Excerpt of Sweet Little Lies by Michele Grant

Chapter One

Days Like This

Christina—Thursday, August 13,10:47 p.m.

“Christina, girl,” my grandmother used to say, “timing is everything...and yours is always a day late and a dollar short.” Grammy Vi was freaking prophetic.

The plane was parked at the gate. I was seated next to a testy black man whose last name I didn’t know and whose first name I couldn’t remember. I had to wonder at the circumstances that brought me here, to this moment. Thinking back to eight days ago, I asked myself the following questions:

Would I have been more lucid and less homicidal if I’d drunk my morning coffee first? Would I have been more rational if I hadn’t been caught standing there with wet hair, trying to hold on to the post–shower sex glow? Would it have made a difference if this hadn’t happened three days before my wedding?

I’ll never know. Here’s how I got from there to here:

Christina—Wednesday, August 4,9:34 a.m.

It was Wednesday—a warm, sunny, late summer morning. The kind of morning you only get in the Bay Area. The sun was beaming through the last of the fog, with a slight breeze coming off the water. The wind softly rustled the teal silk drapes hanging across the one open window in my bedroom.

All was right in my little piece of real estate on Harbor Bay Island. Alameda was literally a hop, skip, and jump from San Francisco, nestled on an island and backing up to Oakland. My two-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath house wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for the two of us who would live here after my wedding in a few days. The best thing about the house was a view of the Bay Bridge with San Francisco twinkling like a magical jewel beyond. My bills were paid, my man was near, and my spirit was happy.

I woke up late, a rare treat. I had taken the rest of the week off to prepare for my wedding. My fiancé, Jay, was spooned to my back, his arm possessively wrapped around my waist, his thigh wedged between mine. Another rare treat, since he traveled so frequently. I lay next to him for a minute just...living. Black love, y’all. I smiled to myself before I slowly eased out of his hold and headed for the bathroom.

Midway through my shower, the etched-glass door opened and he stepped in. Very quickly, the shower went from rated R (hot and sudsy) to rated X (wet and steamy). We went from zero to sixty and back to zero in fifteen minutes’ time. Another few minutes of actual showering and I stepped out to face the day. I silently apologized to my ruined hair and yanked on the fluffy robe and slippers before padding toward the kitchen.

So it was 10:02 a.m. according to the coffeemaker. I stood pouring my expensive Guatemalan whole beans into the grinder when Jay said his first real words of the day. (“Like that right there, baby” didn’t count.)

“Listen, sweetheart, about the wedding...”

I paused in the pouring of the beans and ever so slowly turned my head to look at Jay. Jay, my third (yes, I know) fiancé. I paused because I knew the tone. That hesitant, I-hate to- tell-you-this tone. I had heard the tone before.

Twice before, to be exact. The first fiancé used the tone in the car on our way back from my final wedding gown fitting. Cedric wanted me to listen while he explained that he accidentally married his college sweetheart a month before our wedding. Accidentally. Boys’ night out, ran into her. One drink led to another which led to Vegas, which led to me calling 175 friends and associates with the news, assuring them that yes, I would be sending those thoughtful gifts back and no, we were not just going to have a big party anyway.

The second fiancé used the tone at a charming Italian restaurant on the Bay across the wharf from Jack London Square. Perry wanted me to listen while he explained that he was confused about his sexuality. His what? I shrieked! Yes, his sexuality. He had been living a lie and wanted me to know (two weeks before our wedding) that he wasn’t sure who he was or what he wanted. Well, if he didn’t know, I certainly had no clue. He was kind enough to call half of the 125 friends and associates.

So yes, when my third...THIRD...fiancé stood naked in my kitchen with that look on his face and tone in his voice...I froze before biting out, “What about the wedding?” I had a tone of my own: cold, suspicious, pissed off.

He paused before answering. Jay was a 6'1" dark chocolate, bodyguard-build kind of brother. Square jawed, former marine, short-cropped fro with a razor-sharp line, laser-beam eyes so dark brown, they appeared black. A nose that would’ve been Grecian had it not been broken twice, and lips that would look pouty on anyone not so unapologetically masculine. Not an ounce of fat on his faithfully maintained body. Well proportioned, he was a man who moved stealthily on his long limbs, large feet, large hands, large...well—everything. As I said, well proportioned. When he smiled, he was an engaging teddy bear of a man. When he didn’t, he was the kind of brother who seemed intimidating, even frightening. He stood there looking like a Zulu king in need of a loincloth. But right now, he was the one who looked scared.“Now, Chris, let me just say—”

I put down the beans—no need for $15.95 of imported goodness to get ruined. I decided to employ a little psychology. I walked over to him calmly, put my hands on his broad chest, and smiled encouragingly.“Just tell me, baby. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. Just say it all at once. I’ll just close my eyes and listen.” I closed my eyes.

He sighed and relaxed slightly, rubbing his cheek against my forehead.“You’re so sweet. The thing is...I’m really not Jayson Day. My real name is David Washington. I’m an undercover operative with the NSA and I’ve been out here on assignment for the past two years. I shouldn’t have let things get this far, but when I met you, you were just so sweet and sexy. I couldn’t help myself.”

I opened my eyes slowly and took a step back.“What are you talking about? I had your background checked! You work in corporate security for TeleTech and you grew up in Oakland! I’ve met your parents, for Christ’s sake!”

He gave me a look of smug amusement that did not sit well at all. Not at all. “I know. They told me someone was checking my cover. I thought it was cute. Those people you met were actors. The thing is, baby, I would marry you in a heartbeat, but...I’m already married.”

I stood with my mouth open, trying to figure out what to digest and what to reject. Cute, actors, NSA, already married— what? “I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood. You’re what?”

“Um-hmm, married—with two kids back in Denver. Daughters Dina and Daisy. They’re seven and twelve.”Why he felt the need to share details was lost on me.

“Kids?! Did you just say you have kids?” I really did not know what to say. I was tempted to look around for the hidden cameras. Was I on Punk’d?

“I can show you pictures....”

The word “pictures” was still floating in the air when the doorbell rang. In the middle of crisis situations, I tend to go on autopilot. I just take the next logical step to get to the next logical place. So for no other reason than autopilot, I answered the front door. Yes, I did. I forgot I was rocking the robe, with my wet hair turning into a Chaka Khan fro and my naked fiancé (ex-fiancé?) standing in the foyer.

“Parcel servi—” The young black delivery guy paused at the sight that we presented: Me, cute of face and slight of body, 5'5", a cocoa-colored and petite package wrapped in a huge, fluffy pink robe, matching slippers, and a scowl on my face as I cut the side-eye to the dark chocolate naked guy. Eyes the color of milk chocolate, thickly lashed and normally tilted up with good humor, were currently squinted and shooting virtual fire. Bow-shaped lips normally painted a shade of peach were bare, naked, and pursed tightly.

“Hey.” I released my death grip on the door handle.

To his credit, he recovered quickly. “I have some more packages for you, Ms. Brinsley. Looks like more wedding gifts. A few of these require an adult’s signature. If you don’t mind my asking, are you okay?” This guy had been delivering all manner of packages related to the wedding for over ten months now. He was a cute, dreadlocked, kind of baby-faced, toffee-skinned tall guy, probably in his midtwenties, and I didn’t have a clue what his name was. On the occasions when I was home for his deliveries, we made small talk about the weather. I said clever things like “Working hard out here in all this rain?” He would smile, all flashing dimples and twinkling sage green eyes, and reply “Gotta earn a living.” And now, he was bearing witness to one of my top ten worst life events...okay, top five. I was determined to maintain a shred of dignity.

Before I could respond, Jay...David...Jay/David spoke up. “Man, do we look okay? Can’t you just leave those and go?”

Why was he speaking to my delivery guy? Why was he speaking at all? “Don’t speak to him that way. At least he’s concerned about my well-being. As a matter of fact, just don’t speak at all.”

Delivery Guy shuffled from one foot to the other, clearly wishing he was anywhere else but here. I could relate. “Ms. Brinsley, seriously—are you okay?” I found it interesting that of the two men in the room, the one I wasn’t supposed to marry this week was more worried about my well-being. Duly noted.

Forcing a smile, I reached for the little plastic pen. “Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” I scrawled across the electronic signature box with a flourish before handing it back to him.

He read what I wrote, paused with brow raised, and read it again.“Did you mean to sign this ‘Just shoot me now’?”

My lips twisted.“Does it matter?”

Making a sound that was a mix between a snort and a laugh, he headed to the rear of the truck.“I guess not.”

I kept my eyes on Delivery Guy. Just looking at him was soothing to me. He was a lean and corded young man. His skin poured over his fit frame with the color of toasted almonds. And he hadn’t just broken my heart. I watched in detached fascination as he lifted packages and placed them on a dolly. Without turning my head even an inch in his direction, I hissed out instructions to Jay/David. “Put some clothes on and get out.”

“Christina...we need to talk about this,” Jay/David said.

Finally glancing in his direction, I adopted my “disgusted” pose. Hand on one hip, size 7 foot tapping, head tilted ever so slightly to the right.“Think you’ve said enough.”

“I don’t want you to think that this, what we have—isn’t real.”

Was he kidding me with this? He wanted to talk about what was real, when quite possibly everything he had said to me for close to three years was clearly a damn lie.“Oh, it’s real. It’s real jacked up.”

“Christina, I really wanted to marry you.”