Читать книгу Love T.K.O. - Pamela Yaye - Страница 11

Yasmin shifted in her chair, convinced the man sitting across from her liked making her sweat. Rashawn wasn’t her only male client, but he had a way of looking at her that made her feel nauseated, dizzy and nervous all at the same time. The long, steady looks, the way he wet his lips and the naughty gleam in his eyes troubled her.

Shoving aside her trepidation of being alone in her office with a man with whom she shared a sheer, almost magnetic chemistry, Yasmin made notes on her client assessment sheet. “Our relationship is strictly a patient–doctor one, so let’s stick to what brought you here and the issues you’re dealing with in your life right now.”

“Does that mean I can’t ask you out again?”

Yasmin dodged the question. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“You first.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Tell me about your educational background.”

No one had ever asked her that before. People from all walks of life came into A Better Way Counseling Services for her help, assuming everything they had heard about her was true. Yasmin didn’t know if she should be impressed or offended by his request. “I graduated from the University of Miami with a degree in psychology, then got my master’s degree in marriage and family therapy the following year.”

“I bet you got good grades. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t settle for anything but a perfect GPA.”

Rashawn was right. Proud that she had coasted through her studies and made the dean’s list four consecutive years, but not wanting to sound arrogant, Yasmin stuck to the facts. “After a brief stint working in a public health clinic, I finished graduate school and received my doctoral degree in clinical psychology.”

“A savvy, young sister with a successful practice? Impressive.”

Uneasy with the way he was staring at her, she said, “Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my credentials. Let’s talk about you.”

“I’m single. Never been married. No children that I’m aware of. I’m a loving, sensitive brother searching for the right woman to spend my life with.” Rashawn saw her eyes soften and chuckled lightly. Extending his arms along the couch, he said, “I’m just playing, Doc. But women love to hear that sensitive crap, don’t they?”

Yasmin refused to be pulled into the conversation. Regardless of what he thought, this was not a two-way discussion. “Why don’t we discuss your family history?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

“My mom raised me and my brothers by herself. My dad wasn’t around much, so she shouldered most of the responsibility. I have three loudmouth brothers and I’m the oldest of the brood. They have girlfriends and kids and still live in the old neighborhood.”

“What’s your ethnic background?”

“Sounds like a personal question.”

It was and Yasmin felt guilty for asking it. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she was blurring the lines between professional and personal interest. “You don’t have to answer—”

“I’m just teasing, Doc.” A humming sound came from inside his jeans pocket, but he ignored it. “I came to see you, so feel free to ask me anything. My mom’s half black, a quarter white and a quarter Mexican, and my dad is Puerto Rican.”

“That’s quite a mix.”

“I know. I’m always teasing her that she should work for the United Nations!”

Laughing, she loosened her grip on the clipboard. “And maybe you should be a comedian instead of a boxer.”

“Then would you go out with me?”

Yasmin shied away from his gaze. If she wasn’t careful, she’d succumb to the boxer’s advances and destroy her credibility as a respectable therapist. “Do you have a relationship with your father?”

For the next half hour, Yasmin asked Rashawn about his up-bringing, background and career. He was engaging, straightforward and humorous. Yasmin tried to remain unaffected by what he told her, but Rashawn was so easy to be with, when he asked her about growing up in South Africa, she spoke freely.

“My family came to the States when I was nine, but I still remember playing in the cornfields with my younger brother and sister. We lived in Duthasa, a remote village only accessible by car. It was tough living out there, away from the city and my relatives, but at a very young age I learned how to fish, how to climb peach trees and I could swim better than kids twice my age.”

“When was the last time you went home?”

“I’m ashamed to say,” she admitted, tapping her pen absently on her clipboard. “It’s been almost ten years.”

Rashawn shared what had led him to South Africa and Yasmin was so caught up in his story, she lost track of time. If Niobie hadn’t buzzed with Ms. Dubois on line two, they would have continued talking.

“That went well,” Rashawn said, watching Yasmin. She stood and adjusted her suit. Grinning mischievously, he imagined what was underneath the crisp polyester material. Something told him this therapist was going to be a tough woman to crack. But Rashawn loved a challenge, especially one with curves. “We should continue this conversation tomorrow night.”

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“I wouldn’t be undefeated if I did.”

Yasmin raised her eyebrows, her face the picture of doubt. He talked a good game, but he was no different than any of the other guys who hit on her. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not interested in going for dinner and a movie. It’s become a cliché, don’t you think?”

“No doubt. That’s why I thought we’d do something original like drive down to the pier and spend the night checking out our great city on a boat. Ever been on the evening boat cruise?”

“No, I’ve always wanted to go but my fia—” Yasmin stopped herself midword. Returning to her desk, she fought the emotion crawling up her throat. Now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown. She had work to do and a charity fund-raiser to plan. Forcing a smile, Yasmin put a hand on the phone and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I really have to take this call.”

“No problem. Do what you gotta do.”

“I look forward to seeing you next week.”

“That makes two of us. Bye, Doc.” Rashawn strolled over to the door and tossed one last look over his shoulder before leaving.

Yasmin sat down on her chair. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to collect herself. Eric had been gone for over two years, but she felt guilty for lusting over another man. Life had been empty since her fiancé’s death, but she was finally starting to feel like her old self. Work had filled the void Eric had left and now she was near the apex of her career. After only three years of business, A Better Way Counseling Services was flourishing. Yasmin had more work than she could handle, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

The memory of better days brought tears to Yasmin’s eyes. Life with Eric. Nights at the symphony. Poetry readings at the Soul Café. Family barbecues. The night he had proposed. No, she wouldn’t betray Eric’s family or cause them any more pain. What would Eric’s parents think if they knew she was dating? Her relationship with the Iwenofus was as important to her as her relationship with her own family.

They had lost their son and brother and she had promised to help them through the ordeal. Pushing aside all thoughts of dating Rashawn and overpowering feelings of guilt, Yasmin picked up the phone and said, “Ms. Dubois, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Yasmin pulled her Volvo into the garage. Grabbing her purse off the passenger seat, she clicked the power lock button and entered the house through the side door. The elegant book-and art-filled home was in Carrollwood, an upper-middle-class neighborhood in north Tampa. Young executives and stay-at-home moms frequented the boutiques, specialty shops and five-star restaurants in the local plaza.

Flicking on lights as she strode through the main floor, she unbuttoned her blazer, shrugged it off and then draped it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Wanting their place to have a chic look, but not wanting to do the work herself, Imani had insisted they hire an interior designer. The sisters had sat down with renowned decorator Essence Gilbert-Clark, told her what they wanted and left their house in her hands. The end result was a stylish, urban decor with low-hanging ceiling lights, large suede area rugs and rich, vibrant paint. The open-concept kitchen, like the rest of the house, had walnut-stained flooring and plenty of bay windows ushering in natural light. Maple cupboards tinted in sable brown, granite countertops and dainty glass chairs accented the wide, luxurious space. Beyond the kitchen were a half bathroom and laundry room that led to the heated double garage.

Opening the fridge, Yasmin selected a bottle of her favorite wine. Once the pinot blanc was uncorked, she poured herself a glass, opened the back door and stepped outside onto the patio. Since Eric’s death, she had found herself more appreciative of the beauty of the great outdoors. The fresh air, the stars, the gentle passing of the night. It was in these quiet moments that Yasmin did the most thinking. Sitting down on a wicker chair, she propped her feet up on an ottoman and slowly sipped her drink.

Yasmin spotted Anna Karenina on the table, but didn’t reach for it. Tonight she just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The extra hours she had put in at the office after quitting time had been well spent. The fifth annual Parkland Community Center Charity Fund-raiser was starting to come together. It had taken some convincing, but Yasmin had booked the caterer, wrangled up a five-piece orchestra and organized a decorating and cleanup crew. There were eighty confirmed guests and, if they wanted to break even, they had to sell another forty tickets. All she needed now was a celebrity emcee. Last year, P. Diddy had been scheduled to appear, but a snowstorm in New York had prevented him from attending. It had been a huge letdown, but the music mogul later sent a donation and enough Sean John T-shirts for all of the children at the community center.

This year’s fund-raiser had to be a success. The well-being of a hundred inner-city children and their families was at stake. If she wanted to draw more attention to the event, she had to find a celebrity guest. Nothing attracted people to an event like an actor. Or a singer. Or an athlete.

Yasmin tilted her head to the right, an idea taking shape in her mind. There was someone she could ask. Someone popular enough to draw a huge crowd and raise thousands of dollars for the center. A man so charismatic he would make female guests swoon and male guests cheer. Rashawn Bishop was a hometown boy who’d made good, and that was a story anyone could admire. The only questions now were whether he would do it and what it would take.

“Hey, girl.”

Yasmin turned at the sound of her sister’s voice. Imani stepped onto the patio, the bottle of pinot blanc at her lips. “What are you doing home? Shouldn’t you be at Dean’s?” Yasmin asked.

“He had to work late so I decided to come home and catch up on some work.”

“I see.”

“Did you have a good day?”

“You mean before or after you reamed me out?”

Imani plunked down on the chair beside Yasmin. Her long legs poked out from underneath her money-green wrap dress, which emphasized her small bust and size-six waist. Kicking off her heels, she crossed her legs and adopted a matter-of-fact attitude. “You have no right to be mad at me. You blew off one of my biggest clients. Cecil Manning is not only poised to be our next mayor, he’s making major moves in the real estate industry, as well. We have a solid business relationship and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Yasmin took a deep breath and blew it out. When it came to her sister, she had no choice but to take the bitter with the sweet. She was annoyed with Imani, but decided not to speak on it. She had come out on the patio to clear her mind, not get into a discussion about that wimp Cecil. He had been calling her office nonstop since their blind date and had even gone as far as sending lavish bouquets of roses. Unlike Rashawn, he didn’t have a creative bone in his body. Exploring the city by boat sounded romantic. Flowers? As clichéd as a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day.

Imani must have sensed her frustration, because she dropped the subject. “How are things coming along with the fund-raiser? I sold tickets to everyone in my office and all of the prospective buyers I met with today.”

“Thanks. Things are going a lot better now that I’ve booked the entertainment and found a caterer.”

“That’s great. Have you found an emcee yet? I mentioned it to Cecil and he was more than happy to volunteer. He said—”

“I have someone in mind.”

Imani took a swig from the wine bottle. “Really, who?”

“Ever heard of Rashawn Bishop?”

“That fine-ass boxer with the six-pack? Of course, who hasn’t?”

“Me, I guess.” Yasmin told her about what had happened at the Laurdel Lounge and his surprise visit to the clinic that afternoon. “He asked me out again. He said we could drive down to the pier and spend the night on one of those evening boat cruises.”

“Damn, girl! Why didn’t you tell me?” Imani asked, smacking her sister’s leg. “I wouldn’t be pushing Cecil on you if I knew you were interested in someone else.”

“I’m not interested in Rashawn. I just want him to emcee the fund-raiser.”

“You guys aren’t going out?”

Yasmin shook her head. “I can’t think about dating anyone until I’m over Eric.”

“When does this self-imposed grief period end? It’s been over two years and you’ve turned down every single guy who’s asked you out. You need to jump-start your love life and maybe this Rashawn guy is the one to help you do it.”

“Leave it alone, Imani. I’m not ready.” Her eyes watered and everything went out of focus. “I need more time.”

“Yassie, I know you loved Eric but who’s to say there isn’t someone else out there for you?”

When silence settled over the patio, Imani put the bottle of wine on the table, stood and headed back into the house. Returning with her laptop under her arm and a can of tuna and a spoon in the other, she said, “I know how much you like to look people up on Google, so let’s check out this Rashawn guy together.” While she waited for the computer to load, she opened the tuna and ate it straight out of the can.

Light flooded the patio as the computer came to life. Yasmin watched her sister type Rashawn’s name into the search bar, convinced this late-night investigation wouldn’t garner any useful information.

“Imani, don’t waste your time. I’m not ready to start dating, and even if I was, it wouldn’t be with someone like Rashawn Bishop. He’s pierced and tattooed and he’s a boxer, for God’s sake! He doesn’t even have his college degree.” Shifting in her chair, she averted her gaze. He was all wrong for her. He looked like a player, like the kind of man who lied, cheated and dogged women out. But, Yasmin knew that wasn’t true. Rashawn had stood up for her and only a gentleman would do that.

“Bingo!” A picture of Rashawn, bare-chested and glistening, filled the eighteen-inch screen. His Web site was loaded with pictures, newspaper articles and had expensive, high-powered graphics. Imani leaned forward, her nose practically touching the monitor. She read his bio out loud and shared any information she thought would interest her. “I’d go ten rounds with him any day!”

Yasmin didn’t doubt the truth of her sister’s words. Imani was in a committed, long-term relationship, but her gutsy style and carefree spirit attracted men in droves. “And what about Dean? What would you tell him?”

“Please, he’d probably ask if he could watch!”

Yasmin laughed, her narrow shoulders shuddering. Imani and Dean took spontaneity to a whole new level. They’d tried it all, strip clubs, bondage, threesomes, and still managed to maintain a healthy, committed relationship. Yasmin would never advise a female client to fulfill her man’s every wish or sexual fantasy, but Imani and Dean’s arrangement worked for them, period.

Imani tapped a manicured nail on the screen. “According to his bio, he just turned twenty-seven. You found yourself a hot young boxer! Way to go, Sis!”

“I didn’t know. I thought he was my age,” she protested, peering at the computer screen. Yasmin never would have guessed he was five years younger. He was mature, responsible and had an air of authority about him. Definitely not the average twenty-something guy. “I don’t care how old he is. Like I said, he’s not my type.”

“Don’t be so quick to write him off, Yassie. You know my motto. Keep an open mind and jump at every opportunity that comes your way. Before meeting Dean, I went out with anyone who asked. Why not? It’s a free meal, a chance to get dressed up, and half the time, decent conversation.”

“I’ve never looked at it that way,” Yasmin admitted. As usual, her sister had given her something to think about. No one said she had to marry the guy.

Imani turned away from the computer screen, the expression on her face a serious one. “Give it some thought, Yassie. You never know when love may come knocking.”