The Wrong Mr. Darcy - Evelyn Lozada Page 0,28

it how it sounded, Derek?”

“Naw, my boy wouldn’t do me like that.” But he kept his face down.

Hara felt bad for him. The young player had worked hard out there on the floor, performing better than expected. He wasn’t getting the attention he deserved. Then again, Derek wasn’t making it easy for the press, emulating Charles’s minimal-words policy but with a lot less friendliness.

* * *

Hara kicked away popcorn and avoided puddles of beer on the smooth cement floor as she made her way down the rapidly emptying main entranceway. She’d quickly written up a review of the game and amended a few sentences in her interview, and sent both off to Carter. Now she was free. That was that. Hara had covered the Charles Butler story and then made it into the locker room after a big game. Yay for notches in my portfolio. Life changing! So exciting!

Then darkness descended and that snide voice from the locked closet in the recesses of her brain started whispering. She could have asked Charles anything. Instead, she’d chosen not to rock the boat. She was an idiot. A freaking coward.

She’d shifted into the mindset of a manic-depressive. Her stomach surged with the emotional swings.

“Hara!” Naomi, the stunning girl from the party, stepped out of an elevator, waving.

The surge swung back up. She wasn’t completely alone here. “Hi! I’m so happy to see you,” Hara gushed, before she could stop herself. Swallowing, she brought it down a notch. “Whatcha up to?”

Naomi sang out, a smile on her young face, “I’m hittin’ Tunnel. Come with me!”

“You’re going to a tunnel?”

“Ha! A nightclub. Some of the players and the girls are going, we’re in a VIP section. D’Luxe is the DJ tonight, it’ll totally be worth it.”

They were walking past Eddie, who sat on the edge of a cement garbage bin, intent on his small laptop computer, clacking away madly on the keyboard. Maybe she should have spent more time on her own story.

Too late now. “Are you sure the players will be okay with me there?” Hara asked. She knew Naomi was only inviting her along because she thought Hara had some cachet with the team, having watched her being escorted to a private meeting with Madeline at the party. But what did she care if Naomi genuinely liked her or not? She could use Naomi’s connections, just like the girl was using her.

Hara was being offered another shot at Charles.

“Come on. Don’t be stupid,” said Naomi. “You are an exotic beauty. Beautiful women are never turned away, not when Charles is around. But you can’t wear your accountant clothes.”

“I don’t look like an accountant!”

“What do you have on under that button-up?”

“My bra.”

“What’s it look like?” Naomi asked. “Never mind. We’ll make a stop on the way.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re goin’, girl.” She grabbed her hand. “It’ll be fun.”

The universe was giving her one more opportunity. Damn it, she needed to get over herself and take it.

Naomi did not live far from the stadium. Surprisingly, though she was in an amazing part of town, her apartment was tiny, a walk-up above a Chinese restaurant. Hara had assumed because she hung out with the hoity-toity crowd and dressed like a movie star that the young woman was wealthy.

The modest well-kept studio was done in light grays, with small pops of black and red. Hara loved the chic decor. The “bedroom” was basically a nook big enough for a bed, though it did have a sliding door for privacy. In the main room, Naomi used black Ikea bookcases to cleverly create a closet that covered an entire wall, floor to ceiling, and fronted them with sliding barn doors. There was even a mini dressing room.

“Wow. This place is seriously cool.”

“I know, right? My friend’s dad owns the building. I love it.” Naomi slid open a closet door. “What would you like? Maybe a little Asian flare? This would be so pretty with your skin tone and dark hair.” She handed Hara a satin lilac dress with a mandarin collar and plum blossom embroidery.

Hara held it up to herself and then handed it back. “Very pretty. Not my style, even if it wasn’t sized for a starving child. I’m not opposed to wearing Chinese styles, but I’m Japanese. Much different.”

Naomi rehung the dress and continued rummaging through the hangers. “Are both your mom and dad Japanese?”

“Nah, my dad is Japanese American and my mom is African American. Guyanese, actually, but like four generations back. If I did one