6
A glimpse of spring shined from the sky as the sun kissed the hood of Angel’s silver Porsche Panamera 4. But warm weather didn’t mean a thing to him. For several days Angel had been in a funk. News had broken that he and Milania were engaged to be married while his ex was pregnant with his baby. Every entertainment news show, blog, and magazine was covering the story. They had photos of Milania and Dylan’s heated confrontation, which resulted in Milania storming out in tears.
Angel couldn’t go anywhere without seeing or hearing about the so-called scandal. All of the media attention was driving him nuts. It tore him up inside that he couldn’t even turn to his sister during this trying time. Billie was disgusted with him, and she had every right to be. Angel felt horrible for the way he treated Dylan. She was the mother of his unborn child. She didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. Angel just had to figure out a way to get things between them back cool again because it seemed like instead of bringing them closer together, her pregnancy was pulling them further apart.
It all made no sense to him. This was supposed to be the most exciting time of his life. He was marrying one of the world’s most beautiful women and becoming a father, but Angel didn’t feel bliss. He felt stressed and confused. He wanted to do right by Milania and stick to his word and marry her, but every time he thought about taking that leap down the aisle, buried feelings for Dylan started to arise.
Angel pulled up to the restaurant where he was meeting Milania for lunch, turned off the engine, and stepped out into the spring air. All eyes were on him but in a good way. St. Louisians loved their hometown hero and showed him nothing but love. Angel, in turn, showed them love by hosting and donating to various charities and giving back to his community. To Angel’s dismay as he activated the alarm on his car, ten paparazzi appeared and began taking his picture and asking him questions.
“Angel, how does your fiancée feel knowing your ex is using her pregnancy to tear you two apart?” one photographer asked.
“Angel, do you think your baby will be born half alien or half werewolf?” someone from TMZ asked.
“Hey, Angel, are you a fan of Glee?” another photographer questioned.
“Angel, do you think that boxing should have mandatory drug testing during training camp?”
Instead of answering any of their questions or even acknowledging their presence, he held his head up high and entered the restaurant. After checking with the hostess, Angel was escorted to his table which was in the private dining section of the restaurant. To his surprise, he found Milania talking on the phone while sitting a table with two other people.
“Miss Fairchild, the rest of your party has arrived,” the hostess said politely.
“Hey, doll, he’s here. Let me call you back.” Milania hung up the phone.
“Hi, honey,” she stood up to greet him, dressed casually chic in a white silk Elie Tahari blouse with an asymmetrical fold-over collar, black Helmut Lang shorts, and Camilla Skovgaard open-toe booties.
Her hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail revealing her flawless skin and three-carat diamond earrings.
“What’s up?” Angel looked around perplexed as she hugged and air kissed his cheek. “I didn’t know we were having company.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Since it seems like we’re not going back to L.A. anytime soon, I planned on starting the wedding plans here. So meet Kathy, our wedding planner, and John, our new real estate agent,” Milania beamed, pleased with herself.
“So nice to finally meet you,” Kathy extended her hand for a shake. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Really?” Angel eyed her quizzically. “I haven’t heard nothin’ about you.”
“Baby,” Milania gasped, “don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude at all. I just wasn’t expecting any of this, and honestly, right now, I’m not in the mood.”
“He’s just a little cranky, excuse him,” Milania placed her hand on the side of her mouth as if she were telling a secret.
“Baby,” she ran her hand across the top of her hair trying her best not to go off, “calm down. You’re probably just a little hungry. Once we sit down and start going over everything, you’ll see exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“I know exactly what you’re tryin’ to do. You’re tryin’ to plan a wedding, but we haven’t even set a date, so how you gon’ consult wit’ a planner, let alone a realtor? I mean, I planned on us having a long engagement.”
“What did you just say?” Milania jerked her head back, appalled. “’Cause I know damn well I didn’t hear what I thought I heard.”
“Chill out.” Angel screwed up his face and pulled her out of the room so they could speak privately.
He was over Milania and her spoiled, divaesque ways. It was time for Angel to put his foot down with her ’cause homegirl had him past fucked up.
“I know you feelin’ some kinda way right now, but don’t ever play me like that in front of nobody.” He shot her a look that could kill.
“But—” Milania tried to speak, but Angel stopped her.
“But nothin’. I’m talkin’. Don’t interrupt me.” Angel waved his hand furiously. “Look, when I asked you to marry me, I meant it, but I wasn’t planning on us gettin’ married so soon. I figured we’d be engaged for a few years.”
“A few years!” Milania repeated, heated.
“Yes, a few years. C’mon, Milania, keep it funky. We barely know each other, and before we take that step toward being together forever, I think it’s best we learn as much as we can about each other.”
“You should’ve thought about that
before
you proposed to me,” she snapped.
“You’re right. I should’ve, but now I got the paparazzi down my back, me and my sista ain’t really speaking, and Dylan won’t even answer any of my calls. I mean, all of this shit is just too much.”
“So what am I supposed to do now? I’ve already started picking out china arrangements and our color scheme for the wedding, which, by the way, will be an explosion of pink, and the realtor has found us some really breathtaking property out in L.A.”
“What’s wrong with the crib I already have?”
“Not to be rude but your place screams ‘bachelor pad.’ I think it’s time to move it on up like George and Weezy.”
“Yo’, you start talkin’ like Weezy, and we gon’ have a problem for real,” Angel joked.
“Shut up,” Milania placed her hand on his chest and laughed.
“Look. I know that you feel like I’m rushing things, and to be honest wit’ you, I am. And the reason is because I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Angel. I love you, and it’s already bad enough that I won’t be the first woman to bear your child. At least give me this one thing.” She gave Angel a well executed expression of sorrow.
“I know. Just give me some time.” Angel massaged her back.
“How much time?” Milania batted her eyes, becoming irritated.
“Not that much. Just a little.”
“Okay, well, can we at least just go back in so you can see what they have to offer?”
“Yeah, give me a second. I gotta make a call.” Angel reached in his pocket and pulled out his Apple iPhone 4.
“It can’t wait? We’ve already wasted enough time as it is,” she responded impatiently.
“Nah, I want to see if I can get in touch with Dylan again.”
Milania’s jaw unconsciously clenched tight like a pit bull. She was so sick that every conversation she and Angel had reverted back to Dylan.
Dylan, Dylan, Dylan,
she thought. She assumed that inviting the paparazzi to her showdown with Dylan and leaking her engagement and Dylan’s pregnancy would help stir the pot, but all it had done was make Angel doubt their relationship. Milania had to figure out a way to get rid of Dylan for good. With her in the picture, Milania’s road to superstardom and fame would always be met with road blocks and speed bumps.
“Why?” she responded, not backing down.
“What you mean, why?” Angel shot her a nasty look.
“I mean it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to talk to you for whatever reason,” she retorted.
“’Cause she’s the mother of my child, that’s why, and I wanna see what’s going on wit’ her and my baby.”
Milania inhaled deeply and replied, “A’ight, I’ll see you in a second.”
There was no point in starting another argument with him. Nope. Milania would bite her tongue and prepare herself for the next showdown, which was sure to come.
“Order me a Boulevard Wheat.”
“Sure.” She gave him a tight smile and went back in.
Angel found Dylan’s name in his contacts and dialed her number, but to his displeasure, his call was sent to voice mail after the second the ring.
Dylan gazed down at her cell phone and rolled her eyes. She didn’t have two words for Angel. Frankly, if she could, she would literally give him her ass to kiss. Dylan was beyond upset with Angel. She was terribly disappointed. Never in a million years had she expected him to find another chick, then chuck up the deuce like she wasn’t shit, but he did.
Hell, he didn’t have time enough to check on her while she was in the hospital, but now he expected her to answer his call.
Negro, please,
she thought. Plus the unwanted news coverage of her pregnancy was driving her insane. Dylan couldn’t take a shit without a photographer up in her face. At this point, she wasn’t concerned about how fine Angel was, how his backstroke took her to all seven continents of the world and back, how he loved her too much, how she fucked up, missed him with every pore of her skin, and would give all of her limbs to have him back in her life again.
After her health scare, Dylan was all about herself, her baby, and their future. She couldn’t depend on Angel, so she decided to depend on herself. Pocketing her phone, Dylan walked out into the showroom of the bakery and smiled. There were a couple of customers in the store. Although business wasn’t booming like she wanted it to, Dylan knew that her breakfast pastries, minipastries, cookies, pies, wedding cakes, coffee, and lattes were the best in town.
The way Dylan had the place decorated was utterly charming. Once customers walked through the door, they felt as if they had stumbled upon a Parisian boutique. Funky lampshades, one-of-a-kind chandeliers, and toile adorned the cozy café, along with black-and-white photos of some of her favorite fashion icons, such as Elizabeth Taylor, Rihanna, and Carrie Bradshaw.
While Dylan’s cashier took care of a customer, she explained to another the ingredients inside of her famous chocolate mousse cup topped with a miniature gold Louboutin heel when she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a familiar face walk through the door. Dylan’s mouth immediately became as dry as a nun’s crotch she was so shocked. She hoped that what she was experiencing within didn’t resonate on her face as she and the unexpected guest locked eyes.
Memories of the way they fought, then made up, hated each other’s guts, yearned for the other’s touch, made love until the sun came up, and how their love was never enough crammed both of their minds. Once she wrapped up her conversation with the customer, Dylan made her way over to her guest and said, “What the hell are you doing here? I swear to God, you’re like a pain in my ass that won’t go away.”
“I had to see if what the streets were sayin’ was true,” State, her ex-fiancé, shot her a sly grin.
Before Angel, State was the one who had Dylan’s heart on lock. His swagger ranked at a trillion, and his accomplishments as a successful record label owner, clothing designer, restaurateur, and co-owner of the 76ers was impeccable. On top of that, the brother was fine, with a capital F. State was a six foot, 190-pound Sierra Leonean and Ghanaian hunk who repped Hackney London to the fullest. That afternoon he looked dapper as hell in a two-button corduroy Gucci jacket, tricolor wool sweater, plaid flat-front pants, and Dolce & Gabbana Oxford wingtip shoes.
“And what exactly is the streets sayin’?” Dylan placed her hand on her hip.
“That the notorious wild child, Dylan Monroe, was knocked up and off the scene for good.”
“Well, as you can see, the rumor is true.” Dylan rubbed her belly.
“You just had to find a way to break my heart, didn’t you?” He shot her a sly grin.
“Please.” She waved him off. “Your heart is made of steel. Ain’t no gettin’ through to that.”
“You still mean as hell, I see.”
“I have every right to be. You made me believe we had a future while the whole time you were married to someone else.”
“When is the past gon’ be the past? I mean, c’mon, that was like, what, two years ago. It’s obvious,” he pointed to her protruding stomach, “that you got past it.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Now have a seat, big head. My feet startin’ to hurt.”
“How?” He looked down at her feet as they sat down. “You wearing them thick-ass Dr. Scholl’s. No way could yo’ feet be hurtin’. You used to wear six-inch heels all day, er’day.”
“Things have changed, honey. Nowadays, a sneeze makes my feet hurt and makes me fart.”