“Five pounds, sugar. You’ve lost five pounds.”

Quen high-fived me and I did a little mambo. I’d finally learned that move from step class, but it had taken me several classes to get it down.

Losing that weight felt good, having Quen’s hands on me felt even better. I liked him touching me. I often moved an arm or leg into his accidentally as I struggled with a machine during my workouts. Sometimes I struggled on purpose, and although his touching me could be considered part of his job as my personal trainer, there were times I fantasized about a different scenario….

I smiled into those chocolate eyes and tried not to lick my lips. I loved it that he called me sugar. Although weight loss and sweetener didn’t go together, we were at least making progress. I was sick and tired of being called thick, and now that his skinny ex was coming to town I needed to get the weight off. She would be my incentive.

Books by Marcia King-Gamble

Kimani Romance

Flamingo Place

Kimani Press Arabesque

Remembrance

Eden’s Dream

Under Your Spell

Illusions of Love

A Reason to Love

Change of Heart

Come Fall

Come Back to Me

A Taste of Paradise

Designed for You

Kimani Press Sepia

Jade

This Way Home

Shattered Images

MARCIA KING-GAMBLE

was born on the island of St. Vincent, a heavenly place in the Caribbean where ocean and skies are the same mesmerizing blue. An ex–travel industry executive, Marcia’s favorite haunts remain the Far East, Venice and New Zealand.

In her spare time, she enjoys kickboxing, step aerobics and Zumba, then winding down with a good book. A frustrated interior designer, Marcia’s creativity finds an outlet in her home where nothing matches. She is passionate about animals, tearjerker movies and spicy food. She serves double duty as the director of member services at the Writers and Artists Institute in south Florida, and is the editor of Romantically Yours—a monthly newsletter.

To date, Marcia has written twelve novels and two novellas. She loves hearing from fans. You may contact her at Mkinggambl@aol.com, or P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

All About Me

Marcia King-Gamble

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To Teresa and James Etta, owners of Nonna’s Café.

Your gelato got me through and your latte kept me awake.

Thanks for leasing me free space.

Dear Reader,

I have always been fascinated by small towns. Maybe it’s because I grew up on a little island where there was a sense of belonging and community that rarely exists in cities today.

Since community has always been important to me, with the help of my good friend, urban designer George Johnston (www.jtphome.com), we created Flamingo Beach. This delightful oceanfront community in Florida is a place where everyone knows everyone, and minding each other’s business is a favorite pastime.

These days Flamingo Beach is in transition and fighting it every step of the way. More and more new people are moving in, condominiums are being renovated and construction is everywhere. The real estate market is booming. And Chere Adams, introduced in the first book of this series, Flamingo Place, is now moonlighting as a real estate agent. And as Flamingo Beach changes, so does Chere. But is a beautiful facade all that matters, or is having a solid foundation more important? I’d be interested in hearing what you think. E-mail me at Mkinggambl@aol.com or write me at P.O. Box 25143, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33320.

And be sure not to miss my next Kimani Romance title, Down and Out in Flamingo Beach, as Flamingo Beach, as the town’s oldest citizens celebrate their centennials.

Romantically yours,

Marcia King-Gamble

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 1

I knew who I was.

Chere Adams, big, beautiful, black and damn proud of it. So what was I doing at a step aerobics class at this hour when I should be in bed?

As I huffed, puffed and stared out of the big picture windows wondering when this torture would end, outside the Florida sun began to rise. In my head I pictured pork chops, scrambled eggs and grits washed down by a gallon of sweet tea. I should be wolfing down breakfast not sweating off a meal I hadn’t had.

“Pick it up, ladies. Work it!”

The instructor’s voice through that amplified microphone was already hurting my head. And the rap music at this hour of the morning threatened to blow an eardrum.

“One, two, three, four, five, pump those arms. Work it! Sashay to the right and pick up the pace, ladies. One…two…”

“That woman wants to seriously hurt me,” I muttered to the lumbering, huffing woman next to me. “If I hear work it one more time I’m going to do something to that mic.”

“Yeah, but it might well kill us to look like her,” my companion in crime said between pants.

We misfits were huddled in the back of the room, bouncing up and down and pretty much falling all over ourselves.

Why I allowed myself to be talked into this class, and at such a crazy hour, was all because of Quen Abrahams, my personal trainer. I was already thinking if this was the warm-up I’d be dead by the time they started stepping. Forty-five minutes of climbing up and down steps just wasn’t going to agree with Chere Adams.

I exhaled on a loud whistling breath, and tried to keep up with the dry-looking women in the front of the room making it look effortless.

Here I was, five foot six, and 225 pounds of sweating, quivering flesh trying to hold my own with women half my size. In my red sweats I looked like a raging bull, snorting and lumbering along.

“I might just have a heart attack,” I wheezed. “Tell me you don’t feel like your chest is on fire.”

“I have a stitch in my side,” my companion whined.

I had to keep reminding myself that my incentive was the eighty pounds of flesh I planned on getting rid of, and the man whose attention I wanted to get. Losing that weight would bring me down to a respectable 145 pounds. Then look out world, here comes Chere Adams.

I wanted to look just like the yellow-skinned woman in the black leotard or the brunette upfront with the fake boobs. Well not exactly like the brunette in the sports bra with her rubber hard stomach and sparkly belly button ring. She had a nonexistent butt and I liked mine, there was a helluva lot more to hold on to. But she’d gotten the attention of the muscle men in the outer room which is something I couldn’t do. Actually there was only one muscle man whose attention I wanted. Quen Abrahams.

A group of awed males had their noses pressed to the Plexiglass divider and were actually drooling. I wanted to tie a bib around their necks to stop the spit, and not the kind you got at Red Lobster, either. Food was all I could think about. What was it about the woman’s nonexistent jiggle that turned them on? Must be the big boobs, it just had to be the boobs.

Mine were even bigger—40 size triple D and not full of saline either. My booty I’d been lugging around since I was twelve, and damn proudly, too. It got men’s attention usually. But I had this spare tire and a couple of double chins I wanted to get rid of. That was the real reason I was here. I was sick and tired of hearing how beautiful I could be if I would only lose weight.

“It takes work, sugar!” Quentin Abrahams, my personal trainer, constantly reminded me. “Work and watching every calorie that goes into your mouth.”

Easy for him to say. The man didn’t know what it was like to be fat. He was built like a brick house. All muscle and sinew. And hotter than any man should be. He set me on fire.

“Okay, folks, now that our warm-up is over, time to get some real work done,” the small, dark-skinned instructor chirped, bringing me back to earth. There wasn’t even the slightest hitch in her breath.

“Witch!”

I wanted to kill her. Well maybe murder was a bit strong. I wanted to slap her perfect face. Here I was huffing and puffing like Farmer Jones’s prize cow and there wasn’t even a glimmer of moisture on “Missy Fitness’s” forehead.

“What! Is she kidding?” the blonde on the other side of me groaned. “I’m done.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I agreed. “But looks like girlfriend wants to work us some more.”

The woman I’d been speaking to earlier suddenly stopped midstep. Her breath came in great big gusts. “The treadmill’s starting to look better and better.” With that she left.

I looked at the wall clock. Forty three minutes of agony before the class was over.

The back of the room was slowly beginning to clear out, making big people like me with ungainly belly rolls more noticeable. The skinny minnies, dressed in pastel Lycra, sports bras and expensive jewelry were up front and center.

I should never have let Quen talk me into trying this “Step and Sculpt” class. Seven o’clock in the morning was usually when I hit the snooze button for the second or third time.

Quen said the class would be a breeze. And he expected me to go at least three days a week. The man was doing drugs. Mind you that was over and above the sessions he and I had scheduled.

Heaving, I clutched my side. I had a stitch and wanted a drink of water badly. As I slowed down, marching in place, the class continued on, the show-offs straddling steps that had a minimum of two risers.

“This is getting old,” I muttered.

The woman next to me sighed. “I hear that.”

I at least had the smarts to pass on the risers. It was hard enough for me to clamber up one step much less do half hops and “V” steps. I had no clue what the instructor even meant by that. As for a sashay and mambo that was a foreign language—Spanish to me.

By some major miracle I made it through the rest of the class without collapsing. Afterward I hobbled behind several sweating women and headed for the showers.

“Looking good, Chere,” Quen called after me.

The deep timbre of his voice gave me chills. It figured Quen Abrahams of all people would have to see me like this, hauling my sorry ass toward the showers. I rolled my eyes and snorted something under my breath. This had all been his idea. And I was going along with the plan because I wanted him bad.

No man deserved to look like he did at this ungodly hour. Quen was wearing a monogrammed blue short-sleeved polo shirt that stretched across his broad chest, and showed off his muscular arms to an advantage. Where the shirt V-ed there was a patch of dark hair. His khaki shorts skimmed midthigh giving me a-to-die for view of runners’ legs. The same dark hairs curled over them. And his sneakers, well girlfriend, they had to be at a minimum a fourteen and they looked brand new. It was his hands that had me. They were large hands with long, nimble fingers, the nails neatly trimmed.

I wanted those hands on me. All over me. I dreamed about them.

“Must have been some workout,” Quen said, preparing to move along. “You keep showing up three times a week, sugar, and we’ll have you slimmed down in no time.”

An hour later, my body aching, I flopped behind my desk at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began opening Dear Jenna’s mail. It was more of the same whining and I quickly got bored. I began daydreaming of scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries. Soon it became pork chops and chicken legs. I was that hungry.

“Hey, Chere,” Jen St. George, my boss greeted as she flew in. Girlfriend was turned out as usual. She had a certain style about her that I’d tried copying but couldn’t pull off. Jen’s eyes were overly bright. There was a bounce to her step that made me want to strangle her. Came from sleeping with one of Flamingo Beach’s hottest guys. Jen had hooked up with wisecracking radio personality, Tre Monroe. His radio audience called him D’Dawg.

“You’re early,” Jen said, sounding astounded. “Is something wrong?”

“Good morning to you to, missy, and no, there ain’t—isn’t—anything wrong.”

She was right; I was always at least half an hour late. Mornings were rough on me. They made me hungry and grumpy. I was what you called a night person.

“I’ve been working out at the gym,” I announced, twirling around. “New Years resolution, remember?” We’d both made resolutions, mine was to lose weight and exercise, Jen’s was to exercise more patience. It was only the second week of January but I’d managed to keep mine. I waited for her to compliment me.

“Good for you. You’re sticking to the program. Is Quen still working with you?” Jen raised a sculpted eyebrow as if she didn’t think that was possible. She must think I was bluffing about losing weight?

“Yeah he is. Why?”

Jen stood and stretched. There wasn’t a ripple in the midthigh skirt she wore or a bulge where her belly should be. “Nothing. I’m getting coffee. Want a cup?”

Fetching coffee was my job but I never seemed to get around to it. “Sure and while you’re at it bring back a couple of them chocolate donuts the girls brought in.”

Jen shook her head and wagged a finger in front of my nose. “Chocolate is totally off-limits. Those calories will go straight to our hips. I need to lose five pounds so that I can fit into my wedding gown.”

I began bouncing up and down and screaming. “Jen’s getting married, y’all. Tre’s finally popped the question.”

Several heads poked over the divider. The commotion had gotten the attention of the clerical staff who were on their desks looking over.

Jen held up her left hand for all to see. My mouth flapped open like I was catching flies. Shoot, I’d never seen a rock quite that size. D’Dawg had to be making some big bucks. I wanted one just like hers.

Oohs and aahs came from the other side of the partition. My girls had calculators for brains. They were crunching those numbers, and computing the cost of that ring right down to the last dollar.

“Congratulations!” Envy dripped from that word.

“Good luck, Jen. You caught yourself a good one.”

I heard a rustle and several stifled screams.

Heads disappeared, which meant Luis Gomez, the big cheese had come in.

I was hugging Jen when Luis, stinking of cigar smoke, stuck his head in our office. “Morning, Jen,” he said, totally ignoring me.

“Morning,” she replied.

I stuck a tongue out behind his back. I couldn’t stand him. Never could. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about me. I had the owner of the paper, Ian Pendergrass’s ear. I’d been Ian’s housekeeper once; the worst one he’d ever had. But I’d served a purpose. Ian, the old goat with his randy ways deserved me.

“I’ll be back with that coffee,” Jen said smoothly, slipping out of my embrace.

I’d never be married. I’d never even come close. But I’d had my share of men and most of the population of Flamingo Beach thought I was a “ho.” Not true. But it was good for my image for them to think that. No one should ever know that brazen-faced Chere Adams actually lacked self confidence.

And that was another reason I needed to get the weight off. It was also the reason I’d spent two months studying like crazy for that real estate exam. I wanted to be somebody. Needed to be. I was thirty-three years old and going nowhere fast. And I wanted Quen Abrahams and babies.

I refused to think the health club manager was out of my league. Maybe he was, but a girl could try, couldn’t she? I wanted the man to start thinking of me as a woman, and not just a fatso with a crazy sense of humor. We’d been friends for a long time. Now I wanted more than friendship.

Where was my coffee? I needed a pick me up and I needed one of them chocolate donuts to hold me over. Hell, I would even settle for a jelly-filled one; anything sweet. My stomach was queasy and every bone hurt.

The minutes ticked by before Jen sauntered back in minus donuts. She was carrying two mugs in her hand. She set one cup down on my desk and flipped the switch on her computer.

“Where’s the food?” I demanded.

“No donuts. You’re on a diet. You should be eating breakfast bars.” She rummaged through her drawer and flipped a couple at me.

I caught them, glared at her and bit right through the wrapper. I was that hungry. Easy for her to say “You’re on a diet.” She was built like an athlete with curves in all the right places. That glowing coffee complexion came from nights of good loving. Tre Monroe was delivering and I was getting zilch. Nada.

“How are your real estate classes coming?” Jen asked, after she was settled in and staring at her monitor.

It would be pointless to lie. In a town the size of Flamingo Beach everyone knew everyone’s business and what they didn’t know they made up.

“I passed the real estate and property management exam,” I said, proudly sticking out my triple Ds. “Now I am officially a full-fledged Realtor.”

“Good for you. Will you be juggling two jobs then, or will you be quitting on me?”

Better to play it cool and keep my mouth shut. Jen didn’t have to know I had high aspirations; one of them being to get the credit I deserved at the Chronicle. I didn’t want her job, I just wanted equal billing. Dear Jenna and Chere, sounded sweet to me.

“You know I can’t afford to quit,” I said smiling brightly. She was after all still my boss. “I need a regular salary. Besides who said I didn’t like my job.”

One side of Jen’s lips curled up. “I thought you were bored opening mailing and cataloguing it.”

“Who said I was bored?”

She cut her eyes at me. I didn’t have her fooled.

I wasn’t exactly bored, but I did have a short attention span. I hated sitting for hours. Plus much of the advice Jen dished out came from me. I knew everything there was to know in Flamingo Beach. And even if the people who wrote in didn’t sign their real names, it was easy to figure. Nothing but nothing escaped me.

I dug into a drawer and found a letter opener, no point ruining my nails. Manicures were expensive. Especially those that had fancy artwork and sequins on them. This week mine had dolphins jumping. I’d turned into a Florida girl through and through.

“You set a date for the wedding?” I asked, my stomach rumbling thinking of that wedding cake with strawberries, fresh cream and icing.

“Tre and I will do that this weekend.”

It sounded to me like Tre Monroe was delaying committing. Not that I would tell Jen that. He’d been the beach’s most eligible bachelor up until missy here, from Ashton snatched him up. They’d hated each other on sight. Then somewhere along the way that hatred had turned to love. Now the buzz was they were living together.

“What’s going to happen to your apartment?” I asked, partially because I was curious, and partially because I needed to find out if she wanted to rent. Heck I was a Realtor plus I had my own ulterior motive.

“I’m thinking about renting.”

I wound a lock of weaved auburn hair around a jeweled fingernail and thought about how to play this. I needed a place to live. My landlady claimed her daughter and her kid were moving back to Flamingo Beach. She’d given me notice to start looking.

If I put my stuff in storage, and moved into Jen’s fancy apartment, it might work. Flamingo Place was the type of upscale complex that could do wonders for my new image. And Jen’s waterfront digs were to die for. I just couldn’t afford to pay what she was paying.

“When are you thinking of leasing?” I asked.

She crossed one skinny leg over the other. Jen had that polished look I was striving for but couldn’t quite pull off. If you weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds and squeezed into a midthigh skirt and three-inch stilettos, you looked like a hooker. You got lots of attention but for all the wrong reasons.

“Do you know someone who might be interested?” Jen asked, “I could make the apartment available immediately. I’m spending more and more time at Tre’s place and an empty apartment isn’t a good thing.”

She’d confirmed they were more or less living together. Opportunity only knocked once. I took a deep breath and stepped through the door.

“I might be interested.”

“You?”

Jen sounded like she didn’t think I was serious.

I explained what had happened with my landlady.

“Hmm,” she said, stroking her chin. “But what would you do with all of your stuff?”

“Put it in storage. It would only be for a couple of months. I don’t even know if I can afford the rent.” I played my ace card. “There is a plus to having me live there.”

“And what is that?”

“Being that I’m officially in the real estate business, and I know a lot of people, I could keep an eye out for a tenant. You’d be my very first client.”

“Hmm.”

All these “hmms” were beginning to annoy me. I might be a lowly peon at the Chronicle but I was well connected. Jen knew exactly who’d gotten me this job; Ian Pendergrass himself. She also knew I’d introduced her to a lot of important people.

“Could you manage to pay say six hundred dollars a month?” Jen asked. “That would be half of my mortgage. I’ll pick up the other half until you find me a tenant.”

“I could pay five,” I countered, crossing my fingers behind my back. Five hundred would be a steal for Jen’s two-bedroom water-view apartment, and I would be able to put aside a few hundred per month. She didn’t have to know the rattrap I lived in was costing me close to a thousand.

I’d slaved to make the place pretty. The toilets leaked and the pictures on the walls hid holes and flaking plaster. Even the partitions were thin. During the late hours you could hear the neighbors’ bedsprings squeak. I’m sparing you the graphics. You don’t want to know.

“Okay, we’ll agree on five.”

I squealed loudly and moved in to hug her.

The phone rang and we both reached for it.

“This is Dear Jenna,” Jen said in her professional voice. I was surprised when she handed the receiver to me.

“New boyfriend? He’s got a sexy voice.”

I wish.

“Hello, this is Chere,” I said, the elocution classes I attended one night a week finally kicking in. Plus I remembered the reprimand I’d received from Jen for saying, “Hey.”

“Just a reminder, tomorrow morning at seven. Don’t mess up.” It was Quen Abrahams again. I’d missed one session two weeks ago and trust me I’d heard about it. I’d needed my beauty sleep and I’d overslept.

I groaned. I’d forgotten all about making that appointment. Plus I didn’t have the extra sixty dollars to pay him even though he was giving me a break.

Quen was not only Flamingo Place’s health club manager and on-site nutritionist, but was doing me a favor personally training me.

“My legs are killing me. Every bone hurts,” I whined.

“It’ll get better,” Quen said in that voice that reminded me of nights when the temperature in Florida dipped into the fifties and you broke out the wine and Barry White. “Did you weigh in today?”

I grunted something. I’d totally forgotten.

I could feel Jen’s eyes on me and sensed the wheels turning. Everyone thought I was easy and had a string of men. They should only know what it took for me to sleep with a man. Courage. Ian and I hadn’t exactly slept together. The old geezer liked to look and touch.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the club then. Seven o’clock sharp, remember,” Quen said.

“I’ll be there.” I blew a kiss through the mouthpiece. “Love you, too.”

Under my breath I muttered, “slave driver,” and slammed down the phone.

Chapter 2

Crabby because I was still hungry, I clomped home and had a salad for dinner. I was starving. I stuck my head in the refrigerator, found a turkey leg in one of those Ziploc bags and yanked it out.

I zapped that leg in the microwave and quickly wolfed it down. Food never tasted so good. Afterward I sat down and made a list of what I needed to do to improve myself.

The phone rang just as I was thinking how much all this reinventing was going to cost.

“Talk to me,” I said, picking up the receiver.

“Chere?” Sheena, one of my girls greeted in her usual high-pitched squeak. She didn’t wait for me to acknowledge her but began babbling away. Meanwhile my stomach was still rumbling. I considered having another piece of turkey just to quiet things down.

“So did I hear right?” Sheena yakked. “Your boss is taking a stroll down the aisle with our favorite disk jockey?” That girl didn’t miss a thing.

“You heard right.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to talk about any wedding unless it was mine.

My short answers didn’t bother Sheena one bit. She was off and running. “What’s happening with your real estate? You selling any houses yet?”

“I just passed the test a week ago. Cut me some slack,” I said irritably. I wasn’t going to say one word about my two clients. That news would be all over town in a Flamingo Beach minute and I didn’t want to be jinxed.

“Then you must not have sold anything,” she said. Sheena could be a bitch at times. “I hear they’re looking for part time help selling or renting properties at Flamingo Place. Manny Varela is the property manager. You want me to put in a good word for you?”

“No, thanks. I know Manny. I can speak for myself.”

Sheena had been sleeping off and on with Manny for over a year. Sleeping with men that weren’t hers was Sheena’s favorite pastime. It was an ego thing. True, Manny with his jet-black hair, olive complexion and expensive designer suits wasn’t bad. But it was the Benz he drove that made him a catch.

“Well let me know if you change your mind,” Sheena said, “And call me the minute you hear something.” She hung up.

These next few months were going to be devoted to me. I planned on losing weight, getting my man and starting a new career, and not necessarily in that order. Earlier, I’d placed a big toe on the bathroom scale and was pleasantly surprised to see the number was lower. Growing braver, I’d given the scale my whole weight. I still had eighty-three pounds to go, but losing two pounds for me was a big deal and should be celebrated.

Over the years I’d pretty much convinced myself that being big worked for me. I hadn’t lacked admirers. What you don’t know is there’s a slew of “chubby chasers” out there; men who think being full figured is hot. They weren’t necessarily what I was looking for but what I got. My expectations were set way high. This year I’d made resolutions; one being to get Quen Abrahams.

Quen with the corded arms and strong thigh muscles also came with a degree and ambition, and he could string two sentences together while flashing you a gut-wrenching smile. Since I had a degree and had worked damn hard to get it, I needed a man who was my equal, especially if he was going to father my child.

Tomorrow we were working out of Jen’s condo; a good thing, too, because I’d probably be dead after my session with Quen. During lunch I had an interview with Manny Varela, the property manager Sheena mentioned earlier. Like she said, his sales and leasing office was looking for part-timers. I needed a second job and I needed it quickly. These personal training sessions were pricey and diet food cost money.

Now I had just fifteen minutes to get to my elocution class. The class had been advertised in one of those inserts you get in the Sunday paper. It was a continuing education course given by one of the neighboring high schools and aimed at a certain type of person. Although it cost $150, I whipped out my credit card and paid. I was investing in myself. I couldn’t think of anyone better.

Deep down I’d always known if I wanted to be somebody I’d need to walk the walk and talk the talk. Not that I was turning my back on my roots, mind you. Like I said I knew who I was and I didn’t need to prove anything to anybody.

I made the ten-minute drive in five. And yes, I admit I have a lead foot. Class had just started when I tromped in and with a “hey” to the homies sitting next to me, I plopped onto a seat at the back of the room.

“You didn’t miss much,” the woman who’d told me she was an administrative assistant, but thought she was a CEO whispered to me.

“Good.”

The instructor, a proper-looking man who still wore a bow tie, and who had to be gay, was in the middle of taking attendance. He gave us a stern look. Since Adams was at the beginning of the alphabet he’d already passed over me.

I had nothing else to do so I looked around the room to see if there were any dropouts. Yup. This was the third session and the group was a lot smaller than I remembered. The class was supposedly aimed at foreigners and business types; people needing to learn to speak right.

The first two sessions had been jam-packed; now the only people I recognized were the married couple and the immigrants from Cuba, who barely spoke English, and in my opinion required more than “elocution.” Then there was the freckled guy from New “Joisey” who wanted to be friends. I called him, “Dese, Dems and Dose,” but not to his face of course. I wasn’t that stupid. Not that I was in a position to make fun of anybody.

The two homeboys who’d greeted me were still hanging in. They looked out of place in their oversize jeans riding low on the hips, with their undershorts sticking out over the top. In this case something big was at stake here, like money.

I grew up with the language of the street, which meant you said what you thought and punctuated with some well chosen cuss words to get your point across loud and clear. Jen, my boss had been forever after me to clean up my act. And I was trying. Talking like you had marbles in your mouth worked for her so why not me? It had landed her a cushy job. I’d decided if I was going to be selling real estate to all kinds of people no one needed to know I was black, at least not right off.

“Ms. Adams,” the instructor called, pulling me back to reality. I didn’t know the man even knew my name.

“Wassup, Mr. Cummings?”

He peered at me over ridiculous half-moon glasses and sniffed.

“Yes, Mr. Cummings?” he corrected.

“Yes, Mr. Cummings,” I obediently repeated.

A finger beckoned me to join him up front. As I plodded toward him, he turned to write on the blackboard. I was starting to feel like I was back in fourth grade when “the fat girl” was being singled out.

“Please translate these phrases in the queen’s English for the rest of the class,” Cummings said, handing me his chalk.

“Say what?”

Shoot, queen’s English? The United States did not have a queen, at least not the last time I looked. I scrunched up my nose and stared at the strange little man. The homeboys cracked up. People were howling and holding their sides.

Cummings sniffed loudly and wagged a finger. “This is exactly what I mean. Those types of expressions have no place in everyday language. You are here to learn to speak English, and that includes the use of proper grammar. You are here to articulate.”

“Yo, man. You trying to teach us to conversate,” one of the homeboy’s in the back shouted.

That produced another round of laughter.

Mr. Cummings gave him his stern look.

“You must eliminate all urban slang from your vocabulary, Ms. Adams. Now please continue.”

Yup. I was being made an example of. Lucky for me, I was wearing one of my hot little J Lo outfits, well maybe not so little. It was size 3X. I was working it. Rather than writing, I repeated out loud what I thought Cummings wanted to hear. He corrected me in his snotty manner and I slunk back to my chair.

The remainder of the two-hour class passed quickly. The homeboys had their turn, as did the Cuban couple. Cummings was mean. I’d almost decided I wasn’t being singled out. I knew people judged you by both your appearance and the way you spoke. They assumed if you were a big girl you were a slow, stupid ox. But being big had always been advantageous for me. My sense of humor and big mouth had made me popular in school and gotten me through.

The way I saw it, Cummings’s class was keeping me off the street these days. Before that I’d spent one night a week at the Haul Out. Not because I was a big drinker, but because it was a sure way of catching up on who was doing who. All that time hanging out got me a big fat nothing except the occasional pickup, then when he found out I was on lockdown I promptly got dumped. This elocution class would at least help me build a future.

I left thinking that even though Mr. Cummings had a stick up his ass, he might be onto something.

I’d only been home about fifteen minutes, and was thinking about going to bed when my telephone rang.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, sweet thang.”

Who the hell was this?

“Do I know you?”

The man chuckled. “Baby, how could you forget the best lover you’ve ever had? This is Richard.”

“Richard who?”

Why was he acting like I knew him, like we were close?

A long pause followed as he tried to pick up his ego from the floor. “Richard Dyson, baby, the owner of Dyson Luxury Limousines.”

Oh, that Dick! Rich Richard. Obnoxious Richard. Richie Rich who thought his Platinum American Express card bought him any woman. The last time he’d phoned was months ago. It had been late at night, he’d been drunk and on a booty-call spree. “What do you want, Dickie?”

“Can’t a man touch base with a beautiful woman just to see how she’s doing?”

“It’s been three months since you and I spoke.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you, sweetness. What are you doing now? I’d like to come over.”

“Going to bed,” I answered. “Without you. Good night, Dick.”

“Wait! Wait! How about dinner tomorrow night? You pick the place.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

I hung up while he was still talking.

I used Dyson’s Luxury Limousines when I was out to make an impression or didn’t want to drive. Like the time I attended my cousin’s wedding and knew that the sight of her in a white wedding dress, complete with trailing veil, would make me drink. Richard owed me because if it hadn’t been for my contacts, he’d never have gotten the Flamingo Beach Chronicle’s account. Then Jen got Richard the WARP account through Tre, her fiancé, who now used Dyson’s exclusively to pick up the people he hosted.

Richard and I had gone out a time or two when I was lonely, and being with him seemed better than being alone. He’d dropped big money on those dinners. Now I’m starting to sound like I’m a gold digger. Fast-talking Dickie isn’t too bad to look at and he liked his women big. Since the way to my heart is definitely through my stomach I thought I’d give him a shot. Feed me and I’ll listen to you bray on any topic. Richard’s gold card had taken a beating on those meals.

I yawned. My bed waited. I had to be up at the crack of dawn and I needed my beauty sleep. I was already planning tomorrow’s outfit in my head. As my grandmother used to say, “fat does not have to mean sloppy.” She was one smart old lady.

After I’d left class, I stopped at a discount store and splurged on a new workout outfit. The peanuts I got paid didn’t get me into Macy’s. I hadn’t gone hog wild with the colors and although it killed me, I passed on zebra stripes and polka dots, sticking to black. Black was slimming. I bought two pairs of capris and an oversized T-shirt and spiced up the outfit with hot pink socks and a matching cap that said, Love Handles All.

I was doing this for Quen Abrahams. I’d noticed the types of women he went for. They were fit, trim and looked like they stepped off magazine covers. I was going to be one of those women soon.

Bedtime. I was getting overtired and punchy.

A god-awful racket woke me next morning. It sounded like a freight train was roaring through my head. I hit the snooze button, sat up and looked at the clock. I had exactly one half hour to crawl into my outfit, plug in the curling iron and throw in some curls.

By the time I left my apartment I had ten minutes to get across town. It wasn’t even summer yet but it was hotter than hell in Florida, this promised to be a steamer of a day. The air-conditioning in my car was on the blink and I would be feeling it. Trying not to think about that, I wedged myself behind the wheel of my Honda, cranked up the engine, and lowered the window. I roared into that parking lot with a full minute to spare.

Quen was waiting in one of the workout rooms. He had on black track pants with a stripe on the side, and a body hugging T-shirt with a hot pink flamingo emblem that matched my socks.

“Morning,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You’re right on time. Cute getup.”

“Thanks.” Boyfriend sure as hell made my mouth go dry. It was going to be one painful hour and not just because of the exercise session.

Quen was one of those delicious, dark brown men, with a smooth complexion and square jaw. Everything about him squeaked cleanliness. He had wide shoulders, a tapered waist and hands just as scrupulously clean as the rest of him.

I set my fanny pack in the corner and made my way to the machine in the corner that he pointed out. The contraption made me think of that guillotine I’d read about in my English class, Madame Defart or something. Grimacing, I managed to mount the thing while he barked orders.

“Tuck your stomach in and sit up straight. Your legs go under not over.”

Quen stood beside me, his hands on my flesh, showing me where everything went. My stomach fluttered and the parts below pulsed. I closed my eyes and inhaled citrus. God I loved how he smelled. Gotta get me a piece of him. Soon.

Concentrate, Chere. Forget about the fact that you want to eat this man whole.

I concentrated letting the pain of muscles I hadn’t used in years numb my brain. There was definitely more than sixty minutes in an hour when your whole body ached. Finally it was over. I was crippled but done. Now I needed a wheelchair to get back to my car.

“Good workout,” Quen said as we cooled down. Of course he could say that he hadn’t been the one peddling or rowing. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. “Come with me to my office.”

I would go with him anywhere. I limped down a hallway to a glass-enclosed box that was as neat as he looked. A Formica desk held a tray with only a few pieces of paper stacked on top. A filing cabinet was angled in one corner. Framed photos of fitness gurus adorned the walls, and in another corner was one of those medical scales. Tell me he wasn’t planning to have me get on some scale. I liked the guy, okay, wanted him badly, but he didn’t need to see how much I weighed.

I took a whiff at my pits. Phew! My deodorant was a thing of the past.

Quen waved me into the chair across from his desk. He crossed over to the filing cabinet removed a card and handed it to me. His finger brushed mine.

Zap. Zap. Zap. His touch was electric and I was lit.

“What you got here?” I asked, turning the card over.

“A list of suggested foods to stay away from. I’m a nutritionist, remember? Normally I give these cards to my clients after weighing them in.”

We were back to weight again. I had no intention of putting one toe on that scale, not with him standing there. Besides, I’d only hired him to do the personal training bit. I didn’t need no menu.

“Thanks,” I said, the card still in my hand. I smiled at him. “You can hook me up with some menus soon as I can afford it. If my real estate career takes off then you and I are in business.”

Quen sat behind his desk, legs propped on the surface, ankles crossed. His brown eyes twinkled. He must find me amusing.

“Consider that a gift,” he said. “So when did you become a real estate agent? Last I knew you were working for the Chronicle.”

“I still am.”

“Hmm.”

I looked him square in the eye. God, just gazing at him made me want to eat him alive. “That job barely pays the bills so I had to do something. I got my first client yesterday.”

“Congratulations. Want another?”

I perked up immediately. Was he teasing me or what? “I’m open.”

“Available?”

I swear he was flirting and dang I wanted him to.

I needed another client. Heck I needed several more clients to make this work.

Quen took his legs off the desk and rolled his chair forward, looking at me intently. “I own three apartments in the Flamingo Place complex,” he confided. “I need two renters.”

“You don’t say?”

This was news to me. I knew Quen was smart I just didn’t know he had business sense. Boyfriend was a real entrepreneur.

“I bought them at the insiders’ price when the buildings were transitioning from rentals to condos.”

Forgetting about sweat and my fear of B.O., I leaned in closer.

“Betcha I could move those condos for you. Are you looking to sell or to rent?”

“Rent right now. I figured if I can hold on to them for a couple of years I could make a small fortune.”

“And they’re all waterfront?” My mind was calculating both possibilities and commissions.

“Yes. I’m keeping the corner unit for myself. It’s the biggest with the best view.”

Excitement surged through me. When I moved into Jen’s place we would be neighbors. And if I were his real estate agent we would be talking regularly. I won’t need an excuse to call him. I’d be more than the fat woman he was helping to lose weight.

Quen and I would be agent and client, and later boyfriend and girlfriend. Fantasy was already taking over.

I was going to be late for work. I stood.

“You’re my friend,” I said. “For friends I work miracles. You let me rent those apartments and I’ll cut my commission in half.”

“Three months,” Quen countered. “You’ve got three months to find me suitable tenants.” He named a figure he hoped to get for rent. I blinked. I needed to make it happen.

He was shrewd. I admired that in a man.

I pumped his hand when what I really wanted to do was the raise the roof dance. You know, palms in the air, booty swinging. I’d acquired my second client and in only two days.

Cha-Ching!

Chapter 3

“Why should Flamingo Place Realty hire you?” Manny Varela asked me as if we were strangers.

He sat in this big swivel chair behind a huge glass desk, making notes on a pad with an expensive-looking pen.

I almost didn’t answer. I had nothing to prove to Manny. We’d been friends ever since nursery school. Manny and I had spent endless times playing “show and tell.” Truth is Manny has little to show, but he does like to tell. I know every inch of his olive body and he knows every layer of mine.

In the thirty-plus years we’d known each other, we’d done everything short of sleeping together. And believe me when I tell you his weenie is teenie. Sheena told me it still hasn’t grown up.

Okay, okay. I was supposed to take him seriously. This was an interview, if I got the job Manny would be my boss. He’d left Flamingo Beach after high school and gone away to college. He’d returned years later claiming to have experience in real estate and property management, and he’d worked his way up from agent to big shot.

“You know anyone who knows this town better than me?” I answered, batting my lashes at Manny.

His big white capped teeth flashed an acknowledgment. They were a new addition that must have cost him a fortune.

“Having you work for Flamingo Place Realty would certainly be a plus. You know everyone there is to know in town. And their business,” he added.

Smooth. Yeah Manny was as smooth as the slicked back black hair on his head. He tapped the black and gold pen he was holding against the desk’s glass surface.

“Aren’t you still working at the Chronicle?” he asked, stroking his chin. “How are you going to swing two jobs?”

I shot him my mean look, which meant narrowing my eyes and sticking out my bottom lip. “Didn’t you say this was part-time?”

“Yes, weekends and such. You did well on the real estate test, plus you’re a talker. That’s to be taken into consideration.”

Enough of this cat and mouse B.S. “Do I get the job or what?”

“I’m thinking.”

I’d brought Manny a copy of my notification that I’d passed the test, just in case he didn’t believe me. Either he wanted to hire me or he didn’t not. So what was there to think about?

“You still dating Lizzie Smith?” I asked, playing my ace card.

By the way he jumped out of that chair you would have thought a gnat had stung him.

“Off and on. Why?”

I pushed back a handful of store bought hair off my face, and did a chicken neck. “Ain’t you and Lizzie exclusive. So how come you doing Sheena?”

Manny needed to know I knew about Sheena. Let him read between the lines and not underestimate me. If he didn’t hire me I’d be chatting with Lizzie.

“I could give you a try…”

Manny wasn’t stupid.

I bounced up and down and began screaming. I threw my arms around his neck and pressed his muscular body against mine. “You the man, Manny. You won’t be disappointed.”

He gave me a little push away from him on account of the weenie becoming less teenie.

“There is a but.” He gulped.

“Yeah?” He was beginning to sweat. That white starched shirt had rings around the armpits.

“Uh…things are fairly casual here in Florida, but if you’re selling real estate you can’t look too wild. A personal shopper might help you get more pulled together.”

Suck it in, girl. You got the job. That’s what counts.

I loved my look. I might be out there sometimes but it was me. I liked being wild. And I didn’t need to lay out money for some 3X pants outfit or one of them stuffy suits. But if Manny wanted me to get a personal shopper then I’d consult Jen. She’d been threatening forever to give me a makeover. And it wouldn’t cost me a thing.

“Well what do you say?” Manny asked, glancing at his buffed nails and then back at me.

“What do I say about what?”

“About starting this weekend?”

I gave him another hug almost knocking him over.

“You’re the man.”

“It’s strictly commission,” Manny warned. “You’ll have an office and a desk in that cubicle. And you’ll need to be on time. Understand?”

“Do I get a secretary who’s goin’ to screen my calls?”

“You’re pushing it, Cherrie.” He called me Cherrie to annoy me. “I’m just trying you out for size.”

Back to the weight thing or was it just my imagination.

I curled up one side of my lip, kinda like a dog does and snarled, “Okay, Saturday it is, first thing. Thank you, Manny.” Then I wiggled my fingers and sailed off.

I had to pinch myself. I was now a full-fledged real estate agent and already I had properties to show: Quen’s two apartments. Next on the agenda, business cards.

A big fat smile creased my face as I crossed the parking lot. Things sure were looking up. I’d lost two pounds this week, gotten two clients and had a new job. Now I needed to focus on getting that promotion at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle.

It might require Ian Pendergrass. Jen wasn’t about to hand over her column to me, and truthfully I didn’t want it; at least not all of it. I just wanted to get credit where credit was due. Talking to the editor, Luis Gomez, would be useless. Luis was too much of a wuss to do anything about it.

I sat planning my strategy while eating lunch. Yuck, I hated canned tuna fish and what could a measly boiled egg do to satisfy real hunger? I found a guest spot in Jen’s condo lot and swung the Honda into it. There were days Jen liked us to work from her condo and today just happened to be one of those days.

“So how did it go?” Jen asked, the moment she let me into her apartment.

“I got the job.”

“Good for you. By the way that stack’s getting huge,” she said, pointing to the growing pile of letters in her box. Letters I hadn’t the time or desire to read, though it was supposedly my job to tell her which ones required her attention.

She was already banging away on that laptop of hers.

I’d made no secret about this job interview. I’d been crying poverty for a long time. I’d threatened to find a job as an exotic dancer; sliding up and down poles and wagging your tits in some horny guy’s face paid bucks.

I’d told Jen I’d give the required notice if something good came along. I didn’t want her thinking I would always be here; the loyal assistant that she’d promised to take on a cruise and then dumped. Maybe if she thought I was going to walk I could finagle a big fat raise. Nobody else in town could provide the kind of inside information I could.

Grabbing the pile of letters, I made myself comfortable on the couch. A bag of potato chips would have been perfect right now. But for now I would have to settle for an awesome view of the open bay and fantasize what it would be like to live on some fancy boat with a deck hand slobbering all over me. Mentally, I had already moved in.

“Chere! Letters!”

“Okay, okay,” I jumped up and made a halfhearted attempt to read. I waved a letter at her. “This one’s from Camille Lewis complaining about Winston.”

Camille was Jen’s neighbor from hell. She and her husband lived in 5D. Camille was a nosy, loud West Indian woman who loved getting into peoples’ business. Winston, the quiet, long-suffering husband, had pretty much thrown in the towel. Why Winston put up with Camille no one knew. Some speculated she did cartwheels in bed.

“Read it to me,” Jen ordered, a pencil clenched between her teeth.

My painted on eyebrows arched, and with some satisfaction, I read aloud. I hated Camille and she hated me.

“Dear Jenna,

I have lost respect for my husband. He’s a puppy dog and just follows me around. The worse I behave, the more loyal he is. I push to get a reaction, any reaction. He’s no longer interested in sex. All he wants to do is sleep. He’s a man of a certain age. Do you think he needs Viagra? I don’t want to leave him. Should I get a lover?”

Jen frowned. “Why do you think it’s Camille?”

“’Cause there ain’t nobody in this town she can talk to about her situation. Nobody trusts her.”

“There isn’t anyone in this town she can talk to,” Jen corrected.

“Whatever.”

I was trying to clean up my act, really I was. It’s just when you’ve talked a certain way for so long, it’s comfortable for you.

“Give me that.” Jen reached out a hand.

I handed her the letter and went back to reading the others. I was bored, and sick to death of reading about other people’s problems. But something made me look up. I froze. On top of Jen’s desk was a pile of bridal magazines.

It was a sad reminder that I wasn’t getting any younger. My biological clock was going tick-tock, and I had no man around. Time to hit the john before I got weepy.

“Where are you going?” Jen called after me as I wobbled down the hallway in my three-inch platforms. “Stay away from the refrigerator.”

She knew me that well. And yeah, I was beginning to feel faint. The lousy boiled egg and tuna minus mayonnaise had made me hungrier. I blinked a couple of times and dry-eyed, doubled back.

“I’m taking the tour of my new home,” I said, trying to sound jolly. Fat girls are supposed to always be happy. I wasn’t. “When can I move in?”

“When do you want to move in?”

“Tomorrow.” I was half kidding. But this was living in the lap of luxury compared to how I lived. My landlady wanted me out. I had a running toilet and a broken dishwasher that hadn’t been fixed in weeks and I’d been slow on my rent.

“How about week after next? That’ll make it close to the end of the month,” Jen said. “It’ll give me time to move some things into Tre’s place, the rest of the stuff I’ll put in storage.”

“Yeah, two weeks will work. I need a favor.”

“I’m not lending you money.”

I cut my eyes at her. I’d only borrowed money from her once and I’d offered to pay it back with interest when my numbers came in. She’d refused to accept anything more than the loan.

“Take me shopping.”

“Sure. Do you have a credit card you can still use?”

I shot her a dirty look. “I need business clothes. Manny says if I’m to work in real estate I need to dress the part.”

“Manny is right. We could go shopping after you finish reading those letters. I’ll even treat you to dinner at the Pink Flamingo later.”

“Okay you got it.”

I had my teeth set for plump pork chops, garlic smashed potatoes and at least three buttered rolls.

“What are you going to do about your hair?” Jen asked, circling me.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Big hair’s dated, hides your pretty face.”

I was sick to death of hearing about my pretty face. I’d been hearing about it all my life, that and my weight. Enough already, it was enough to make a body do some serious eating.

Getting rid of my weave meant I’d need a relaxer and a cut. Jen knew how much I made. Couldn’t she let the weave slide? I’d have to take out a second mortgage just to improve my appearance and I didn’t own a home.

“All right, all right. But I don’t want to look like those old ladies with the helmet hair and tight curls.”

“What about going natural. Just add a little texturizer to your hair and you should be fine. If you play up your eyes and highlight your cheekbones, I say move over Halle, Chere’s the new girl in town.” She laughed and I laughed with her.

“Okay back to work.”

Jen plopped down in her chair, her attention again on her monitor. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “What have I got for the Sunday column?”

I snorted. At least she could say “we,” and acknowledge my contribution.

Four hours later, my car was filled with shopping bags from the three stores that Jen insisted we go into. I’d been talked into buying black everything and I wasn’t feeling the clothes, reminded me of a funeral director. I’d turned into a Florida girl and I liked my vibrant colors. But I put on a happy face and pretended to go ga-ga over the slacks, skirt and jacket she’d picked out, all in the same boring black.

Jen even made me buy old lady pumps. You know the kind with three inch heels and round tip that ladies with varicose veins wore. “Orthopedic” shoes I called them.

By the time we were through shopping I was way over my credit card limit. I had to talk the bank into upping the amount. Now I was in serious hock. I’d better sell some houses quick.

“I’m starving,” Jen announced as we pulled into a vacant spot in back of the Pink Flamingo.

I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch so I was more than starving. Even the fluttering fake flamingos on the restaurant’s ceiling looked like they might make good barbeque.

On a Wednesday night, the place was jumping. The hostess, a hot Latino woman who thought she was better than everyone, flirted with the restaurant manager, Rico. She managed to peel herself off of him to greet us.

“We want a table in the bar area,” Jen said not consulting me. Guess I wasn’t good enough to be taken into the restaurant.

Whipping long jet-black hair off her face, the hostess asked, “Is it just the two of you?”

“You see anybody else?”

Jen shushed me loudly before I could say something real smart-assed.

“Follow me.”

I clomped along behind them, looking around to see who was there. Drinks must be half-priced because the bar was jumping. Spotting Chet Rabinowitz, the mayor’s son, I waved. He and his lover, Harley, gave me the hand sign that meant “call us,” soon.

My girls were out in full force, the ones I ran into at the curl and weave; those who were forever running their mouths. Most were on their way to being hooked up or laid.

We slid into a booth. Jen and I faced each other. I was all talked out and just wanted the menu. I stabbed my finger at the first thing I saw. Jen barely glanced at hers before tossing it aside.

“I know what I’m having,” she announced. “A Cobb salad.”

“Cobb what?”

“Salad. Nice, healthy and will justify my glass of wine.”

“I’m having ribs with barbecued sauce.”

She slapped my hand. “No you’re not.”

“Am too.”

“Don’t let me slap you. Didn’t you say something about having lost two pounds?”

I stuck out my tongue. “Fine, fried chicken with collard greens on the side.”

“We’ll have two Cobb salads,” Jen said when the waitress came over. Wine for me and water for her.”

Who died and left her boss. That’s right, she was my boss.

“Isn’t that Quen seated at the bar?” Jen mumbled out of the side of her mouth.

“Where?”

My palms became sweaty and my stomach began to rumble. All on account of hunger of course. The walls around me wavered, changing from Flamingo pink to floral.

“Think the woman seated next to him is a date?”

Now why did she have to say that? Quen on a date was bound to upset me. I’d want to poison the witch.

I kept my face blank, tossed a glance in the direction of the bar, and damn near flew out of my seat.

Sheena, the “ho,” was sitting next to my man.

Not for long. I was on my way over.

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