Playing the Hand You're Dealt by Trice Hickman Page A

specimen, much like the man in front of me. They’d been living together in Paris, France, for the last eight years, and that was how long it had been since Jeffery was last home. He stayed away because of mother. He couldn’t stand her. He once confided to me that she’d nearly driven him to the point of suicide. He basically excommunicated himself from our entire family, including me, all so he could break free of everything associated with her.
    â€œYeah, I’m Jeffery’s sister. How do you know my brother?” I asked, raising my brow.
    â€œWe went to school together, at Howard.”
    â€œOh . . . so you and Jeffery were friends? ” I said, giving him a curious stare. The more I checked him out, the harder it was for me to believe that this man was gay. But then again, down-low brothers were hard to detect. Not only could they look you dead in your eyes like they were feelin’ you, they could kiss you with passion, sex you up, and then go get their freak on with one of their boys after they left you. That wasn’t down-low, that was just low-down!
    He smiled, catching my drift. “Not exactly. We were both premed. I remember meeting you when you were with him during homecoming one year, at a mixer.”
    As I thought back to my college days, I remembered hanging out with my brother during Howard’s homecoming one year. “That was a long time ago,” I replied.
    â€œYeah, it was. That’s been what . . . eleven, twelve years?”
    â€œAt least. But even so, I think I would remember if we’d met,” I demurred, softening my eyes with a smile. I got a kick out of flirting with men.
    â€œTrust me, we’ve met,” he said. “You probably don’t remember because I wore a close fade back in the day. Dreads can change one’s appearance.” He motioned as he raked his hand through his thick, shoulder-length locks.
    â€œOh, is that it?” I leaned in close to him, pretending to get a better look at his face, but I was really checking out his sexy scent. He smelled like the exotic oils that the African street vendors sold.
    â€œYes, I think so.You should see my before and after shots.”
    â€œWell, I look different, too, so how did you recognize me?”
    â€œI never forget an intriguing woman, or a beautiful face,” he said in a sexy voice.
    We were briefly distracted when the hostess walked up to seat a couple next to where we were standing. I took that as a sign for me to get up out of there and head back home . . . fine, smooth-talking man or not! “I guess I better be on my way.”
    â€œAre you waiting for your boyfriend to bring the car around?”
    I smiled and simply said, “No.”
    â€œYou’re headed over to his place?”
    â€œYou ask a lot of questions.”
    â€œI have a curious mind.” He smiled, then extended his hand. “I’d like to reintroduce myself. I’m Tyme Alexander.”
    I stretched my hand out to greet his. His palm was soft and warm. “Samantha,” I smiled back, “and you know the last name.”
    â€œI wasn’t sure if it had changed. I guess it’s my good fortune that it hasn’t. It’s nice meeting you again, Samantha Baldwin.”
    â€œLikewise, and I hope you and your friends have a good evening,” I said, turning toward the door.
    â€œWait, do you have a card?”
    I put my hand on my hip and raised my brow. “You tryin’ to call me?” I said in my sistah girl voice.
    â€œCall you, e-mail you, fax you, text you, Tweet you, Facebook you, whatever it takes to reach you.”
    I thought my little attitude would discourage him, but I thought wrong. There might be something to this guy after all. “Why don’t you give me your card?” I smiled.
    He dug into his back pocket and pulled out a Gucci embossed brown leather wallet.That was a very good sign for someone with my expensive taste.