head to the right, she studied him through her extra-long eyelashes. “What are you doing here?”
Confused, Kyra divided her gaze between them. Antarctica isn’t this cold, she thought, rubbing her hands over her chilled shoulders. Aimee toyed with her diamond bracelet and Terrence was staring off into space, but their mutual animosity was clear. Kyra sat there silently, passively, waiting patiently for an explanation, but when they lapsed in silence, she decided to get to the bottom of things. Addressing Aimee, she said, “Did you guys hang out in the same crowd?”
Aimee shot Terrence a surreptitious glance, but he was too busy studying his Nikes to notice. Kyra frowned. Things were getting weirder by the second. In all the time she’d known Terrence, she’d never seen him look so uncomfortable.
“We dated for a while,” Aimee said.
Terrence coughed. “I wouldn’t use the word dated. We went out once or twice.”
“Once or twice?” Aimee’s eyebrows shot up. Glaring at him, the wrinkles in her forehead jammed together in a clump of crooked lines and she stuck a hand on her hip. If it wasn’t for her designer clothes, she’d look like a deranged clown. “He’s lying,” she spat, anger seeping through her tone. “It was a lot more than a couple dates.”
Kyra remained seated, without moving a muscle, unable to believe the scene unfolding before her. Terrence had slept with Aimee? Kyra didn’t know why she was surprised. Everyone wanted Aimee Phillips. Her hazel-blue eyes were offset by creamy brown skin, and high cheekbones. The product of a black man and a white woman trying to make a go of an interracial marriage in the early seventies, Aimee had lived most of her life being teased by whites, ostracized by blacks and thoroughly confused about where she fit on the color line. But since relocating to Atlanta, Kyra had seen her friend blossom. After decades of fighting for acceptance, she’d finally come into her own.
Kyra didn’t think the evening could get any worse, but when Terrence excused himself from the table and Aimee launched into a lengthy play-by-play about their hot and heavy summer romance, Kyra felt sick to her stomach.
Chapter 9
At ten o’clock the next morning, Terrence turned onto Penrose Drive and searched for house number forty-nine. The suburban neighborhood of East Point featured impressive homes, neat lawns and a surfeit of shiny convertibles.
Terrence found Kyra’s condo at the end of the block. Decorative flower plants flanked the porch and fine calligraphy script beautified a pair of wooden rocking chairs. Trees arched gracefully along the entrance, and behind the row of mailboxes was a small pond. A red Dodge Viper car was parked in the driveway. Knots of tension twisted in his stomach. That wasn’t Kyra’s car. So whose was it? Charles’s?
His luxury sports car rolled to a stop, but Terrence didn’t take his foot off the brake. What was Charles doing here? Had he come for breakfast or had he spent the night? He hadn’t considered, not even for a moment, that Kyra might be in love with Charles Roberts. She rarely mentioned the guy, and when she wasn’t working late she was with her friends. Terrence didn’t want anyone up under him 24/7, but if Kyra was his woman, he’d want to see her all day, every day.
He’d been smiling ever since he’d reunited with Kyra and thoughts of her snuck up on him when he least expected it. Yesterday, he was confident that he was making progress, but now he was back at square one. Still annoyed about his run-in with Aimee last night at The Tavern, he released a long, pained sigh. Aimee’s arrival had ruined everything. And he knew that she’d badmouthed him to Kyra after he left the table. That’s just the kind of girl Aimee Phillips was. He shook his head at the inanity of the situation. Of all the women in his past, he’d been dogged by a sister who could be the spokesperson for the Gold Diggers of America.
Terrence considered his options. Coming clean about his fling with Aimee would open the door to other conversations about his past. Did Kyra really need to know about that raucous weekend in Rio? Or about the DUI he’d been charged with last year?
His knee was acting up, but he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to see Kyra. He’d popped a couple of aspirin, had a shot of whiskey and jumped into his car. His decision was an easy one to make. He was going to do what he’d always done in the face of adversity. Forge ahead. After all, Charles Roberts was the least of his problems. Kyra’s temporary boyfriend wasn’t the biggest obstacle. Their past was.
Terrence released his seat belt. He had his work cut out for him. It was going to be an uphill battle to win Kyra’s trust, but he was nothing if not determined. Shoving his keys into his pocket, he reached across the seat and grabbed the bags of takeout.
Strolling up the walkway, he took the steps two at a time and rang the doorbell. A half-minute later, he heard light footsteps. Terrence wasn’t sure how he’d feel if Charles answered, but before he could reflect on it, the door swung open. Terrence didn’t know if he should be surprised or relieved. Aimee didn’t speak, but her arched eyebrows and upturned mouth spoke of her annoyance. “What do you want?”
Staggered to see her, he greeted the personal chef with all the kindness he could muster. “How’s it going, Aimee?”
Her frown deepened.
A dead ringer for the late singer Aaliyah, she wore her hair parted down the middle and a revealing, bone-white dress that offered two cupfuls of cleavage. “You look very nice today. Are you catering an event this—”
“You didn’t drive over here to hand out compliments, so get to it.”
“I’m here to see Kyra.”
“She’s busy.” Her tongue clicked against her teeth, making a loud, annoying sound. “You really should have called first. Showing up uninvited is in poor taste, Terrence, even for you.”
“You don’t understand. I—”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she snapped, making a face that could rival Ugly Wanda. “Don’t think for a second that I’m going to let you play my best friend, Terrence. I know your MO and I’m onto you, so don’t even try it.”
The devil doesn’t wear Prada, he thought, she wears Apple Bottoms. Like a menacing-looking security guard at a gated mansion in the Hollywood Hills, Aimee was barring his entrance into Kyra’s house and seemed to take great pleasure in insulting him.
“Kyra’s expecting me,” he told her, annoyed that she was spoiling for a fight at this ungodly hour. “If it wasn’t for the accident on Ninth, I would’ve been here an hour ago.”
After five miserable hours of sleep, he’d dragged himself out of bed and made the hour-long trek to East Point to have brunch with Kyra. He wasn’t here to listen to Aimee run her mouth. That was one of the reasons he’d stopped calling her. She talked constantly and had something to say about everything. In her mind, silence was the enemy, and if there was a break in the conversation, she felt it was her duty to fill it with mindless jibber-jabber. “Are you going to go and get her for me?”
Aimee shook her head, her ponytail swishing back and forth. “She’s getting dressed and I’m on my way out, so call her later,” she suggested, gathering her purse. “Now, get out of my way. I’m running late.”
“No problem. You go about your business and I’ll wait for Kyra in the kitchen.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” Arms folded, she sneered at him with open contempt. “There’s another man in Kyra’s life and I don’t think he’d like you sniffing around.”
“It’s not like that. Kyra and I went to Hollington together. We’re old friends.”
Surprise colored her cheeks. Her green-eyed glare spoke of her malevolence, but she loosened her grip on the door handle. “You’re not interested in Kyra romantically?” she asked, her tone accusatory. “Last night at The Tavern, you sure looked interested. You had your arms around her and you were drooling like my brown lab!”
Appearing nonchalant,