Page 20 of Betrothed To Love

“No. Sit, for real. I got it,” she insists. She doesn’t walk out of her living room until I’m seated on her sectional. My eyes scan the space. The off white and grays make the room bright and open. I like her style, very classy but not obnoxious. “I did cranberry juice,” she says when she walks into the living room with two flutes in hand.

After handing one to me, she places the other on the crystal tray in the middle of her large ottoman. She walks toward her kitchen then returns minutes later with a small platter of sliders, cheese cubes, and fruit. Even though she didn’t want my help, I stand and relieve her of the tray and the small stack of plates and napkins in her hands.

“On the tray?” I ask.

“Yes, and thank you,” she responds. Carefully, I ease the platter and stack onto the crystal tray and she sits, grabbing a plate and tongs from the platter. “What do you want to start with?” she asks.

“You can just give me a little of everything,” I admit because I haven’t had anything to eat today. I woke up with meeting her on my mind; I didn’t even think about food.

“There’s turkey, ham, and chicken salad.”

“Yeah, all of them,” I say and she grins as she fills the plate then gives it to me.

“Thanks,” I tell her. After she prepares her plate, she grabs her flute then sits on the sectional across from me. She raises her leg and tucks it under her other thigh before taking a sip. I get comfortable too by relaxing into the sectional with my plate in hand. For a moment, we sit in silence, me enjoying the sandwiches and fruit and her sipping her mimosa. After about fifteen minutes, I finally break the silence. Since I’ve been admiring the artwork on her wall, I use it as an ice breaker. “Your paintings. They’re really dope.”

A smile spreads across her pretty ass face and she sits up. “Oh thank you. I’m obsessed with the artist. All of her paintings speak to me. She’s bold and the pieces are unique and dynamic. The way she captures Black womanhood is just phenomenal,” she gushes, sounding so much like Shuga.

“Nina Wright?” I question and her smile gets brighter and her eyes widen.

“You know of Nina?”

“Yes. Shuga, my mom, is an art fanatic and actually owns a few of her paintings. Well, a lot of them actually.”

“Oh my God. That’s amazing. I only discovered her about three years ago but I love all of her stuff, especially her earlier work.”

Bringing up the artwork works out better than I thought, and just that quick, the mood in the room has lightened. I take a chance and jump to us. “So I’m guessing we’re staying married. You didn’t give me papers to sign,” I say.

Her smile drops a little then she sighs. Before answering, she places her empty flute on the tray. “That’s why you’re here,” she begins and exhales again before continuing. “But only because I talked to my campaign manager earlier. Getting married to the defendant’s brother in the case I recused myself from and then annulling said marriage days later looks too much like judicial misconduct. That would not only cost me the election but my license could be in jeopardy. Not even the truth can save me,” she says, reaffirming what I already know.

“Damn. That was not what I wanted at all.”

“It’s not all you. I talked to my friends and remembered what I did before the ball. Friday was rough and I finished a whole can of Velvet Buzz.”

“The weed drink?” I ask, admittedly surprised. I didn’t picture her as someone who indulges.

“You know about it?” she says and I nod. “Well, then you know a whole can is too much, at least for me. That little strong ass can and the Manhattans at the ball all led me to an internet wedding and waking up in your hotel bed. I alone take responsibility for my actions. I should have read the damn can or stayed my ass at home.”

“Now, I really feel bad. If I had known you were blazed, I definitely wouldn’t have even approached you. I just⁠—”

“There’s no way you could have known,” she says, interrupting me. “But please, let me apologize for initially implying that you drugged me. I drugged myself. And now, we’re here, married. It is what it is, and according to my campaign manager, I need to stay married until at least January, hopefully after I’m re-elected and comfortable on the bench. I just need you to agree.”

“Agreed,” I say with no hesitation. While she wants to take full accountability for what happened, I still hold the blame in my heart. Whatever I have to do to ensure that her career or bar license aren’t affected, I’ll do without a second thought. It also helps that Mireya is beautiful, smart as hell, and intriguing. I’m not going to mind spending time with her and getting to know her on a personal level. We’re married after all and I need to know my wife.

“Just like that?” she quizzes skeptically.

“Yeah. It’s that easy for me. I’m not trying to fuck up your career in any way. We’re married, and for your sake, we’re staying married.”

“Till January,” she stresses.

“Or whenever?”

“January is long enough,” she says with a smirk.

“Unless, I make you fall for me. You don’t know me yet, Mireya, but you will and you’ll see I’m a good man. I got my shit together, have my own firm, and I look pretty good too,” I say before finishing my drink. Our eyes lock and she glares at me with wonder and amusement in her eyes. Then she grins.

“I may not know you but I can see you’re very confident,” she says, smirking.

“That’s all you can see? What about my good looks?” I quip.