Crazy Girl(51)

As I took his hand to shake, Wren crossed my mind. I made a point to make my grip firm. Perhaps a firm handshake would tell this man I was no pushover. If Brigham noticed the intent in my grip, he didn’t show it. “Hannah,” I told him.

“Nice to meet you, Hannah,” he said politely. Little did I realize this would be one of the last polite moments I would share with this man. “And to answer your question,” he went on, “no. I don’t want to sleep with you. I don’t sleep with white women.”

My head reared back. I would have never imagined that would be the next thing out of his mouth. “Then I guess I’m safe,” I said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond.

Brigham leaned back, the muscles in his arms flexing, showcasing his lean, but firm build. “I like exotic women.” Then casting an apologetic look my way, he said, “No offense.”

I laughed, loudly, earning a few glances from others. Was this guy serious? “None taken,” I assured him.

“Most white women I tell that to don’t like me much after that.”

Switching legs, I took a few seconds to digest what he was saying to me. Or rather, asking myself why was he telling this to me? “Is this usually your conversation opener with them?”

When he smiled, his dimples popped out, and I have to admit, he was attractive. “Different strokes for different folks. I figure it’s best to get it out of the way in the beginning. No use in wasting anyone’s time trying to be friends if they’re just going to get offended.”

“Hmm,” I muttered, ignoring his question and asking my own. “What kind of success rate you got with that?”

He looked up to the ceiling as if he were counting, then met my stare again. “So far…” he shrugged, “there’s been you.”

We both laughed. I didn’t know much about this Brigham, but I couldn’t deny I enjoyed his candidness. There was a realness to him that attracted me, and I didn’t mean in any kind of physical or romantic way. It was refreshing to meet someone not afraid to admit things about themselves most would keep secret in fear of offending or going against the status quo. He wasn’t fake…at least he didn’t seem to be.

Just then, a tall woman with ebony skin called out to everyone, asking us to gather around her. “Now, that’s the kind of woman I like,” Brigham noted. The woman was gorgeous, for sure.

“Well, good luck,” I offered as I stood and brushed off my tights then pulled up my knee pads.

“Luck is for suckers, Hannah. There is no such thing.”

I raised my brows, again thrown by him. The statement had been bold in response. “Noted. And thanks,” I added. “For stopping the ball.”

His mouth tilted up. “What are friends for?”

As we walked over to join everyone, my mind turned over the oddness of our introduction. Who was this man? And what might have made him this way? Ideas started swirling in my head, images of a man like Brigham and the path that led him here. He was staring at our long-legged ebony princess of a coach, when I glanced at him. Jerking my eyes away, I shook my head. I was here to play volleyball. I’d create a character modeled after Brigham later. I smiled. Inspiration. I’d come here hoping for it…and there it was.





“When you become a writer, your heart and

mind become divided between your many selves.”

-Unknown





When I arrived at Wren’s house the following day, “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” from the Disney’s Cinderella was blasting over his speakers. He was standing at his counter, his back to me, staring at his laptop, not hearing me enter because the music was so loud. He wore a backward ball cap, tight gray shirt, and basketball shorts. In the fitted T, his back and shoulders looked massive and I took a brief moment to appreciate and drink in the fine male specimen he was. Tall. Overpowering. All man. How could I have thought I was going to keep myself in check…not get hooked on staring at him, make this all business and about my writing? Like I had a chance…I mean, really. He was hard to look away from. Not even the kiddie song was distracting me from checking out the curve of his perfect butt…the ridiculously wide plane of his strong back.

Picking up one of the hundreds of bullets scattered around his house, I tossed it at him, hitting him in the back. He jerked quickly, his eyes wild, his hands fisted, prepared to counter an attack. I froze on the spot and stared at him as he uncoiled his shoulders and dropped his hands when he realized it was me. It was a good thing I hadn’t touched him myself, I might have gotten knocked out.

“Sorry,” he shouted before hitting something on his laptop, effectively muting the music.

Dropping my purse by the couch, I moved beside him. “What’s with the Disney music?” I chuckled.

His mouth tilted down a fraction as he shrugged one shoulder, fixing his gaze on his laptop. “My mom used to play it when my sister and I would help her clean the house. Got used to it, I guess.”

My heart panged. Reaching out, I squeezed his arm and he smiled sadly down at me. “I don’t even know where to start,” he sighed, moving on from the somber memory he’d shared rather quickly. Giving me a quick once-over, his mouth curved up. “I’m liking this dress.”

I snickered, disbelieving him. I was wearing an old, flower-print cotton dress that reached my legs mid-thigh. It was one I usually only wore around my house, but I figured since I was going to help him pack, it was okay.