9781405964340

Three. Two. One . . .

penguin books

The Kiss Countdown

LLEtta Easton is a certified hopeless romantic who now writes contemporary romance. Her stories are full of humor, relatable heroines, swoon-worthy heroes and Black joy. The Kiss Countdown is her debut novel. She lives in Central Texas, with her husband and two young kids, who get all of their sweetness and attitude from their momma. When not reading or writing, Etta indulges in her s’mores obsession and searches for her next favorite love song.

THe KISS COUNTDOWN

Etta Easton L m

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First published in the United States of America by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 2024

First published in Great Britain by Penguin Books 2024 001

Copyright © Etta Easton, 2024

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Book design by Shannon Nicole Plunkett

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

The authorized representative in the EEA is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978–1–405–96434–0

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The Kiss Countdown L L

Chapter One

Homeboy has ten seconds to divert his eyes from my ass before I lose it.

Ten . . . nine . . .

I face the pastry case lled with freshly baked donuts and scones, frowning at the re ection of the man behind me. I say homeboy, but in reality, he looks old enough to be my granddad, with his full gray mustache and a pair of reading glasses perched atop his shiny head. Like most patrons ooding Moon Bean this early, he wears a business suit with wide tan slacks and a black blazer that lends no credibility to his character. Not when he’s eyeing my backside like it’s one of the butter croissants on display.

One.

“ is is my rst time here. What do you suggest I get, sugar?” he says, close enough for his Brut aftershave to wrap me in a choke hold.

Nope. We are not playing this game. Not today, when I’m already on edge, anticipating the meeting that will help launch my new beginning—or see it fail at groundbreaking speed.

I whip my head around and glare, reaching deep into that ancestral pool of fortitude handed down from generations of resilient women who perfected the mess with me

M and die look. In two seconds he slides back to a respectable distance and raises his phone to his nose.

at’s more like it. Satis ed, I pivot to face the front of the line once more, but it isn’t long before another glance toward the glass case tells me he’s back to ogling.

As the person in front of me moves up, I’m distracted when my phone buzzes. It’s my best friend, Gina, texting that she’s leaving her apartment. I let her know I’m already in line so she can grab us a table when she gets here.

Gina rarely makes the three-minute walk it takes to get from our respective apartments to the co ee shop more than twice a week, and when she does, I can always count on her to be at least ten minutes late. e conversion from central standard time to Gina time works in my favor today. No doubt, if she’d witnessed the exchange between Pops and me just now, she’d be harping on me for not entertaining his nonsense and applauding his willingness to risk it all for someone half his age, all the while laughing her ass o .

“I can help the next person in line,” a barista with a hotpink face mask says, and I move forward, dismissing the man behind me from my mind.

After ordering our drinks, I don’t dare approach the pickup counter yet. Against the burr of multiple grinders and blenders going at once, a blockade of thirsty patrons watch the baristas furiously topping o drinks with pumps of syrup or oat milk, silently praying their hit of ca eine comes next. e only other time you see a crowd this anxious to get their hands around something hot is when it involves turkey legs at the rodeo. You can never know what someone is liable to do when deprived of co ee or poultry, so I keep looking around the shop until I spot Gina.

She waves at me from a table by a large window decorated with hand-drawn candy canes and Christmas ornaments, and I head that way.

e heavy green chair scrapes against the oor as I pull it out and sit across from her. “Hey.”

“Good morning,” she sings, and it’s hard to believe she likely hopped out of bed ve minutes before texting me.

Gina is one of those unnatural people who wake up with a good stretch and wide smile, ready to face the day. Not a drop of co ee in her system and she’s brighter than a ray of sunshine in her long-sleeve white shirt and knitted yellow scarf.

Technically, I’m a morning person too. After years spent waking up before the sun to prepare for large-scale events, my internal alarm rarely allows me to sleep past six in the morning. But it takes me a nice long walk, usually around the golf course behind my apartment complex, and a cup of co ee before I’m ready for human interaction. Add in a couple of slices of bacon, and it’s on.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” I ask, keeping an ear out for my name to be called.

“I’m going to Sugar Land for a bridal party,” Gina says. “ e bride is seriously the sweetest. She’s getting an updo, and I’m doing blowouts for the bridesmaids.”

As Gina e ortlessly uses the green silk scrunchie around her wrist to pull her curls into a low ponytail, I inwardly pout. My hair never goes up that easily. Certainly not without me feeling like I’ve just nished a full upper-body workout at the gym. I guess it’s one of the perks of her being a hairstylist.

I try not to visibly shudder at the thought of brides and weddings. If I never have to attend another wedding in my life, I’ll be just ne.

Gina’s eyes widen. “Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t you have that quinceañera consultation this morning? Look at my girl. Ready to take on her rst client. How exciting! I take it after we’re done here, you’ll rush home to get cameraready.” She gives my hairline a pointed glance.

Since all I did was throw on a headband to liven up my worn bun, I’m not o ended by Gina’s blatant dig at my hair or at the concern evident in her brown eyes. I can’t blame her when it’s been only two months since I managed to claw my way out of a downward spiral that began when I almost lost my mom and worsened when my employer of eight years tossed me out like hot garbage. But being broken up with by my boyfriend was the exact push I needed to snap out of my despair and right my upended life. So I called Gina and told her I was going to start my own business.

Ever the queen to my bee, she didn’t question if I was having a midlife crisis at the age of twenty-eight. She was at my door within minutes to congratulate me, then said I couldn’t even think of starting a business until I’d swapped my sweat-stained sheets for new ones.

is morning I awoke to the sweet scent of lavender elds, knowing today was the day when, once and for all, I took control of my life. So, despite my current appearance, I’m ready.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell Gina. “When we’re done here, I’m marching to my apartment—and yes, xing my hair—then sealing the deal with my rst client.”

“You’ve got this, Mimi. And here’s some extra good luck coming your way.” Gina mimes throwing balls of glitter at me, and I indulge her by closing my eyes and basking in it.

“Medium roast and caramel latte for Amerie!” is shouted from the pickup counter, and I get up.

I maneuver around tables and furniture easily enough, but have to ght my way through two particular people who have zeroed in on the workers like their unmovable focus will make the baristas move any faster than they already are. It’s a miracle more elbows aren’t thrown in every co ee shop across America in the time between when customers place their orders and have to ght the masses to actually get them.

Relief comes when I nally reach our drinks, grab two cup sleeves, and turn to head back, feeling sorry for (and a tiny bit better than) everyone still waiting.

“I went with the cappuccino,” Pops says from beside me, and I almost drop the drinks.

I knew he wouldn’t be discouraged for long. ese oldschool dudes are a di erent breed of tenacious, but I’ve got no patience to deal with his foolishness today. I grit my teeth as I turn away from him without making eye contact.

I’m halfway to Gina when I realize I forgot to add cinnamon to my co ee. at won’t do. I abruptly turn around, only to have my right elbow connect with something warm and solid, accompanied by a man’s surprised grunt.

After catching my footing, I’m grateful the lids have held and neither of the cups in my hands spilled. As good as the co ee is, some of the baristas are notoriously awful at putting the lids on, so I always make sure to snap mine tightly before grabbing them. Foresight and planning for the win.

I’m ready to lay into Pops for his stalkerish tendencies when I look up and realize not only did I not collide with Pops, but the man I did bump into didn’t fare as well as I did.

Co ee blots what I’m sure was once a pristinely pressed white shirt like paintball splatters, while dark spots coat-

ing the zipper of tted navy slacks make it look like he had a suspicious accident in the restroom. e co ee stops mid-torso, so I let my eyes travel up to a wide chest and broad shoulders, then momentarily lose my breath once I reach my victim’s face.

He’s tall, standing a good head above me, with skin that’s a rich, warm brown. He’s clean-shaven, with the barest hint of a ve-o’clock shadow, and gorgeous full lips that stand out in perfect proportion to a cut jaw. His eyes are a beautiful golden brown, like topaz. You’d think he’d once been foolish enough to stare into the sun long enough to capture its beams. I don’t know how else someone would get eyes that brilliant. As our gazes hold, the ground begins to feel unsteady, like the earth might collapse right out from under me, and for a second, I wish I’d worn something more stylish than leggings and an old U of H hoodie. I tear my focus away from his face and focus on his shirt.

I blink, back on solid ground, then grimace at the mess covering his lower half. “Sorry about that.”

In the silence that follows, I wait for him to say something like, It’s okay or Oh no, it was actually my fault for walking right on your heels. But he says nothing, and I look up to nd his eyes still rooted to my face. ough his stare appears a little dazed, my neck begins to prickle. What is it with people today? All I want to do is enjoy my morning cup of co ee. Not get hit on by old men who should know better, and de nitely not bump into handsome strangers.

Under his piercing gaze, my annoyance hedges toward guilt, and I try to swallow my irritation. I am the one who turned around without being aware of my surroundings and should probably o er more than an apology.

“I can pay for your shirt to get cleaned,” I say grudgingly. I hate the thought of adding a stranger’s dry-cleaning

bill to my already tight budget, but it is my fault he’ll likely go around smelling like stale co ee grounds all day. “ ere’s a dry cleaner’s just a few stores down.”

“Dry cleaning?” he nally says, and wow. at voice. It’s as rich and smooth as my favorite brew. And judging by his slow response, he probably needed every drip of the co ee that just spilled.

“Yes. For your shirt.”

He looks down, and I think he’s nally snapped out of whatever trance he was in. ick eyebrows shoot up as his eyes land on the white cup with a black lid that now sits askew and then his shirt cu that’s soaking wet.

His eyebrows draw together as he looks back at me, seemingly stunned. “You bumped into me.”

I might’ve clapped if my hands weren’t full. I settle for a nod instead. “I know. at’s what I’m apologizing for.” I sigh and look around, noticing how Gina has switched to the opposite side of the table and now has a straight line of sight to this spectacle. Great, she’ll be talking about this for weeks.

at’s it, dry cleaning is o cially o the table.

“How about you let me buy you another co ee?” I o er instead.

He frowns. “But I don’t have time to get a cup with you.”

Something isn’t clicking here, and I am holding on to my last shreds of patience with everything in me. “What is your name?” I ask slowly.

“Vincent. And you are?”

“Don’t worry about that. Look, Vincent, I was o ering to replace the co ee I spilled, not whatever it is you’re thinking.”

My answer amuses him for some reason, as he tilts his head to the side with half a smile. “ ‘Don’t worry about that’ is an interesting name.”

So he’s got jokes. Not funny, and de nitely not appreciated. But jokes.

“Do you want co ee or not?” I demand.

His eyes light up even more as he chuckles, and I roll my shoulders to de ect the pleasant sensation the sound tries to elicit. I am not about to be seduced by a nice laugh.

Tearing his gaze from me, he quickly sobers when he checks his watch, which, luckily for him, is still dry. “I better hurry home and change before I’m late for the Monday meeting,” he mutters, then sighs and looks at me. “Maybe you can make up for the co ee another time.”

My eyes bug out at his words. I am too stunned to speak. And before I can think of a good comeback, he’s out the door.

“You can buy me another co ee if you want.” Pops steps close and eyes me as he raises his cup to his mouth. “I know how you independent women these days like to pay for everything, so you can take me to breakfast too.”

Heaven help me.

I look at the ground, where two drops of co ee lie on the light wooden oor. “Watch your step. Don’t want to have you fall and break a hip.”

Walking away, I shake my head. My mom would tear me a new one for not respecting my elders, even if he did deserve it.

Back at the table, I set our cups down and regard Gina sternly. “Do. Not. Even.”

“What?” Her eyes are all rounded innocence. She takes a small sip of her latte, but I can see she’s ready to burst.

I may as well have her get it out of her system now instead of badgering me later. With a sigh, I fold my arms across my chest and wait for her to crack.

It doesn’t take long. She leans forward on the table and

covers one side of her mouth like she’s telling me a big secret. “Okay, but did you see how ne he was?”

“He’s still here if you want me to get his number for you.”

“What?” Her eyebrows knit before she scowls. “Don’t play. You know I’m not talking about Grandpa. I’m referring to Hottie with the Body.”

“Oh, you mean the aggravating man with the . . .” Damn, I can’t think of anything catchy like Gina.

She shakes her head. “Tell me you gave him your number, or at least got his?”

I grab my drink but set it down again, leaning back in my chair and shaking my head at Gina’s ridiculous question. “Of course I didn’t get his number.”

“I don’t see why not. You could do with a little love in your life now that you’re done wasting time with Derrick.”

“Now that Derrick and I have broken up, my focus is on me, myself, and my business. No distractions, especially from men.”

“But—”

“Especially from that man.”

Him and his You can make up for the co ee another time. at is not how this works.

Gina pouts and I sigh. I know she wants me to nd the happiness she has with her boyfriend, Mack. It’s the same kind of happiness my parents have. I used to want that too. Derrick hadn’t been the love of my life. I knew it even when we were together, making plans to someday move in with each other and get married. But what if he had meant more? What if, when everything had ended, I’d spiraled even further and lost all of myself? For one, I wouldn’t be here drinking co ee with Gina.

Which is exactly why I won’t pursue any relationships. I can’t a ord to fall apart ever again.

“I’m just not in the market to get involved with anyone,” I say.

“Fine. Get your business up and ourishing. en we’ll nd the love of your life. You won’t be able to run from the man you’re destined to be with forever.”

I shake my head at her and take a sip of my co ee. It’s only then that I realize: After my run-in with the stranger— Vincent—I still forgot to get my cinnamon.

After coffee, Gina and I bid farewell as she sets off to meet her client, and I head to my apartment, leaving behind thoughts of men and untimely collisions. I live in a nice little fusion of residential and commercial real estate. For a stretch of three blocks, the street is lined with boutiques, restaurants, and essential businesses. Gina and I live in the same apartment complex, but she lives with Mack and Mack Jr. (aka Human Mack and Dog Mack), while I live in a one-bedroom by myself.

On my way to my apartment, I pass through the courtyard. It’s a large rectangle of Astroturf framed by metal tables and chairs, with a black marble fountain stretching across the front. e farmers market and other small vendors attract shoppers twice a week, on Sunday and Wednesday. I’ve set up a booth for the past two weeks. It’s how my potential client found me.

My stomach tightens at the thought of what awaits me. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. I’ve got this. Planning quinceañeras is my jam. Planning anything is my jam. It’s what made me such a valuable asset at Jacob and Johnson for eight years. My vision and legendary parties helped launch them into being one of Houston’s top event plan-

ning rms. Just because I no longer work there doesn’t mean I’ve lost my touch.

So today I will charm this client with my great personality. Wow her with my ideas. And dazzle her with my follow-through. en, once I’ve made her daughter’s big moment the event of a lifetime, she will recommend me to her friends, and everyone will know Amerie Price is back. And everything will make sense again.

When I climb the stairs and land on the second oor, I see bright pink papers attached to all the doors. Someone’s been busy this morning. It’s probably a notice about upcoming maintenance visits or reminders to the pet owners to clean up around the building.

God, I hope they’re not reassigning the parking spaces again.

I unlock my door and step into my one-bedroom apartment. Once I place my keys down and turn on the lights, I read the paper, and the words threaten to derail me from the measured footing I just gained. It’s a notice for the structure of new rent prices. Starting in the new year, my unit is going up by 30 percent.

I resist balling up the paper and throwing it in the trash.

With the money I’ve been saving up for years and the severance package I received from my old job, I have enough to ride out this price increase for another lease term, but not enough to pay for rent and help my parents.

How did this catch me o guard? I should have expected it when new management took over. e apartments were renamed the Hidden Palms three months ago; I’d just been too focused on my misery to care. It’s always the same story. First, rebranding: new name, new paint, balloons out front. Next, they start promoting social events

to “get to know your fellow tenants,” along with perks like free massages on Wednesdays. A few months later—when they know they’ve got you—the price hikes kick in. Shit like this should be illegal. is, however, is a worry for another day. In fact, an increase in rent won’t be a worry at all if I get my business up and running with a bang.

On that thought, I place the pink paper beside my keys and head to my bedroom. My hoodie is exchanged for a cream silk blouse. Powder and lip gloss give my complexion a little life. With Gina’s voice in my head, I put my hair in a low curly ponytail and smooth my edges, and I’m camera-ready.

I get out my brand-new computer. It was one of the pricey but necessary purchases I had to make when I decided to venture out on my own, since the one I’d been using for years belonged to Jacob and Johnson. I forked out even more money to load it with planning software.

Pulling up Zoom, I click on the link and wait with bated breath for my potential client to show up.

After ten minutes I send her a text message.

Me: Hey, I just want to make sure you’ve got the link. Here it is again. I can’t wait to chat about your daughter’s quinceañera!

Right away, I see the message has been read, but she doesn’t respond. Maybe she’s running behind or just now waking up. Nine is still early for some, especially parents trying to shuttle kids to school and ght Houston tra c, so as I watch the clock in the bottom corner of my screen change from 9:14 to 9:15, I try to cling to the hope that she’ll join me any second. Unable to help myself, I glance

toward the front door, where the too-bright pink paper shouts at me from beside my keys, and force down the rising fear that wants to swallow me whole at the thought of what I’ll do if this venture doesn’t pan out. en, after twenty more torturous minutes, I leave the virtual meeting. No one is joining me.

My reputation has preceded me, and not the one I painstakingly created over years of being one of the best event planners Houston has to o er.

I turn o my ring light, wash my face, and curl up in bed.

Chapter Two

As my phone rings on my second loop around the golf course, I pull it from my front pocket to see a picture of my mom cradling a bundle of purple yarn.

I do my best to muster a smile I don’t feel, knowing she’ll be able to hear it through the distance, and answer. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hey, Mimi. How’s it going?” Her voice is warm and loving, doing the trick to turn my brittle smile real, if only for a second.

“I’m okay,” I say. “You’re up early. Have you and Daddy made it to Las Vegas?”

“Not yet. We decided to visit the Grand Canyon rst. And my Lord, what a sight it is.” Her carefree laugh squeezes my heart. “Imagine the widest, deepest, most beautiful wonder you’ve ever seen on TV, and multiply it by ten. Words don’t do it justice. And the stars! So many light up the sky at night, you don’t even need a ashlight once your eyes adjust. A group from the local university set up telescopes for guests to look through, and we even saw the International Space Station pass by. Oh! Your dad did one of those tours on a donkey and got some unbelievable pictures. It’s amazing out here, Mimi.” She sighs into the speaker. “I wish we could’ve come here as a family when you were younger.”

I love hearing about my parents’ adventures. We were nomads when I was a kid, though not in the sense that we traveled from city to city, exploring all that the world had to o er. More like we hopped from apartment to apartment throughout the years. ey were always cheap, mostly sketchy and cramped, but more than accommodating to renters who couldn’t commit to long leases. With my dad working one stable job that barely covered rent and Mom’s constant medical bills, it was all we could a ord. It wasn’t until I graduated high school and my dad was promoted to a manager that they broke the cycle of endless moving. Now my parents have a cute three bed, two bath. ey aren’t rich by any means, but their reversal of fortune is nothing short of amazing. And as happy as I am for them, I’d be lying if I didn’t also wish it had happened before I was an adult.

Sure, I have my own designated room in their house that I stayed in during college breaks, but I’ve always felt more like a guest there. My apartment is the only place that’s ever truly been mine, and the possibility of losing it and turning into a rolling stone again lls me with unshakable dread.

“You know I don’t like heights, Momma,” I say, trying not to let my somber thoughts leak through my tone. “But you and Daddy eat your hearts out. Make sure you’re having tons of fun, and send me pictures when you can. You’ve been taking your medicine, right? How have you been feeling?”

“Don’t worry about me, Mimi. I feel good. is RV trip is just what the doctor ordered. Who knows, I may even be able to convince your dad to sell the house, and we’ll just travel full-time.”

“Tell your mom to quit dabblin’ in whatever she’s been smokin’.” My dad’s booming baritone voice comes through clearly, and I realize I must be on speakerphone.

“Hi, Daddy. I hope you’re not letting Momma run you too ragged,” I tease as I begin walking toward Moon Bean.

“Have you met your momma? Supposed to be out here workin’, but she’s got me stoppin’ at every monument, museum, and Wa e House like she’s the one paying me.” After a second, Dad laughs, and I can imagine him stroking Mom’s hand while she glares at him.

“Hardy-har-har,” Mom says drily. “Now tell me, how are you, Mimi? We missed you so much on Christmas. I’m sorry we couldn’t call, but how was it? What did Derrick get you? For your dad’s sake, I hope it wasn’t another Titans jersey.”

Mom and Dad are doing the double duty of checking in on each warehouse that answers to Dad while also taking the opportunity to sightsee. Since they often travel through back roads, I couldn’t get through to wish them a Merry Christmas. Gina also went out of town to visit Mack’s family, so for the rst time in my life, I spent the holiday alone.

“Christmas was ne. But, um, Derrick and I decided not to exchange gifts. So no jerseys, Daddy.” Technically, it’s the truth.

While I’ve always known my mom is living on borrowed time more than the average fty-year-old, when she was hospitalized from complications with her sickle-cell anemia ten months ago and needed an emergency splenectomy, I was the one who took it the hardest. I was tortured with thoughts of what living in a world without her to turn to would encompass, leaving me unable to eat, sleep, or hold conversations. Once she was released from the hospital, she and Dad worried more about my emotional stability than her follow-up appointments and rest. If they knew the call I took when I stepped out of the room was not my boss checking on her but actually ring me, they

never would have left for their trip. So I’ve kept from them the truth of my job and my breakup with Derrick to ensure they’ll focus on the time they have together, not me.

“We can talk more about the holidays later,” I say. “I want to hear more about the Grand Canyon.”

By the time I make it to the co ee shop, the connection is bad enough that everything they say is a garbled mess. We hang up, with my parents shout-promising to send pictures, and I pull the phone away from my ear, once again alone in every sense. My smile falters, and I let my shoulders fall under the combined weight of feeling like a failure for not being able to get my business o the ground and feeling guilty for keeping secrets from my parents. Especially about the hospital bill.

While they’ve been traveling, I’ve been the one checking their mail to make sure their post o ce box doesn’t get too full. Two weeks into their trip, a letter from the hospital arrived. I’ve been around long enough to know what an outstanding bill looks like, and wrong or right (yes, I know it was wrong—wrong and illegal), I opened it. My heart sank when I saw the large amount for the portion Dad’s insurance didn’t cover.

It was tough enough convincing Mom to join Dad on the trip. e only reason she agreed is because she met a family at her church looking for a short-term rental while their house is under construction. ey’re using that extra money to fund their trip. In the almost thirty years that they’ve been married, the only kind of vacations they’ve taken are day trips to the beach.

If I told them about the bill, or about me losing my job, I already know what would happen. ey’d turn around and come home, and Dad would get a second job, just like he did when we moved to San Antonio when I was a kid.

In San Antonio, we stayed with my paternal grandmother, a woman who’d worked so hard her entire life she couldn’t comprehend that my mom’s condition made it impossible for her to do the same. I was miserable. I’d met Gina the year prior and had to move away from the only person who ever called me their best friend. Wanting to make his girls happy, Dad took on two extra jobs to save up enough that we could come back to Houston.

But he’s older now, and while he’d probably say his body can handle the stress of working so much, he doesn’t need to. I have the money to pay o their bills. ough after the notice of the rent increase, I don’t have enough to do that and remain in my apartment. It’s one or the other, and I choose my parents’ happiness.

I’m still holding out hope that by some miracle I’ll hit the clientele jackpot and be able to stay in my apartment, as slim as the odds are.

After the rst client ghosted me, I haven’t gained any new leads. It’s no surprise, really. When someone looks me up on the Internet, a picture of a crying bride pops up. It’s a stain I can’t wash out and a reminder of the worst weeks of my life.

But I still woke up in clean sheets, and as I look up to the predawn sky, there’s a break in the clouds with two stars shining through. When I was a little girl who still believed in the magic of the universe, I used to wish on stars all the time. It almost seems like fate that I’ve looked up at the exact right moment, and it would be a waste of cosmic energy if I didn’t make a wish now.

I focus all my energy on the brightest one. “Please, just give me one client.”

Just one. at’s all I need to get the momentum going. en I’ll work so hard to make it a success.

“Wait,” a voice says behind me, and I immediately sti en as I recognize the deep drawl. “You didn’t just make a wish, did you?”

e slight chuckle accompanying the interruption makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, even as unwanted shivers race down my spine. I asked for a damn near miracle for my business, not another infuriatingly awkward run-in. Clearly the universe has jokes.

I grind my teeth and turn around, steeling my nerves— only to be met with the man I collided with last week. Vincent. In the dark light of the early morning, he’s no less devastatingly handsome than the rst time I met him, which turns my annoyance up a notch as I cross my arms. “Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop on people?”

e same topaz eyes I stupidly thought shone as bright as the sun brush over me from head to toe, lingering a little too long on my hips, before their owner shrugs one shoulder. “It’s not eavesdropping if you speak loud enough in a public space to be overheard. Anyway, I thought you might appreciate knowing that you weren’t looking at a star.”

Lord, give me strength.

I look up to make sure I haven’t been imagining the bright dots in the sky. For all I know, I’ve been staring at a UFO and the whole reason I felt the lights were speaking to me is because aliens have been studying my sad life, trying to decide if I’m worth abducting or not. It’s a relief to see them still in place, even as wisps of clouds threaten to dull their brightness. I face Vincent again, raising both eyebrows.

He gives me the kind of smile one might bestow on a kid so proud of themselves for “reading” as they sit with a book upside down. He’s standing close enough that the smooth

material of his jacket grazes my nose when he points up and behind me. “ at is a planet. Venus, to be exact. Its dense clouds re ect light from the sun, making it one of the brightest objects from our perspective here on Earth. Morning or night, as you can see.” He regards me expectantly, then continues when I remain silent. “Remember this when studying the sky: e light that stars generate travels so far that it’s bent by our atmosphere. e bending looks like twinkling to our eyes. Planets, on the other hand, are much closer to us. e light they re ect from our sun comes in a steady beam. e other planet you see there is Jupiter.”

While he drones on, I massage the bridge of my nose as pressure builds. is man needs to read the room, because I am ten seconds away from losing it. Of course it’s a planet. I can’t launch a successful business. Can’t a ord to be honest with my parents. And now, apparently, I can’t tell a planet from a star.

I take a deep, cleansing breath, along with a much needed step back so his cologne isn’t clogging my senses. “You know what? anks for the science lesson, but I really don’t have time for this.”

I turn back toward the doors, but as I reach for the handle, Vincent grabs it rst. He ashes straight white teeth, looking for all the world like a perfect gentleman extending me a common courtesy and not like someone who’s managed to once again throw o my entire equilibrium before I’ve had an ounce of co ee. ankfully, he doesn’t follow me inside, as the phone in one of his pockets begins to ring. e door shuts behind me and I let out a sigh of relief. e relief is short-lived as I take my place in the line, replaced by a gnawing from that responsible part of my brain that says I need to be smarter about how I spend my

M money. Before I lost my job, I was saving up to buy something I’d never had—a house. I was going to be living in gorgeous Black Girl Luxury in a space that would be all mine. I’d planned to go all out, settling in a two-story with cathedral-style ceilings, bay windows, and a front yard that would be the epitome of curb appeal, with fragrant mountain laurel trees, rose bushes, and grass so lush it would look like it belonged on a golf course.

Now, without a steady source of income and the money I’ll be putting toward my mom’s hospital bills, my dreams of home ownership are nothing but a hazy mirage. Maybe someday, if I’m smart about every penny I spend and nd people willing to give a disgraced party planner another chance, I’ll be able to a ord to dream about separate garden tubs and walk-in showers again.

at doesn’t stop me from ordering a co ee for myself and two of Gina’s favorite scones when I get to the counter. I justify the purchase, knowing how much Gina will appreciate some comfort food after being stuck with Mack’s mom for a week. I plan to save them for when she comes back to town tomorrow.

e normal large morning crowd is cut in half like it always is when winter break rolls around, so it doesn’t take long before my order is ready. I grab my co ee cup and small bag and move to the sugar-and-cream station.

Co ee and I go way back. I loved the smell when my dad would make his cups in the morning and would always ask him for a sip. He’d relent only when Mom wasn’t in sight, and it always caused my face to scrunch up when the bitterness hit my jaw. But the next time, I’d ask again, and Dad would give in. By the time I was old enough to actually drink co ee, I’d gotten used to having it black, though later I discovered cinnamon adds a nice woody avor.

After sprinkling a dash of the spice in my cup, I snap the lid on and turn around, stopping short when I almost crash into some unsuspecting soul. Again.

“Sorry,” I say to a man’s back, only to immediately recognize his silver beanie with the Tennessee Titans logo—a grave insult in Texans territory. “Derrick?”

My ex turns around.

Under his atrocious beanie, he keeps his head shaved. He has a deep tan complexion, a small goatee, and groomed eyebrows. He’s the tallest man I’ve ever dated, and wherever we used to go out—it never failed—someone would ask if he played basketball. His response was always “I don’t care for the basketball court, but I do run game in the courtroom.”

Yeah, he’s a lawyer. A corny one at that.

His eyebrows shoot up when he spots me. “Amerie. What are you doing here?”

I barely resist rolling my eyes. I’m hunting rabbits. What does he think I’m doing?

“Well, you know me: morning walk, then co ee.” I raise the cup in emphasis. “I’m surprised to see you.”

While Derrick lives only about fteen minutes away, co ee shops litter every street corner between our apartments. He literally could have gone anywhere else, but decided to stop at Moon Bean. My Moon Bean.

“I was just in the neighborhood,” he explains with a shrug, looking me over. “You doing okay?”

“Oh, I’m ne,” I say quickly. He knows full well how tough this past year has been, with my mom’s health and then losing my job. Gina was right: He is so full of himself. Derrick holds out a hand in surrender. “Just keeping tabs on you.”

“You should be keeping tabs on yourself,” I say, then force myself to take a mental step back.

e last thing I need to do is waste energy playing the bitter ex just because he’s caught me at a bad time. Maybe if we run into each other next year, I won’t feel like ripping that dumb cap o and stu ng it in the trash.

It’s not like I hate Derrick. But seeing him now, I can’t help but think about his parting words. He had a notable list of my shortcomings: I’m fake in front of crowds and don’t know how to take a joke, to name a couple. But the one that really makes my blood boil is my apparent inability to understand true intimacy.

Actually, the idea makes me want to laugh. I witnessed intimacy in my parents’ marriage every single day of my life. I know that what my parents have can’t necessarily be forged from a truly, madly, deeply in-love-at- rst-sight connection. It takes a foundation of friendship and getting to know each other’s ins and outs. e good and the crazy.

Derrick and I didn’t have that solid foundation. However, while breaking up was the right decision, it doesn’t mean I have to pretend to be happy to see him.

A woman with dark hair in a sleek bun walks up to Derrick, sliding her hand in his. “I just looked up the reviews, and everyone raves about the scones here. I want to make sure to try some.” She turns her head to me and jumps in surprise. “Sorry, I didn’t realize I was interrupting.”

Again, I’m not mad or bitter over the breakup with Derrick, but damn that sting in my chest at seeing the new woman he’s obviously moved on with.

At least he has the decency to look uncomfortable as he glances between us and clears his throat. “Baby, I ran into my old friend. You remember how I told you about Amerie, right?”

Derrick’s girlfriend smiles. “Of course! It’s nice to meet you.” She sticks out her free hand. “I’m Nora. I’ve heard

nothing but great things about you from Derrick. You can always tell the good ones by how they speak about their past, right?”

“ at you can,” I mumble, fumbling to place the bag of scones down on a nearby table to shake Nora’s hand. “It’s nice seeing Derrick’s obviously found someone so lovely. And so soon too.” e smile I aim at them is the same one I used to wear whenever I showed up at Derrick’s work functions and had to pretend to like all his pretentious colleagues.

Nora places her beautifully manicured hand over her heart. “Sometimes the stars align, and when you know, you just know. Hey, you’re not here alone, are you? You can sit with us for a while and chat.”

“ anks for the o er, but I’m actually waiting on someone.” e white lie rolls o my tongue with ease. If I say I won’t sit with them and chat because I have to go stalk the streets like a town crier, letting people know I’m desperate to plan their parties, I will look exactly like my life has gone up in ames since the breakup. It’s petty, but I just can’t give Derrick that kind of win.

He nods. “Oh yeah? You must be waiting on Gina, then.”

I narrow my eyes, not liking how he makes it a statement instead of a question. “No, not Gina,” I sneer. en, to wipe the knowing smirk o his face, I keep going. “I’m meeting my boyfriend for co ee.”

We stare each other down. Derrick regards me through eyes full of suspicion, and I hold still, trying not to scratch at my prickling neck.

I don’t usually lie to save face. Once I brought home a progress report with a D in math and said it was because the teacher kept losing my assignments. When my mom surprised me by sitting in my class the next day and

talking to the teacher after, I realized how being outed was so much more painful and embarrassing than simply owning up in the rst place.

And yet here I am.

“You have a boyfriend?” Derrick says, disbelief obvious in his tone.

“Why would I make up something like that?” A careful evasion rather than outright lie.

He makes a show of looking rst behind me, then to the right where a few people stand in line, and then behind himself. “Where is he? I’d love to meet ol’ boy and give him my congratulations. Make sure you’re in good hands.”

See, that’s the thing with lies. It doesn’t matter what label you try to slap over them—white, black, ashing neon— a lie is a lie. And they tend to take on a life of their own. But now I’m committed. I can’t backtrack.

I frantically look around the café for some kind of inspiration on what to do next.

Come on, universe. Help me out here.

From the corner of my eye, I see a familiar gure. When I turn my head, I realize it’s Pops. He catches my eye and smiles with a wink, and I recoil. Good Lord, no.

I’m ready to abandon all hope of trying to come up with a believable emergency that will allow for a quick escape when the bell above the door jingles.

I understand now why people put so much stock in wishing on stars. It’s for moments like these, when the universe answers pleas with a gift of Providence, even for the misguided who wish on planets.

As elation surges through me, I smirk at Derrick before calling out, “Vincent!”

Chapter Three

When I call his name, Vincent’s head jerks toward me. He does a double take when I wave, and it stops him in his tracks.

After I walked away from him minutes ago, he probably thinks I’m trying to lure him into some sort of trap. Which, okay, he would be right, but I have no other recourse. I ash my teeth at him, trying to channel that same coaxing energy one might use to get a scared puppy to crawl out from under the couch. Vincent’s eyebrows snap together, and he looks even more suspicious.

Welp, that tracks. It’s not like I have experience coaxing puppies since I’m allergic to them.

I drop the smile and wave him over again. After a few seconds of hesitation, he walks in our direction.

“I see your phone call wrapped up,” I say as he stops at the periphery of our group. Latching on to his forearm, I tug until he’s standing by me. “Let me introduce you to some friends of mine. Meet Derrick and Nora.” I turn to the couple. “ is is Vincent. My boyfriend.”

e weight of Vincent’s stare settles over me like a boulder. I can practically hear him shout, What are you talking about, woman?

Derrick and Nora regard Vincent silently, as if trying to

see if we’re really together or if I lassoed the rst man to walk through the door and he’s about to take o running.

I step right into Vincent’s bubble, almost pushing up against him, in case he tries.

Standing this close, my head hits right below his shoulder, and with each inhale, I get a whi of his clean aftershave mixed with the cold rain that must have picked up again. It lters through the heavy scent of co ee in the air, and I recognize the subtle undertones of spices and sage. While I need his help, I don’t want to like anything about this man, even the way he smells. I’m tempted to put a good two feet between us, but Derrick is watching us intently. I put my hand over my mouth to cover a fake cough, and press my elbow into Vincent’s side as I bring the arm down.

Vincent lets out a quiet chuckle, and the vibrations travel from his stomach and up my arm. “It’s nice to meet you two,” he nally says.

I won’t lie. I enjoy how Derrick’s jaw tightens as he eyes the man beside me. After all, Derrick did say I would grow old alone if I didn’t learn to put my partner before my mom. Now he can take his words and eat them.

“How long have you and Mimi been dating?” Derrick asks Vincent.

I almost jump as an arm snakes around my back, and Vincent’s large hand lands on my waist. He lets out a contented sigh. “You know, it’s been one of those relationships where it somehow feels like the blink of an eye and forever simultaneously. Isn’t that right, Mimi?”

e way my nickname rolls from his lips leaves me unsettled. e only people I allow to call me that are my parents and Gina. Even Derrick’s use of the name was rare, unless he was showing me o in front of colleagues.