Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
She giggles. “You mean that I might think the two of you had something going? That’s hilarious, Hen.”
Hilarious? Before I can ask why the concept of her ex-boyfriend and me being attracted to each other is so damn funny, she tells me in no uncertain terms.
“You’re not his type at all.”
“Not his type?” I should leave it there. I don’t want her thinking I am his type. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he likes women who are…” She must hear her feet squishing in the shit she just stepped in.
It’s a ridiculous notion to her that a man like Maverick would be drawn to someone like me; that I, a plus-sized woman, could pose a threat to her. Her unspoken assumption doesn’t offend me. It doesn’t hurt. I grew up with careless adults telling me I was pretty for a big girl or for a brown girl. My parents made sure I always felt beautiful in my skin and in my body. They instilled a confidence in me that not even the thoughtless words of this beautiful woman can dent.
“He goes for women like you, right?” I fill in her awkward gap. “Thin? Mixed chicks? Long, curly hair?”
“Oh, gosh, Hendrix, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” In her haste to fix it, her words tumble over each other. “I just meant that I know you would never do that to me. And he wouldn’t either for that matter.”
“Got it.” I whoosh out a short breath and push a smile into my voice. “Well, I just wanted to keep the air clear between us by letting you know in case you saw him in a photo on socials from the event or something. That you would have context.”
“I might have wondered about it, but wouldn’t have jumped to any conclusions. I’m glad you told me, though. I appreciate it.”
“Okay, well, when I start hearing back from my contacts about the show, I’ll let you know.”
“Same here. Thanks again, Hendrix.”
We disconnect and I hold the phone in my palm for a few seconds. We’ve set the details for the showcase. I could just have Skipper contact Maverick.
You text me.
The man’s probably the wealthiest potential limited partner on our list. I’d pay special attention to any other LP with the kind of capital Maverick has. It’s not different.
Me: Hey. You asked me to let you know when the showcase details were set. It’s going to be in three weeks here in Atlanta.
Silence and no bubbles or movement for a few seconds.
Me: Oh, it’s Hendrix, by the way.
Maverick: Hi, Hendrix by the way. Good to hear from you.
I don’t even physically hear his voice, and yet my imagination purrs it in my ear.
Maverick: Did you tell Zere about my interest?
In the fund, Hendrix. He means interest in the fund, of course.
Me: Yes, she was fine with it.
Maverick: I knew she would be, but glad you let her know.
Me: So my assistant will email your office a more formal invitation with all the details.
In other words, I did what you asked, now no more personal attention.
Maverick: Guess I’ll see you then.
Yeah, see you then.
CHAPTER 13
MAVERICK
There’s no such thing as Black Girl Magic.”
Hendrix, the last of the three Aspire Fund partners to speak, looks out over the hotel ballroom for the founders’ showcase. The muted color palette reflected in the dove-gray walls and soft peach accents, along with the dazzling chandelier suspended overhead, creates an atmosphere that is somehow intimate and elegant. Radiating power and confidence, Hendrix takes her time assessing those assembled. Even at the back of the crowd, I feel how this woman just being in a room manages to stir its air.
“I know as soon as I said that,” she goes on, her full lips tipping into a wry grin. “Many of you inwardly responded the way my grandfather did when I was growing up in the country: The hell you say.”
Laughter trickles through the room, and Hendrix waits for the humor to abate. She’s standing up front now, but even all night mingling with the crowd, she’s been hard to look away from; beautifully conspicuous, like a flamingo, standing tall in her bright pink dress. The bodice is some kind of bustier, the ribbing subtly sequined. The waist nips in and flares to accommodate her rounded hips, but tapers to the long line of her legs. Instead of shying away from her height, Hendrix plays it up with glittery stilettos that put her at eye level or above most men in the room. On many women, it would feel like a statement. On some, it would telegraph I’m trying too hard or I’ve got something to prove. But on Hendrix, the I don’t give a fuck what you think message resounds throughout the room as surely as if she had rung a bell.