Episode 13: Sweet Jasmine
Sugar sat at the edge of her bed, massaging pomegranate-scented body butter to her freshly showered skin. She appreciated quiet moments like this, especially after a rough day. She had endured an awkward lunch, where every time she glanced at the bar counter, she caught Chef blatantly staring at her. Even when she pretended not to pay him any mind, heat crept all over her skin as his gaze burned into her from afar.
When it was time to leave, Georgette insisted Sugar shake his hand as a parting gesture. However, he turned her wrist and placed a tender kiss on the back of her hand. His lips felt so good that she had to bite back a moan in front of her mother. His eyes never left her face, his smile matching the mischief that glinted in them.
He even held the door open.
Her mother gushed praises about how Chef was such a gentleman. But Sugar doubted that. When she stole a glance over her shoulder as they stepped out into the daylight. As he watched her go, he rubbed the tip of his tongue against a canine tooth.
His gaze downright hungry.
“Bastard,” Sugar grumbled to herself.
A bastard who had the nerve to propose a dinner date so she could learn the truth behind what happened that fated night they met.
She let out an unladylike snort at his audacity as she moved on from her legs to lotioning her arms and shoulders.
She didn’t agree to it, of course.
Sugar jolted back in surprise as her cell chimed with a text message notification. She raised an eyebrow at the sound. Unlocking the phone with a passcode, she saw a new text from a contact named “DO NOT ANSWER.”
She had created the contact herself as a reminder, though she could’ve easily deleted it weeks ago. She reasoned it was logical to keep it in her phone so she wouldn’t forget who the number belonged to.
Do Not Answer: I’ll be at the Jazzmyne Garden Club at 9:30. Come find out the truth or always wonder.
Sugar rolled her eyes at the message and let out an irritated huff, tossing the phone aside.
She walked to her closet for pajamas. Her eyes fell upon a mid-thigh, plunging, backless white lace cocktail dress with sheer cap sleeves. She had bought and worn it three years ago for a romantic wedding anniversary dinner Lance didn’t show up to because he was working “overtime.”
A thought strolled into her mind:
How would Chef react if he saw her in this?
Would she be able to affect him as intensely as he affected her?
Sugar chewed on her bottom lip, caught between two options: take her tired ass to bed or do what the text message said.
Come find out the truth or always wonder.
She could learn the truth and perhaps more if she went, but she wasn’t exactly sure what more entailed yet. Or if she had enough courage to act on wanting more.
Sugar carried the dress out of the closet and laid it on the bed before checking the time on her phone. It was forty minutes until 9:30.
She had little time to get ready and make it there on time.
She quickly scurried about, shimmying into the dress, fishing around in her closet for five-inch white lace pumps she had worn as a bridesmaid at Odette’s wedding, and applying light makeup in the bathroom. Her hair wasn’t perfect, but it was tamed as it cascaded over her shoulders. She finished in fifteen minutes and clipped a white magnolia hair clip—an old birthday gift to herself—into her hair.
————
Sugar pulled into the club’s crowded parking lot late and spent a few minutes finding a parking space. Sliding into a spot, she hopped out of the car and marched to the club. Its entrance comprised two lengthy trellises acting as walls, overflowing with sweet-scented, blossoming white jasmine. There was a bit of a line to get in, so she had to wait.
Eventually, she passed the bouncers and walked down the jasmine-walled pathway to the club’s doors.
Once inside, the crowd overwhelmed her, but luckily, everyone was seated, bobbing their heads to the music. Lights with cool red, pink, blue, and purple hues bathed the space. A live jazz band played a relaxing, sensual number, with a beautiful, heavy-set Black woman at the front mic crooning in a lovely smoky voice.
Sugar carefully made her way through the club, searching for Chef.
She identified him from behind by the tattoo on the back of his neck.
He sat at a table dead center at the front.
Only the dance floor separated him from the stage.
She approached him slowly, rounded the table, and sat opposite to him. He jerked his attention from the live act to her, blinking, surprised at her arrival. However, the surprise quickly faded, replaced by a dark, unreadable expression as he drunk her in.
“You came.”
“I’m curious,” she admitted, cocking her head.
“And goddamn breathtakin’,” he remarked, regarding her once more, with greater appreciation.
She fought the urge to smile at his compliment.
“You promised me the truth if I came,” Sugar said, folding her hands on the table. “So, here I am. Ready to listen.”
He chuckled a little, stroking his beard. “Straight to business, huh? Not even a little winin’ and dinin’?”
“Not thirsty. Already ate.” Her smile innocent.
He picked up a short glass of amber liquor on the rocks and brought it to his lips.
“You come to a dinner date with no desire to eat or drink,” he said, more to himself than to her, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re one of a kind.”
“I’m waiting.”
Chef put his drink down. “I’ll give you what you want, but show some mercy and throw an old dog a bone. A question for a question.”
Sugar considered his request for a moment, then sighed. “Fine.”
Pleased, he inclined his head. “Then ladies first.”
