Good job, Omolola. This update is worth the wait. Welcome back.

ameenahz: Good job, Omolola. This update is worth the wait. Welcome back.

Thanks dear

Chapter 18

"Come to Daddy. That's it. Bring it on home."

I took off from the scrimmage line knowing that the ball was coming to me. Passing plays were the only ones we'd used with any kind of success against this tough team. Having the home-field advantage and crowd behind them to pump them up, they'd practically run over our offensive line, sacking our quarterback and making him eat artificial turf more times than he could count.

Handoffs in the backfield were stopped cold. Our running game was a joke. With a quarter left to play and us down by a couple of touchdowns, speed was our best offensive maneuver against these human steamrollers.

If I could burn their defensive end off the line, get past him, and avoid their roaming safety, the ball - and the score - was as good as mine.

The snap count was short and irregular. Its cadence was meant to keep the opposing team off guard, maybe even draw them off sides. At this stage of the game, we weren't proud. Anything that got us closer to the goal line worked for us.

The center snapped the ball to the quarterback, who faked a handoff, pivoted, and instead heaved a long bomb down the right side. I sprinted. Nothing fancy. My instruction from the coach: Just catch the damn ball. It was an old-fashioned, all-out footrace between me and the defender who was following only two or three steps behind me.

The game had gone back and forth forever. Fatigue sucked the strength from my legs. But I could already feel the telltale tingle in my fingertips. A subtle reminder of my hands' desire for the ball. A quick glance over my shoulder. A few steps more. The ball arced high overhead, then began its downward spiral.

With the goal line only yards away, I could almost taste victory. Not of the entire game. There was still a quarter to go before that was decided. The taste of victory was the taste of the moment. Sweet and swift, tantalizing and transitory. Moments was like this, I knew in my head that this was just a game. But it was also moments like this, when every cell in my body surged with energy, that I was thankful that this was my game. I was on top here. I was in my element.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the defensive end reaching for the ball. The other hand stretched out - reaching for my shoulder, too. He wasn't supposed to do that.

I dared any player worth his salary to try to play the game keeping his hands to himself. It would be like a professional hockey player playing with the stick firmly bonded to the ice. What fan didn't go to a hockey game hoping for a high stick penalty? Or attend a baseball game, waiting for the pitcher to throw heat past an unsuspecting batter's head to keep him from crowding the plate? If a sporting event was the civilized combat arena, aggression was our arsenal.

When the defensive end reached out to me, I had a decision to make. Catching the ball was the ultimate goal. But I had some other considerations to make. Did I kick my run into overdrive, risk overshooting the ball to mess with that player's mind? All night long this sucker had been talking trash, either in my face at the line of scrimmage or trailing me just close enough to trip me up if I didn't give it my best effort each time out.

All night long I'd been listening to variations of how old and slow I was getting. After this forty-yard dash, if I could pull away from him, that would show him who was getting old. That he would prove that he didn't have the speed to catch up to me. Maybe make him doubt his own abilities the next time we went out. Or, at the worst, get him just as tired as I was.

Or did I slow it down and make him crowd into me, possibly drawing a pass interference call?

As the ball came plummeting to the turf, my moment of indecision cost me a few spare inches. If I was going to catch that ball, I was going to have to lean for it, maybe dive for it. As it came over my right shoulder, I heard it whistle past my head. Hands outstretched, I had it. It was mine.

And then, suddenly, it wasn't.

Something happened, I'm not quite sure what. One minute, I was reaching for the ball. The next, pain exploded in my chest as artificial turf reached up and smacked me hard.

Pheeew! Like seriously

Am so glad u r back lola....thks fr d update

Lola de lola,hope u will update soonooo.am so addicted to this story.U are one of de best babe..

Marytess: Lola de lola,hope u will update soonooo.am so addicted to this story.U are one of de best babe..

Thanks sweetz

Contd. . .

Some women say there is no pain like childbirth. I agree. I can also attest that there is no pain like childbirth. I agree, tiny, artificial fibres, reaching out to rip the flesh from your body – hair by hair.

My curse of frustration was smothered as the defender landed abruptly on top of me. Our legs intertwined for a moment so I kicked out, trying to roll free. I don’t think he liked that little move. In fact, I know he didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have cursed me as a certain male anatomy-sucking offspring of a female dog.

His epithet didn’t bother me any. Let him get mad. He should have been watching where he was going. I was more concerned with how the referees would call this last play – fumble, pass interference, or down by incidental contact. It would be a difficult call to make. From that distance, I knew that he could see the defender reaching out to grab me. But I’m not sure if the defender ever really got a firm hand on me, enough to make the referees believe that he was more interested in taking me down than catching the ball.

There were several flags on the field. That told me that several of the refs had seen the infraction and had made a judgment call. I stood by the sidelines, examining what amounted to some pretty nasty burns on my elbows and shins as the judges conferred.

A decision finally made, the head referee jogged to the center of the field, turned on his microphone, and announced to the crowd the call of pass interference against the defensive end. This being an away game, that decision didn’t sit too well with the home crowd.

As I said before, I didn’t give a flip. Actually, I must have flipped pretty well. In addition to scraping off several layers of skin, I’d wrenched something in my back as well. I’d hurt it badly enough to have to ask to sit out the next play. Coach agreed, giving me a strange look. He knew that it wasn’t like me. I never asked to sit out. When I came, I came to play, every game, one hundred percent. All the time. But not today. Not this game.

I sat by for two more plays, until the last moments of the fifteen-minute-long quarter ticked away. Watching in helpless anxiety, I sat with an ice pack pressed against my back to settle the spasms. Each time I tried to stand, my back tightened, forcing me to the bench once again.
By the time the game was over, I was limping off the field as dejectedly as our defeated Steeldogs. I wasn’t looking forward to the bus ride home. Knowing that I wanted to do something to help the team, but couldn’t, added to my frustration.

We all listened to the aftergame pep talk from the coaching staff with half an ear, half a mind. The other half of our attention was still on the game. Each of us went over every play, wondering what we could have done to prevent the loss. By the time I hit the showers, dejection surrounded me as effectively as the steam.

I’d had sprains before. Cramps were a longtime acquaintance – even the occasional spasm. But something about this time didn’t feel right. I made an offhand remark to that effect to Martin, the team’s trainer.

“I could talk to the doctor for you,” he offered as he helped me onto the message table. “See about getting you a prescription for some muscle relaxants. Maybe you’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Flash. Between pulling double duty as a receiver and defensive back, managing your business ventures, and taking care of the new lady in your life, I don’t see why you aren’t a bundle of quivering nerves.”

To emphasize that point, he dug his fist into a corded section in my back. It felt as if he’d found his way to the center of a burning brick lodged there.

“Thanks for the massage, Martin,” I said, grunting as he pounded at the spot. “But I’ll pass on the muscle relaxants. You know I don’t like pills. They make me woo-woo in the head.”

“Coach is going to go woo-woo if you drop another pass, Flash.”

“Didn’t you know, Martin? I didn’t drop that pass. I was interfered with.” I turned my head to grin at him. “That’s what the refs said, anyway.”

Martin grasped my head with both hands and gave a quick twist, starting a chain reaction of muscle contractions and releases down my neck, across my back – contractions that I could feel all the way to the balls of my feet.

“Interference, my left eye. You got lucky. That boy hardly laid a hand on you,” Martin scoffed.
“That ‘hardly’ made the difference between a wasted down and moving us to within range of the goal line,” I reminded Martin.

Martin could massage away the ache in my back. He couldn’t take away the pain of disappointment in my heart. It was the next to the last game of the season. If we won the last one, we’d tie for third place, and still had a decent chance at the championship. Martin must have noted something in my expression.

“Pluck up, Flash. If you take that woe-is-me attitude back to your lady, you won’t score at home, either.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you’ve got a dirty mind, Martin?”

“Dirty of mind. Pure of heart.” He winked at me.

“That’s not just any woman you’re talking about. Priye’s going to be my wife. I grinned in remembrance. Mrs. Johnson had said to be creative. What I’d lost in original thought, I’d made up for in enthusiastic delivery.

“Yeah, I heard you’d gotten engaged. Heard all about it. The bears, the ring. Saw that picture in the papers. Congratulations, Flash. Now you and Paul will be harder to tell apart than ever. Both of you with the smell of p-whip all over you.”

He tossed me a small tube of topical rub to ease my aches. “If you wont take the muscle relaxants, try some of this.”

“Geez, Martin, I can’t use this. This stuff stinks. Priye won’t be able to get within ten feet of me.”

“That’s not the whole idea. If you’re not getting any, maybe you can channel some of that frustration into our play-off game.”

“You must want me to kill somebody,” I insisted. “That’s what’ll happen if you try to keep me from Priye for that long.”

“She must really have your nose wide open.”

“And that’s the way I like it, too.” I said, shrugging into my clothes. “Thanks.” I held up the tube.

Martin snapped the towel at me, indicating that I should get off the table. “All done, Flash. Hope that cream works for you.”

Contd. . .


**********************************************

". . .And if Maxwell takes that job in the Kumasi office, that will leave an open position," Priye said excitedly.
"Because Daniel will move up to take Maxwell's place."

Priye and I lay, face-to-face, on her leather sectional, Digital satelite was tuned to her favorite light jazz station, setting the mood with smooth tunes. Her head rested in the crook of my arm. My leg was tossed over her hip as she drew lazy, invisible lines up and down my arm.

It was the end of the summer. Now that the football season was over, we could spend much-needed, much-deserved time together. A frantic pace had kept us moving in and out of Lagos, stealing moments when we could.

When Priye wasn't in Lagos, helping her mother with her family reunion plans, I was here, with her, in Accra - taking time away from managing my sports training centers to recharge, reenergize.

Priye's apartment was a second home to me, though it took a little getting used to her odds-and-ends eclectic choice in furniture, the lack of a decent workout facility near her home, and the stacks of fast-food cartons.

"Won't someone else take this Daniel's place?" I asked. I had no earthly idea who these people were. Just names from Priye's workday world. But I listened and asked all the appropriate questions because it seemed to matter to her.

"The only person qualified to take Daniel's position is Carol. And she won't move."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because," Priye said impatiently as if the answer should be obvious to me, "it would be a lateral move for her. She won't want to give up her comfortable position for a lateral with more responsibility. That leaves the field wide open for me. Don't you get it, Jack?"

"Umm, not really," I said lazily.

"Weren't you listening?" She asked.

"Of course I was!" I protested. "It's just that you're making it hard to pay attention."

"Would it help if I did this?" She murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow of my throat.

"Nuh-huh. Just made it harder." I guided her hand to my groin, showing her exactly what effect she was having on me.

"Do you think I should..." She began.

"Absolutely," I cut her off.

"You didn't let me finish!" Priye protested, laughing at my impatience.

"Darlin', we're just getting started."

"I was going to ask you if you thought I should say something now before Maxwell's promotion became official. To show how motivated I am?"

"Very motivated," I echoed, contracting my leg to draw her closer.

"Or should I wait until Maxwell makes the official announcement and then make a move? That'll show some respect for the length of time he'd been in that position." Her hand squeezed, drawing a moan from me.

Speaking of length and positioning!

"You could do that, too," I whispered. Her massage continued absently, tightening her circle while raising my blood pressure.

"I could submit my resume now and pretend to be surprised when Daniel addressed us." She considered that option as she slid her fingers under my waistband and belt buckle. She pressed down, the flat of her palm cupping and containing the heat emanating from my body.

"Yes," I hissed. "Do that."

I lifted my hips against her hand, timing my motion with the rhythm of her caress.

"I don't know," she continued on a sigh. She rested her cheek on the other hand as she sat up on her elbow. "I don't want them to think that I'm a fake, that I'm not really upset by Daniel's leaving. He was a mentor to me. He was one of the few employees to take time and explain what I was supposed to be doing. Everybody else was too busy covering their own behinds to care. If it wasn't for him. . . At the same time, when that position opens, I can move back to Lagos, be close to my family."

"Umm." I echoed like a broken tape recorder.

Finally, unable to stand her indecision, and the hesitation it caused, I pulled her toward me and up over me until she fully straddled me. Her knees sank into the soft-as-butter leather of the sectional.

"Maybe I'm not ready to move up," she continued. "I haven't been in my position for very long. Do you think the others might think I'm moving too fast?" She punctuated her question with a slow, deliberate rotating of her pelvis.

"Or not fast enough," I managed to gasp. "You don't want them to underestimate the full power of your potential, either. You need to be assertive. Show them that you're up for the job."

"But I need to move carefully," she said, unclasping my belt and pulling it away from its loops in one smooth motion. "I wouldn't want to blow it...the job, that is."

"You can handle it," I assured her, at the same time giving her permission to touch me, to pleasure me, with the not-so-hidden undertones of the conversation. It was as much about her work as it was about her getting me worked up.

I needed her. Couldn't wait another minute. Didn't want to. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties as Priye continued to move against me faster and faster, invoking in me a sense of primal urgency.

Her fingers raked across my bared chest, leaving scores across my abdomen, across my shoulders, and down my arms. She took her hands away long enough to remove her blouse and release the front clasp of her brassiere. When the cooler air touched her skin, I felt myself grow even more aroused as I watched the deep, chocolate-toned nipples tighten and rise.

She leaned forward, urging me to sample, to taste. When my tongue darted forward, she grasped in pleasure, then shifted down so that her cheek rested against my chest. She nipped at my skin, then drew circles around my own chest with the tip of her tongue.

Laughter shook my sides. "That tickles."

But she didn't stop. "You big baby," she chastised, then turned her cheek so that she could treat the other in the same. She continued, tracing a moist line down the center of my abdomen, probing the indentation of my navel, stopping short at the waistband of my jeans.

My breath heaved, stomach collapsing almost to my spine as I wondered what she would do next, where she would go next. With leisurely, languid motions, Priye pulled my jeans from around my waist, past my hips, and down around my knees. Her face was only inches from my thighs. Her hair fell forward, tickling me, torturing me.

Knowing that her lips were mere inches away made me strain toward her, but each time she moved away - keeping the agonizing distance.

"Did anybody ever tell you that you have the most amazing thighs?" She murmured, running her hands up and down my legs and digging into the defined cut lines of each major muscle group, made more prominent as my legs strained to keep from plunging into her.

"Not recently," I gasped.

"You do," she insisted. "Absolutely incredible."

Her small hands encircled my girth and squeezed. I arched my back and moaned aloud as a few, precious drops of fluid oozed forth and moistened the tip.

Priye's lips parted. An eagerness just shy of carnality glittered in her dark eyes. I placed my hands on her shoulders and applied subtle but insistent pressure.

"Please." It was as close to begging as I'd ever come in my life.

"Well, since you're being so nice about it," she said, a temptress in every word, every move.

I closed my eyes, reeling in sensation as molten honey dripped over me, around me, and covered me with delicious precision. She took me to the brink and held me there with her - hovering - until I begged again for a free fall.

Priye lifted her head, her eyes shining with unbashed humour. I didn't see what was so damned funny. I was a living volcano, threatening to erupt at the slightest provocation.

"So, what do you think of my qualifications?" She asked.

"I'll . . . I'll tell you when my toes stop curling."

Priye laughed out loud, then stretched out next to me again, yawning.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one to drop off to sleep immediately after. Isn't that what you women are always complaining about in those magazines?"

"What kind of magazines have you been reading? You don't hold the monopoly on being tired," she reminded me.

"Are you tired, Priye?"

"A little," she said, yawning again. "All of that thinking, strategizing. It wears a girl out, you know."

"Shame on me, then."

"What for this time?"

"I've been lying around here like a slug, letting you do all the work."

"Slacker," she agreed. "Since the season's over, you've been a virtual goldbrick."

"Maybe I should put forth a little more effort," I suggested. Still turgid, I wasn't quite ready to call it a night.

"More than a little," Priye encouraged as I settled over her. I needed her so much, was so ready for her.

And then, without warning, I wasn't.

No warning. No explanation. Nothing. One moment I was inside her, filling her. From what I could tell from her movements and expression, giving her pleasure. But somehow, I'd lost the feeling. Not just the mental, emotional feeling that connected me to her. The physical sensation of coupling with Priye was gone. Vanished.

I experienced a moment of panic. What the hell was going on? Why couldn't I feel my woman? I heard her sighs, her ultimate exclamation, even though my movements had become mechanical, obligatory, to finish what we'd started.

As my movements grew more pronounced, so did hers. I bent my knees, pressed the balls of my feet into the couch for leverage. I grasped Priye's warm, round rear and thrust into her, maybe too roughly. She cried out, then bit her lip. But she gave no other indication that she wanted me to stop. I knew all of the signals by now. . .the subtle ones that let me know when she'd had enough. If she pulled away, pushed against me, or clenched her teeth. Subtle changes in her tempo - more like a dead stop - that told me that enough was enough.

Again and again I came to her, my pelvis colliding with hers. I kept moving, motivated as much by fear that I would never feel her the same way again as by desire. She grasped the back of my head and drew my face toward hers for a kiss. As our lips met, I plunged my tongue deep into her mouth, probing, reveling in the joy that I could feel her kiss. I swallowed the surprised moan.

"Jack. . .Jack, what is it?" Priye asked, sensing my urgency, my desperation.

"Shh. . ." I silenced her with another kiss, doubly passionate, doubly harsh. Almost manic. I rocked against her, again and again. Each stab an interrogation. Why couldn't I feel her? Why? Why? Why couldn't I? What was wrong with me? Raw, unfettered, unbridled. Again and again I drove myself into her, and nearly to the brink of despair.

Suddenly, I cried out as molten liquid shot from my groin, collected safely by the condom.

As we lay there, breathing deeply, I wished for the day when we didn't have to take these precautions. I lived for the day when careful was a word we'd use around the baby lying between us, instead of the thin sheath of rubber that kept the baby away.

But that was still sometime away. Our wedding date was almost a year away, in August. And Priye was adamant that there would be no waddling down the aisle. No whispers behind her back - is she or isn't she? Pregnant, that is. No wondering whether our baby was premature or full-term. She wouldn't give satisfaction to small-minded people who had nothing better to do than count backward from the wedding to the delivery date of the first child.

She'd already picked out her dress and she said, in no uncertain terms, there would be no alterations. Not on the plus side, that is. Now, if she had to take in for losing a couple of inches because of her mother's rigorous diet and exercise regimen, that was a different story.

Her family had been waiting a long time, almost two years since the last reunion, for a family wedding. She was the one target this time; she was going to do it - and do it right.

Fully subscribed;;;;;Ma'am I'm following you like a plague

Hmmmm.i comment my reserve

Omolola dear,thumbs up to u.Welldone o

Hmm... This episode was... well...
The wedding date is so far away. *sad*

sambroose: Fully subscribed;;;;;Ma'am I'm following you like a plague

Awww! Thank you sir

Ollyfad: Hmmmm.i comment my reserve

Out with it jor

Chiamaka01: Hmm... This episode was... well...
The wedding date is so far away. *sad*

Open your lips and get talking joor

akejujoe: Omolola dear,thumbs up to u.Welldone o

Thanks dear

Winner anyday.@omolala

Hmmmm

Aunty lolly leave chocolate nd sushi alone nd pls giv us an update.ebe la be a o sako,bikonu

Ollyfad: Aunty lolly leave chocolate nd sushi alone nd pls giv us an update.ebe la be a o sako,bikonu

Lol

I just love this story.

Pls update its 3 days since u updated

This is like a movie! I'm so loving this... Thumbs up to you Omolola...

And finally, here she is, pheew!.
Oooh thought it was an update when I saw u as d last poster. Anyways, we r waiting.

Omolola1: I'm still writing the 19th chapter *covers face*

Pele God will give u wisdom to complete it.
****(removes her hands from her face) oya take this small hug*****
I know u r capable but don't be lazy oo.

Chapter Nineteen

Something was wrong. I could feel it. Though it took me some time to notice that there was a problem. Nothing in Jack's behaviour gave me any indication that anything was bothering him. Not at first. He was as kind and as attentive as ever. He took all of my constant interruptions of his work with my wedding-related questions in stride.

When I was ready to scream over minute details such as chocolate cake over coffee, he took it all in stride, making decisions quickly and decisively. I didn't know whether to bless him for helping me out of my endless loop of analysis paralysis or curse him for his ability to make a snap decision and never look back.

I should have trucked merrily along, blissful in the knowledge that soon I would be Mrs. Jack Deneen. I should have been ecstatic now that it was certain I would be the married one for the next reunion. My well-meaning aunts would turn their creative energies elsewhere. The selection of the "target" had happened so quickly, they had plenty of time left over until the reunion to go for a double-banger - two weddings before the next reunion. Brenda and Joy must have been sweating big time now.

I was, too. For the past few weeks, I'd had this feeling of unease that I couldn't put my finger on. Maybe that was it. I was the one putting all the fingers on. That is, whenever I reached for Jack, he always responded passionately. But lately, I was the one doing all the reaching.

At first, I thought it was the conclusion of Jack's football season stressing him out. Even though the Steeldogs had come off a winning season, they hadn't been able to win the championship. The coveted cup had eluded them, as they'd been plagued by mistackles, old poor execution. All of the mishaps had taken their toll on the team the last few games.

Jack was concerned that his own performance wasn't up to his team's expectations. He'd trained just as hard, or harder, than anyone else. He'd studied plays until he could repeat play patterns in his sleep. Yet no matter how much effort he put into preparing for the game, none of that helped when the ball slipped unexplainably through his fingers. Or when defenders ran him down. Or when the opposing team got around him to break up a play in the backfield.

As much as I loved to watch him play, I hated what that stupid game was doing to him emotionally. I watched helplessly while frustration led to careless errors, and careless errors led to missed opportunities. Jack took each loss of a down, each loss of a game, to heart. Secretly, I was glad the season was over. For during those low periods, there was nothing I could do to console him. I was worried that that idiotic game would send him into a depression. But when I asked him about it, he assured me that everything was all right. Everything would be fine.

If it weren't for the sports training centers that he'd opened with his friend and teammate Paul, I think he would have driven himself nutty trying to figure out what he could have personally done to drag the Steeldogs to the championship.

When I tried to console him with the fact that there was always next year, he looked at me as if I were the one who'd gone off the deep end. That's when I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that something was wrong with Jack.

I'd often looked into Jack's eyes and been absolutely enthralled by the range of emotions those tigerlike eyes could convey. He'd looked at me with pride and possession, annoyance and amusement. I'd seen passion reflected there and preoccupation. I'd seen him sleepy and seductive. Trashed after an all-night party, introspective after an all night heart-to-heart. Motivated by success, manic in front of adoring fans. Most times, I was right there. But when I'd suggested that he could always play again next year, that was the first time I'd ever seen fear in his eyes. Fear and doubt. I didn't understand, could not fathom why my simple show of support would frighten him. Jack Deneen was afraid of nothing. No one. That's what I would have said several weeks ago.

Now, I wasn't so sure. It was mid-february. Six months before the wedding and the family reunion. Plenty of time. Plenty to do. I was still starting to panic. Thank God for my family and their expertise with planning both.

As I sat at Mother's kitchen table, swatches of cloth, brides maids' patterns, and invitation samples spread out in front of me, I wondered how I was going to get it all done. I wondered how I was going to get it all done. I wondered how I was going to keep it all together, stay sane until the big day came.

"So, what do you think of this one?" I held up a lemon-yellow swatch for Mother's approval.

"Joy would hunt you down and kill you if you made her wear that colour," Mother said promptly.

"And Brenda thinks the green looks like baby puke." I discarded another sample. "What do you think about this one?"

"I like it," Mother agreed, fingering the deep maroon satin, "I think it's a colour that will flatter both of them."

"Whew! Glad that's over with. Now all I have to do is decide on a pattern."

"Not that one," Mother said, turning over the simplicity pattern that had enough ruffles to span the globe twice.

"Since it's going to be an outdoor reception, I was thinking about something sleeveless, but tasteful. Or spaghetti straps like this one." I pointed to another pattern.

Mother and I went through a few more samples and considered a few more options, until we heard a car honking in the driveway.

"That should be Ebere and Pammie," Mother predicted.

"And Jack," I said. "He said he was going to try to make this meeting, too."

"I have to wonder about that man's smarts. Hasn't he realized that every time he shows up for one of these meetings, we put him to work?"

"Even when he doesn't show up, you put an action item down by his name."

"To be more technical, since you're the official minutes keeper, you put the action item down," Mother corrected me.

"Details, details."

I flung the door open and crossed my arms as a wet, chill wind blew inside. "Y'all hurry up," I encouraged, waving for my aunts to gather their belongings, Jack's SUV pulled in directly behind them. He waved at me as I blew him a kiss.

"Ah, young love." Aunt Pam sighed as she kissed me on the cheek in greeting. "Priye, your face is cold."

"It won't be for long," Aunt Ebere commented slyly. "As soon as Jack steps through that door, there will be enough kindling going on in here to roast someone."

"Mother is in the kitchen," I said pointedly, tilting my head.

"So, what are you trying to say?" Aunt Pam teased. "That you want to be alone?"

"You're lucky that it's me and your aunt Pam," Aunt Ebere added. "If it had been Aunt Rosa and your grandmother, you wouldn't have a moment's peace to yourselves."

"No wonder she's keeping that apartment in Accra," Aunt Pam teased.

"I still work there, you know."

"I thought you'd gotten a promotion?"

"Not until next month," I said.

"Seems like everything's falling in place for you at the same time."

"Uh-huh," I said distractedly. Jack still hadn't climbed out. I was starting to get curious as to what he was doing.

"Lucky me."

Finally, I heard the door slam and the chirp of the alarm engaging. Jack trudged up the walkway with his hands tucked into his leather jacket. A baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes. The weather wasn't cold enough for a freeze, but the water on the stone path still made speed walking treacherous. I guess that's why he took his time getting to me.

"Hey, baby," I said, helping him shrug out of his jacket.

He rubbed his hands briskly together. "It feels good in here."

I wrapped my arms around his waist, squeezing tightly. "It feels good in here, too," I murmured. "How did it go today?"

"Pretty good," he said, smiling down at me. But there was a hesitancy in his voice. He reached out, not to hold me, but to pull my hands away from him. When I pinned him with a curious, disappointed stare he said, "Be nice. We're at your mother's house."

"She's not going to disown me for hugging you, Jack. Besides, we're practically married already. Everybody says so."

"Uh-huh."

"So, how did the meeting go today?"

"Pretty good," he repeated. "The numbers look good enough. I think we can open a third center."

"You keep this up and you won't have to play football next season," I teased.

Jack stopped in midstride. "What do you mean by that?" The hand on my shoulder clenched.

"What do you mean, what do I mean? It was just a joke." I twisted out of his grasp. It was the first time I could ever remember not wanting him to touch me.

Totally amazing

weldone and tanx omolola. But dis one is short na