part-remorseful and part-annoyed. Now I understand why he doesn’t have girlfriends. Too much time and energy to dedicate to a single person. Lord knows I’m needy and would want to see him all of the time.

  Maybe it’s a good thing he’s just a fantasy and not reality. I had a feeling I would’ve been super disappointed.

  “Domi?”

  “Yes, Ian?”

  “You could scoot closer to me if you like. I promise I won’t disrespect you.”

  Gotta love it when a man tells you he’ll be on his best behavior. Also gotta love it when you wish he wasn’t. This is a part of Ian I would la
ter find out how incredibly frustrating it is. I mean, if he decided to give my ass a little smack, I don’t think I would mind that at all.

  I laid my head on his chest and listened to the soft beating of his heart as his arm lazily draped over my body. He felt even better than I’d imagined. His muscular build hugged me right back. His cologne tickled every one of my senses.

  Ian was better than hot cocoa on a blistering cold night. Just feeling his warmth and strength beneath me was everything.

  His hand was close to my butt and if he wanted to (I wanted him to), he could’ve copped a feel.