Vulnerable by Bonita Thompson Page A

good.”
    â€œYou know I can’t do that. Don’t even tempt me,” she warned him, fanning her damp and flushed face with her hands.
    Troy took her into his arms and they shared an affectionate, lingering embrace. He released her and said, “Go! Tonight. Seven?” His left brow placed an emphasis on seven .
    â€œSeven! Cheers!”
    D’Becca started walking toward the showers, and Troy slapped her buttocks with a towel. “And I mean seven, Becca!”
    â€œSeven. I cross my heart and hope to die.” D’Becca sketched a cross against her chest with her index finger.
    Although he said it in a voice that was not intended for her ears, D’Becca heard Troy say, “You need to learn to choose your words carefully.”
    Twenty minutes later, she was towel-drying her hair while reciting a mantra: “I will be on time.” In a pair of boyshorts and a demi bra, D’Becca reached for her ringing cellular nearby. “Hello. Hey.” After listening to the caller momentarily, her shoulders drooped in apparent disappointment. “What now? So when?” And with an edge to her voice, she said, “Fine.” D’Becca rolled her eyes. Not exactly sure when, but she had finally reached a breaking point with the lame excuses and hollow apologies. “Okay, sure. Sure . ’Bye.” She stared at the cellular before tossing it to a gym bag nearby. The workout with Troy must have mentally prepared her for this moment. Even while she was quite let down, oddly, D’Becca didnot pity herself as she had done numerous times in the past. Maybe—Am I immune to being treated this way?
    When D’Becca entered Street Two Books and Café, the first person to catch her eye was the black guy she saw in Café Neuf a week before. If the concept that nothing happened randomly was a sure thing, then to presuppose that they both being at the same place at precisely the same time could only mean that it was incontrovertible fate. But that was purely based on whether one believed in that sort of thing. She could ignore the fact that she saw him—because so what that she did—and chalk it up to no more than a coincidence. A fluke was something she trusted far more than metaphysical ideas about nothing in life happened by chance. Still, running into the same person twice—and in the same neighborhood?—was not something that happened to D’Becca. Surprises, serendipity, that kind of stuff—it was not her brand of karma.
    Leisurely, she browsed through the café-bookstore, her sullen mood not yet lifted. She could easily go for some Chunky Monkey right about now and not even feel a pang of guilt. Yet she was not so low that she did not have the willpower to talk herself down. When D’Becca felt lack—of love, of attention, of compassion—food or shopping was her cure. Standing in the center of the classy bookstore owned by Troy’s ex-lover, she tried to recall exactly why she came. The magazine section was to her left, and she could grab W, Elle, Vogue and George since she was there. Along the wall, lined with magazines on every subject imaginable, two men were flipping through tech and sports magazines. When she passed them, D’Becca felt their eyes travel the length of her; and while she was in no way fazed by the attention she received, it felt kind of good that she managed to maintain some level of effect on men.
    She reached for Seattle and stared at the cover. Sebastian Michaels,the fifth richest man in Washington State, was on the cover. He had a year-round tan—not too dark, but darker than his natural skin tone. His salt-and-pepper hair made him look distinguished, and the suit he wore was most likely designed by his personal tailor in Italy. The cost of Michaels’s yearly wardrobe could put, at the very least, a dent in India’s rising poverty. D’Becca flipped through the magazine until she came to the