poking out looked sexy. He remembered what it had felt like to kiss her last night when he’d walked her back to the hotel room she shared with her girlfriends. It might not be too much energy to put in a little effort now that he remembered she was a pretty good kisser. She might have been clingy, but she was also a sexy little thing. It might be worth his while to play a little longer and see if she did other things as well as she kissed.
“Candace from New Jersey,” she deadpanned as she glared at him. “My girls were so-oo right about you. You can’t even remember my name after you kissed and groped me for hours last night. And I’m standing right next to you! You certainly won’t be able to remember me when you get back to Detroit. You’re just a player looking for some island fun!”
Troy expelled an irritated breath. She was not worth all this drama when there were so many women around. “Listen…”
“Candace!” she snapped.
Candace, that’s it!
Why couldn’t he remember her name? Probably because he was bad with names anyway and made it his business to use endearments whenever possible like “baby,” “sweetheart” or “darling.” That way he never slipped and called someone the wrong name and he didn’t have to bother trying to remember them.
“Listen, Candace, I seem to remember you kissing and groping me just as much, if not more, than I did you. And I didn’t hear any complaints last night.” He gave her another smile, because honestly he was a lover not a fighter and all her drama was starting to become a real drain.
When she continued to give him the evil death stare, he shrugged.
It was time to cut his losses.
“You know what, why don’t we just go our separate ways. I’ve got to connect with my crew anyway to shoot some footage of some other island hot spots for the show. And clearly you and I have very different agendas for how we want to proceed with things. So, it was nice meeting you…”
Damn, I just said her name…
“Candace!” she yelled in that horrible high-pitched voice of hers, and all the heads around them turned. She rolled her eyes, let out a huff of breath and stormed off, leaving him to face the irritated people sitting around them who had been trying to enjoy Lalah Hathaway.
Troy threw up his hands in apology. Even though he hadn’t been the one to cause a scene, he shouldn’t have gotten involved with the clingy woman in the first place. If he had been at the top of his game he would have pegged her for the drama-queen type as soon as he’d met her.
He could have chalked it up to his father’s threats to disinherit him if he didn’t settle down, leave the show and come into the boardroom. But a small voice in the back of his head had doubts.
Maybe I really am getting too old for this shit after all…
The walking dead.
That’s what Jazz felt like as she walked to her airport gate dragging her carry-on bag behind her. The past few days on the beautiful island of her birth had gone by in a blur. From burying her mother, to connecting with family she hadn’t seen in years, to processing the dreadful news she had gotten from her mother’s lawyer, Jazz hadn’t seen a good night’s rest in at least a week.
The only thing she wanted to do was get back to Boston, sleep in her own bed and mourn her mother in peace. Unfortunately, when she got back to Boston, she would have to finish getting things squared away for her move and her new job in Detroit.
She was finally on her way to the big time—cohosting her own show and not just doing entertainment and girl-about-town slots on someone else’s show—and her mother wasn’t going to be there to enjoy it with her.
“Jasmine, is that you?”
That voice…
Good grief, not now!
Why did she have to run into the self-proclaimed playa of the decade in the middle of the Grantley Adams International Airport when she was looking and feeling like crap? And what the hell was Mr. Lover Lover doing in Barbados in the middle of January, anyway?
Troy Singleton, the jet-setting playboy, probably didn’t even need a reason to be on a tropical island in the middle of the winter. He was probably just taking a spur-of-the-moment trip.
And why was he still calling her Jasmine when everyone called her Jazz? The only person that got away with calling her by her full name was her mother.
I can’t stand Troy Singleton!
He walked over to her and she gave him a quick once-over. He would be looking all good when she looked like a hot mess. The man was tall, built like a power forward basketball player and the color of rich, deep caramel. He was, in a word or two, hella fine. “It is you.” He quickly embraced her and she gave him the half-pat-butt-poked-out-and-away church hug.
They both let go just as quickly as they could. They couldn’t get away from each other soon enough.
She had no idea what his deal was, but she knew her own reason for the quick hug all too well. Un til she’d met Troy, she had never met a man she wouldn’t let wine and dine her. She couldn’t afford to let Troy Singleton buy her a hot dog on the street, let alone anything else at all.
She lived by the motto “Men are like buses. Miss one? Next fifteen minutes another one will be passing by.” She was a serial dater and proud of it. They would never catch her slipping, and her player card was certified platinum.
“You look like death warmed over, Jasmine. What the hell happened to you?” He looked her up and down with a twisted-up expression on his face.
She glared at him and ran her hand across her head. The cute twist out she’d had when she first arrived in Barbados was long gone, and her bright auburn natural hair was now pulled into a rather funky ponytail.
And it was too darn hot for makeup, even if she had dark circles the size of tea bags under her eyes.
While her sweatsuit might not have been Juicy Couture and was instead Hanes mix and match, it was comfortable for the long plane ride.
And who the hell was Troy Singleton to be telling her what she looked like, anyway?
She narrowed her very tired eyes. “Well, hello to you too, Stud.”
He frowned at her little nickname for him.
If he refused to call her Jazz like the rest of the known and free world then she made it her business to call him anything but his name. Her favorite was variations of Stud, from Studly to Studster to Studalicious and then some.
He sighed, and she could tell the exact moment when he chose to ignore her.
“Were you at the Jazz Festival? It was amazing, wasn’t it? Are you covering it for those little spots you do in Boston? Oh, wait, Alicia said you’re moving to Detroit soon. Are you going to be working for my competition?” She smirked. If you only knew, Studdy Boy…
“I didn’t even realize the Jazz Festival was going on, I was too busy. My mom passed away and she wanted to be buried here, at home in Barbados. So I had to do that—”
He
