romantic comedy novels

Romantic Comedy Novels: Naughty Nurse (BWWM Workplace Romance)


I republished a previous title with BIG changes and edits to better fit today’s audience. Today, Naughty Nurse is a super steamy high-heat romance novella featuring a goody-two-shoes nurse who meets up with a daring rebellious bad boy, Austin Romero. Playing by the rules hasn’t always worked out for Nereida. Her boyfriend is a total ass, her boss is in need of #MeToo exposing, and her best friend seems totally oblivious to all the ways her life is going down the drain. What Nereida needs is permission to be bad… or at least get a little naughty. Keep reading this free sample of the book to dive into Nereida’s story. By the end of the sample, you’ll be dying for this nurse to get a little naughty.

Romance Novel Excerpts: Naughty Nurse (Interracial Romance Novel)

Nereida enjoyed the usual quiet of the night shift. In their small sleepy city that hadn’t yet been discovered by hipsters of gentrifiers, there wasn’t much to disturb the peace. But on rare occasions where some hurricane level disaster managed to puncture through their regular world, the hospital could shift from as silent as a graveyard to a bustling ants nest. There would be screaming, nurses running down hallways, doctors yelling.

What was one peaceful would be thrust into furious chaos. Nothing could calm the angry energy except death -- the dull flatline of a heart monitor would be the cue for the chaos to stop. Out of respect. Out of defeat.

On rare occasions, when there was a late night emergency, the noise wouldn’t just cease but it would slow down to a quiet simmer. When a late night emergency was accompanied by a little bit of luck and instead of a casualty, the hospital was blessed with a miracle. 

Nereida Kelly sipped hot earl grey in the waiting room with her closest friend on shift that night. She never rushed her tea. The rule of a place like this was that you had to steal what little joy you could. The two women enjoyed a rare moment of peace in the hospital -- something rarely afforded to nurses. Krista was going on and on about her recent engagement and Nereida was listening attentively, longing for the time when she would have something equally inspiring to share. She wasn’t sure it would ever happen with Rashad. She was thirty-two, he was nearly forty, yet he’d still shown no interest in making an honest woman out of her. She’d been hinting for years. Nereida had gone so far as to stuff his car with old wedding catalogs that were about to get dumped from the hospital waiting room. Rashad hadn’t even noticed.

Nereida knew it wasn’t her looks that stopped him from proposing. Mahogany, red-boned, somewhere between dark and medium brown, her complexion was a perfect chocolate. Her kinky, curly hair was long and touched the middle of her back. At work, Nereida kept it pulled back in a ponytail for professionalism. 

With her hair pulled back you could see the bright round apples of Nereida’s cheeks which were further highlighted by the smile she wore plastered on her face. Nereida’s one way of spoiling herself was her french tip nails which she got done every two weeks like clockwork. Her eyes were a deep dark brown color that reflected the depth and darkness of her beauty. Nereida was most definitely beautiful and graceful whether or not she was aware of it. She had this near magical ability to make other people around her feel calm and safe with her. That’s why she made such a good nurse.

Nereida’s listening skills had a dark side, evidenced by the fact that Krista blabbered on without letting her girl friend get a word in. She knew that it was cruel to talk Nereida’s ear off about this constantly, but she just couldn’t help that her friend was such a good listener. Krista had blonde hair — natural, and she wouldn’t let you forget it —  that fell down the middle of her back and giant bright hazel colored eyes. 

As Nereida tried to actually listen to Krista’s words, a message from her boyfriend Rashad flashed on her phone. He was angry with her — again. These days their relationship was more hate than love. Nereida thought he was tripping, but Rashad always found a way to make their screwed up relationship her fault. 

Maybe he’d change, Nereida thought, despite no evidence that he would. Krista kept telling her that she should jump back out into the dating world, but Nereida couldn’t handle the cesspool of online dating. Swipe where?! 

Rashad was a pain in the behind, though. That  much was true. He was constantly complaining that Nereida didn’t care about anything except her work. What was she supposed to do? Her dream had always been to have a great job where she could care for other people and nursing just happened  to be what had called her. Nereida couldn’t help that she worked night shifts; she wasn’t even sure what Rashad wanted from her since he didn’t seem to want to marry her. Well she knew but it just wasn’t practical. Rashad wanted her to quit work and just start having his babies and caring for him around the house — without a ring. Nereida loved him, but she just couldn’t give up her dream for him. Not to be his baby mama. Maybe with a ring… 

Her mother had always told her, “Don’t let any ain’t shit mutha-fucka control the money in your house, girl.” 

Nereida didn’t often think her mother had the best advice but that piece had stuck in her head. In her adulthood, she just knew that she couldn’t resign herself to being a servant to Rashad. Somehow, she knew that Rashad couldn’t support her on his own. He certainly thought he could but even now, Rashad made less moolah than she did. It was another sore point in their relationship. He couldn’t handle the thought and he was in denial about it. 

Nereida tuned in to what Krista was saying. That chick still hadn’t realized that Nereida had just track of her conversation. Nereida shook her head, another gesture that went unnoticed as Krista prattled on.

“So, Nereida… What do you think? Should I let her come or should I just tell him that I don’t want his ex-girlfriend’s cousin’s ex-husband’s new girl at my wedding? And should I let them bring their huskies?” 

Before Nereida could give her input on Krista’s latest wedding planning drama, their beepers went off and the break cut short. Krista and Nereida leapt into action and made their way to the E.R. where two stretchers were going in. 

* * *

“Kelly!” Dr. Allen called Nereida to his side and Krista took her cue to follow Dr. Hatfield. Nereida followed the stretcher that surged down the halls at breakneck speed as she prepared to stabilize the patient that had just been wheeled in. It all happened so fast. By now, this ritual should have been swift and automatic. Nereida could never calm her nerves, the adrenaline that pumped through her veins as she rushed down the hall administering shots and oxygen as the doctor on call barked commands at her. You had to keep a cool head. You had to forget about all your problems going on outside: no weddings, no Rashad. 

The patient had burns, pretty severe ones too that charred his skin and peeled away his flesh. The kicker had been two gunshot wounds. He might not have called 911 without them. Nereida didn’t think this one would make it. She’d seen cases less serious than this one where the patient hadn’t made it to the operating room in time before conking out. We have to save him. The thought intruded into her head.

He was in pretty terrible condition and Nereida followed the doctor and yelled back information. The EMTs had managed to stop some of the bleeding but there was still quite a bit of work to be done before this patient was anything near stable. They moved him into the O.R. and everyone suited up to get to work on him.

* * *

It was well after two a.m. by the time the patient was stable. Throughout the surgery, Nereida learned that the patient’s name was Austin Romero. She wondered what on earth had happened to land him in the hospital with two gunshot wounds and third degree burns all over his body. She hadn’t even caught a look at his face but based on how well insured he was, there was no way he was a common street criminal or the type of guy you’d expect to be in here like this.

Nereida’s fascination with this patient was beyond normal and she knew it. From the moment she prepared to leave the operating room, Nereida felt a pang of guilt at leaving him behind for another nurse to wheel into recovery. She couldn’t figure out why he produced such a strange response in her. Austin Romero. The name sounded like it belonged to someone famous, someone who didn’t belong in a small nowhere city like hers.

Strange. Nereida was changing out of her operating scrubs in the locker room between the operating room and the hospital when she heard the surgeon on-call’s heavy breathing behind her. Dr. Finger tapped Nereida on the shoulder as she stood there in just her bra and her clean pants.

“Yes doctor?” Nereida answered politely.

Internally she was thinking, “Here we go again.” She knew that Dr. Finger didn’t have the world’s best established boundaries and he was constantly hitting on the younger nurses, even if he’d been married for over fifteen years.

“Well that was some great work in there,” he said, breathing heavily like a caged ox.

His eyes eagerly lingered on Nereida’s bosom. He licked his lips, not bothering to pretend that he wasn’t leering at her. She shot him a glare and threw her shirt on.

“Thanks,” Nereida mumbled.

She hoped that he would just leave her alone after that. She had a boyfriend and she was here to work… Not pick up guys. She knew that some of the younger nurses made the mistake in thinking that older doctors were “in love” with them and would eventually leave their wives. But it never happened quite like that. Nereida didn’t want a reputation at work. Or anywhere. And she didn’t want a creepy old guy leering at her like a piece of prime rib.

“So Nereida… What are you doing after this shift?” He shifted his junk in his pants. Nereida resisted the urge to scream at him and risk getting her butt fired.

“It’s two in the morning doc,” Nereida said.

Did he really think that she would be so easy to get in bed? She struggled not to laugh in his face.

“Uh, I know it’s two a.m. Nereida. You’re really filling out these scrubs well aren’t you. I like my women with nice bazookas. Great nipples too.”

He licked his lips again. Nereida’s heart raced and her mouth went dry as she plotted her escape route. Even if she reported him, Dr. Finger was the best surgeon in the entire state. They’d never get rid of him so long as patients wanted his gifted hands working on them. 

Nereida glared at him again and tried to push past.

“Not so easy miss. I’m not letting you leave until I get a date.”

“Please… I have a boyfriend, Dr. Finger. Let’s just forget this happened and I’ll head home.”

“Nereida. I’m very discreet. I know you’re seeing some young chap but can he really provide you with everything you want in life? I mean… I’m a doctor.” 

Nereida wondered for a moment if that line had ever worked. She was depressed by the fact that it probably had. Dr. Finger had probably convinced many poor nurses who were just looking to be cared for that he could change their situation or do something to improve their lives. Nereida had been around the hospital too long to even take him seriously. Who did he think he was? These doctors were too arrogant and all thought that someone owed them just because they happened to sit through school for a few extra years.

“Dr. Finger, it’s late and I would really appreciate going home right now.”

“So you’re playing hard to get?” He said. An impish grin broke out across his face.

Nereida was getting frustrated and she was already exhausted. She was about to head home to a boyfriend who was likely waiting for her angrily and she didn’t need this.

“NO! I’m not playing hard to get! I want you to get the hell out of here. I don’t give a damn how much money you have or how bad you think you are okay? This is unprofessional and I want you to let me leave!” 

Dr. Finger seemed taken aback. He wasn’t used to being rejected so flatly and Nereida could see a flash of anger blaze across his eyes. 

“Nereida. Let’s not forget I’m your superior here and I expect at least the basic amount of respect.” 

Nereida was about to lash into him again, fueled by anger at his entitlement when Krista knocked on the door and opened it.

Did you enjoy this free sample? Click here to finish reading the rest of the novella.

Romance Novel Excerpts: Jealous Ex-Husband (BWWM Romance Novel)

jealous ex husband wmbw interracial romance novelThis novel will be coming out new this month and I'm excited to share Jealous Ex Husband with all you interracial romance fans out there. The trailer just dropped on YouTube and y'all have been sharing the love in the comment section to enter and win an advanced review copy. If you love books similar to 50 Shades of Grey with an interracial BWWM twist, you'll love this full-length novel which maps out the crazy story of Quetta & Vlad.

As I said in the trailer, divorce isn't easy and this story is about finding love after divorce. If you like romance novel excerpts, love romantic stories and enjoy reading free romance novels online, keep reading to enjoy the first preview of Jealous Ex-Husband... 

Book Description:

Divorce ain't easy...

It's even harder when your ex-husband is famous...

And vengeful.

Jealousy, back-stabbing and Hollywood materialism threaten Quetta's joy after divorce.

The one man who makes all her troubles disappear is the one man Quetta must stay away from...

Or she'll risk losing everything.

Romance Novel Excerpts: Jealous Ex Husband (BWWM Romance Novel)




Vlad Romanov had tired of Tati.  She was not only another boring, fake model filled with silicon at every point of injection, but she was another reminder of his tendency to make horrible decisions with women. On his quest for “the one”, Vlad found himself surrounded by the perpetual stream of plastic women in Los Angeles whose only obsessions included Botox and Birkins — nothing else. Sure, she was sexy enough but was that really enough?


The biggest issue with Tati, besides her empty blue eyes and her desperation for material objects was the fact that the second they’d slept together she had become clingier than a piece of gum beneath a table. She didn’t get the idea that Vlad had no time for her. No. Fucking. Time. Vlad was one of the highest paid divorce lawyers on the West Coast and although he loved passing time with these wannabe models, strippers and shallow rich chicks, he reviled interruptions, especially while he worked. 


“What the hell is it Tati?”


“I love you Vlad…” She purred in her heavy Russian accent. (Vlad wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t faking it. She claimed to be from Moscow but he knew without a doubt, her parents had immigrated in the late 80s.) 


Vlad rolled his eyes. They’d slept together once. And Tati wasn’t naive. She might have been twenty years old but she had been around the block. She’d starred in around fifty blue movies before “retiring” and attempting to become a professional girlfriend. Sugar babies were as common as bus drivers in the city.


“Listen… Tati… I can’t handle this right now. I’m working on a case…”


Tati hit back, “You’re always working Vlad. Always working. Why don’t I stop by your office and I wrap my lips around your cock. We’ll see how busy you are.”


Vlad cringed. There was no way in hell he was going to let Tati know where he worked.


“Listen… Tati, I’ve got to go. Why don’t you go find some other way to occupy your time. I promise I’ll see you later.”


“You are a terrible boyfriend Vlad. Perhaps I should call another man to occupy me this afternoon.”


Vlad ignored her obvious attempt to make him jealous. “Perhaps you should. And I’m not your boyfriend.”


“What are you afraid of Vlad? You hate commitment.” 


Vlad scoffed. He’d known Tati a grand total of eight days. Afraid of commitment or afraid of crazy Russian chicks? 


“I don’t have time for this.” 


“Fine! You’re a fucking scumbag Vlad! I spread my legs for you and what do you do… you shit all over me.” 




Tati hung up. Vlad smirked. She was so dramatic. He knew she’d be crawling back for more later anyway. He really didn’t have time for her. Vlad’s latest celebrity lawsuit and his work had always taken priority over bimbos. The deeper and deeper Vlad got into his work, the less he had time for women. 


Of course, all the women his age wanted nothing more than to tie him down and start milking him for money and babies. Vlad was still looking for fun. Crazy as she might have been, Tati was fun. 


Vlad’s receptionist paged his office. 


“Mr. Romanov? I have your two o’clock.”


“Send her up.” 


Vlad downed the glass of vodka he’d kept sitting on his desk. His latest clientele wouldn’t appreciate how much he drank on the job. He adjusted his lapels and sat up straight, pulling out a gold pen and a sheet of thick card paper to take notes on. He’d been up all night, working on his latest case and the dark bags under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. 


Vlad’s piercing eyes were brilliant greenish color that glowed like emeralds. The green picked up the deep chestnut brown color of his hair, giving his eyes an occasional champagne color. Vlad sat up in his office chair and straightened his orange and black Princeton tie. Breathe. 


His receptionist had hinted that this client wanted to remain anonymous before they met. She had “security concerns”, which wasn’t uncommon for his clients. Vlad wondered who it would be… Some celebrity bodyguard hoping Vlad would get them a big cash payout from alleged mistreatment? A woman with a botched boob job? 


A knock on his door interrupted Vlad from his fantasizing. 


“Come in!” 


He coughed and sat up straight, prepared for anything.  


When the door opened, Vlad’s jaw might have dropped if he hadn’t had so much practice maintaining his composure under all manner of surprising encounters.


“Good afternoon, miss,” He greeted her. Of course, most people on the West Coast knew who she was but people who were famous preferred the pretense that they could maintain anonymity. Instantly, Vlad noticed how much more beautiful she was in person…  


Quetta Blackburn noticed the same things about him. Quetta wondered if she’d come to the right place at all. The man sitting across the desk from her looked more like a professional athlete and bodybuilder than a high-powered lawyer who had been personally responsible for bankrupting a number of high profile men. His office stank of vodka and cigars, but other than the smell, was perfectly clean and tidy, almost acetic in its appearance.


“Good afternoon Mr. Romanov.” 


“Good afternoon, madam.


Quetta stuck out her hand to shake his. Vlad maintained eye contact with her, his gaze piercing into hers as he assessed every detail about her, gripping her hand in a firm, powerful handshake. Her diamond tennis bracelet jingled as she shook his hand and her manicured fingers dug into his thick meaty palm. She released his grasp quickly and smoothed her tight dress, sitting with her legs crossed before invited.


“So… What are we speaking about today Miss…”


“You know who I am…” She said, “But don’t call me Mrs. Blackburn. Call me Quetta.” 


“My husband and I are getting a divorce. I forced him to file the papers and I need a lawyer who can help me get what I’m worth,” Quetta said flatly. 


Quetta’s cool impressed Vlad. Most divorcées were withering messes, unsure of what they wanted and more interested in salvaging what politeness they could from their spouses. He could tell Quetta wasn’t that kind of woman. Her dark, copper colored skin glowed with the effortless beauty of a woman who lived without stress. Vlad picked up on her intense gaze.


He was the best, everyone agreed he was the best. But Quetta was still skeptical when she saw him. Vlad still looked more like a pretty boy than a renowned lawyer.


“What do you have in mind?” Vlad asked.


She didn’t pause for a moment before speaking her mind.


“I want at least half… More than half if I can get away with it. It’s just… I’ve been through a lot with him and I’m afraid of what my husband will try to do.” 


Vlad looked Quetta up and down. She didn’t look like your usual basketball wife gold digger, but she had some of the trimmings of one. Every part of her was perfectly manicured from her straight black weave, her body hugging dress and her manicured fingernails. Every inch of her that could dripped in jewelry. Her Prada bag on the table was the final touch in a made-for-TV outfit. 


Vlad was certain she didn’t leave the house without consulting a stylist. Still, despite her manicured state, she was dressed properly. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage and her skirt fell far below her knees. Quetta Blackburn seemed just as wholesome as her TV image.


“May I ask the reason for the divorce, Mrs. Blackburn? Before taking on new clients, I need to know that I can win.”


“This conversation will be confidential, right?” 


Now, Vlad was curious. He leaned forward, itching to have another drink as he listened to a story that promised to be intriguing.


“My husband…” she sighed.


“My husband hasn’t been faithful,” she confessed. 


Quetta pursed her lips after the confession. Her calm exterior was only slightly ruffled, but Vlad was good enough at reading people to see that she had been. She twirled her fingers around and fiddled with the clasp of her bracelet. 


Vlad raised his eyebrow. Even he wasn’t resistant to such a delightful piece of gossip. Kareem Blackburn was a famous NBA player whose entire image as a celebrity was constructed around his Christian faith and his love for his Christian wife that he’d been with since college. Vlad couldn’t believe that the pure and wholesome family man could actually be a philanderer. A part of him wondered if Quetta was telling the truth.


“Listen… Mrs. Blackburn. I’m not sure what you’re looking for,” Vlad replied with a smile.


Quetta’s expression changed. She could tell that he wasn’t taking her seriously. She stopped fiddling with her bracelet and she grabbed her purse off his desk. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke to Vlad in a stronger voice than she’d ever managed to muster up.


“Listen Mr. Romanov. I’m a serious client asking you to negotiate a multi million dollar divorce. I don’t know what impression you have of me but I can pay your fee and I want your services. I’ve heard about you… a lot about you… And I know that you’re the only man who will be able to get me what I want. Everyone knows that you’re a sicko in the courtroom and you’ll do what it takes to win. I want that… I need that. So are you really going to say no to money on the table?”


She opened her purse and took out a checkbook. She wrote, in dazzling neat script and ripped the check, sliding it across the table. Vlad’s eyes popped open at the amount, which far exceeded his usual exorbitant retainer. 


For someone who played the meek, innocent wife during TV interviews, it was clear that Quetta was no innocent. She was ready to play hardball. The check was all he needed to see. 


“Listen Mrs. Blackburn, my tactics as a lawyer have been described as wily… devious and by some men, illegal.”


“I don’t care. All I want is to walk away from this divorce with exactly what I’m worth.” 


“And exactly how much do you think you’re worth Mrs. Blackburn?”


“At least $200 million.” 


“Alright. Tell me more about what’s happening with you and your husband.”


Quetta sat down and began to tell Vlad about everything that was happening with her husband. It was a shame how quickly everything seemed to deconstruct. She had grown accustomed to the idea of a forever with Kareem but everything had turned sour fast. Getting drafted in the league had seemed like a dream come true at the time. Now Quetta was wondering if her relationship had been ruined the moment Kareem signed his contract. Everything had changed. The moment he’d gone from her man to a media darling, her life was completely different.


“Kareem and I met in high school. I was part of the Christian Students Association and back then I’d taken a vow of chastity which included not dating any boys until I turned eighteen. Kareem honored my promise to wait and I supported his dream to play basketball. We started dating our first year of college. I still kept my promise, no matter what people thought. And he remained committed to me. I still remember after practice every day, we would hole up in my dorm room with our Bibles and talk about the word of the Lord…”


Vlad was trying to focus on Quetta’s story but reading the Bible together was not how he thought this was going to start. But Quetta was making a good point: when had it all gone wrong? How could a perfect couple that was so committed to each other fall apart so fast? Was the allure of money, cheap sex and power so great that it could break a bond made between two devout soulmates?


Quetta was continuing, “When Kareem signed his contract I was so happy… We had just been married and I’d just entered into a perfect relationship with my perfect man. I’d done everything exactly the way God had asked of me. Kareem was reaping the blessings of his faith too. I felt like nothing could go wrong. But it was only about a year or so before things began to change.” 


Now this was the good stuff… Vlad thought to himself.


“He started lying to me. I didn’t know he was lying to me but I could tell. Our relationship with each other and with God was starting to falter. I hated it… I hated playing the perfect couple for the cameras and at all the ball games while knowing he was lying to me. It hurt so much to have to be that person who was being dishonest. But I didn’t dare let up the image. After a while, I started doing my research. If I’d found out it was just one time…” Quetta started tearing up. 


Vlad waited, stoic for her to continue. A part of him felt for her but another part of him wondered what on earth she expected with a man who played in the NBA.


“If it was just one time I could have forgiven him. God would have wanted me to forgive him. But that wasn’t it. It was more than one time, with more than one person and after I tried to forgive him, he lied and did the same thing all over again. God wants me to forgive, but he doesn’t want me to ruin my life for a man who don’t love me no more. Kareem might think he still loves me, but he don’t. And when he realizes that he don’t, I’m gonna suffer. Are you capable of helping me Mr. Romanov?”


Vlad nodded.


“I’ll help you Mrs. Blackburn. But… Please, call me Vlad.” 

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Romantic Comedy Novels: NFL Player Wants Black Wife 2

romantic comedy novels nfl player wants black wife 2This is another one of Jamila Jasper's short romantic comedy novels. Another shocking addition to her series of short pregnancy romance books, this is one of her interracial romance books that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Find out more about it below...

Kimani, a black owner of a PR firm, opens up a new world of pleasure when she has an erotic experience with a white NFL player she meets at a party. Their love escalates, spiraling almost out of control and she ends up pregnant... to her surprise and his. That was book one. In this book, watch Dallas and Imani find a way through the complexities of marriage, especially when one partner is a professional athlete forced to move around a lot. Will their spark remain, and can another pregnancy help quell the pain of distance? Find out more about the depth of their love and passion in this equally tantalizing sequel to NFL Player Wants Black Wife

Romantic Comedy Novels: NFL Player Wants Black Wife 2 Excerpt


Dallas and Kimani. The love story pulled straight from your wildest romantic imagination. Black woman with her head on straight, life on point and eyebrows on fleek lands the white NFL player of her dreams. It’s the new American dream, landing a rich athlete, getting married and moving on to become a candidate for the next reality series: “Wives from Famous City Fight Constantly on Television”. Listen, I’m not knocking the lifestyle. Heck, I’d love to be on reality TV. Think about how many millions of people I could make jealous of my perfect life: I have the perfect biracial baby and the perfect husband.


Dallas only cares about one thing more than football, and no, it isn’t me, it’s constructing the perfect all-American family. In that sense, we share the same goals. I just can’t wait until the next time Dallas gets it in his head that he wants to have another child. His virile energy when baby making is on his mind is comparable to none. I guess having our first child, conceived during a night of passion, turned him onto baby making. It’s all he ever seems to think about when he’s not working out or traveling with his team.


Hey, I don’t mind. I have the life I’ve always wanted. All the money I could ever want is completely at my disposal. I have a beautiful baby boy, Dante, who keeps me going. Well, I try to spend as much time with Dante as possible but we have so many people on staff and I have an image to uphold, so perhaps we don’t spend as much time together as we should. But I assure you, besides Dallas, Dante is the most important man in my life. That little nugget with his caramel skin and nearly blond hair is the reason I get up in the morning. I can’t wait until Dallas decides that it’s time to expand our family. I’ll be ready and waiting for him, the perfect wife, the perfect, fertile receptacle for his seed.


I sometimes wonder if Dallas is truly faithful to me on the road. I know traveling can get lonely and these guys sometimes need a big “release” to help them win a game. I mean, we did meet under hurried circumstances and although we are well matched, I can’t help but wonder if he craves other women. If he were honest with me, I would be willing to oblige his desires. I am a reasonable woman of course and not opposed to engaging in some light bisexuality to please my man. If he brought home one of these Instagram hoes, you bet your ass I would be tongue deep in her pussy if it made Dallas happy. That’s the kind of wife I am, one who aims to please. Those of you looking to bag professional athletes could stand to learn how to be more like this. None of these “bad bitch” or “independent hoe” lifestyles will land you the man of your dreams.


Dallas was on a team bonding trip in Magic City. Yes, I let my man go to strip clubs and as long as he doesn’t fuck, I have no problem with him getting quite close to these big booty hoes. Dallas knows he can get all the pussy he wants right at home. I didn’t expect him to be back for a while and staying in our mansion (one of many!) was getting to be boring. Yes, I spend hours in the gym sculpting my perfect body with a personal trainer and hours a day shopping with my personal shopper. But even that life gets dull. Sometimes you just need love, the tender caress of your husband as you lay together in glowy post-orgasmic haze. I wanted Dallas to return early, to tell me he would never leave me for a younger woman and to spend at least one passionate night with me.


I was lonely, and I missed my husband. I didn’t marry an NFL player just for the money you know… I wanted more. I wanted a man with drive and ambition, a man who cared about his health and fitness, a man who was outgoing and loved sex. Dallas was all of that and more. I had imagined a life with Dallas to be a life with Dallas, not a life spent mostly alone while he spent all his time traveling or in the gym.


Dejected, I went out onto our lawn with a bottle of my favorite Pinot Noir, just hoping to find some peace of mind before spending the evening with my dear son. Enveloped in misery and about half a bottle of wine, I noticed a car coming down the driveway. It was Dallas’ Maserati! I was thrilled. If I wasn’t so tipsy I would have run to greet him but I’m way too tiny for half a bottle of Pinot Noir to have no effect on me. Dallas got out of the car and started walking towards me. He looked so sexy on his way over, the sunset shining through his longish hair, adorning him with a godly glow. He was wearing a sexy flannel shirt with rolled up sleeves that allowed his huge biceps to stand out. His khaki pants added to his crisp, All-American look as he walked over to me, a single rose in hand. He was always so hopelessly romantic, but without much creativity to back it.


When Dallas got close to me I lept up and jumped into his arms for a hug. He squeezed me tightly, and I smelled the rich clove scented cologne he knew that I loved. Little things like that reminded me why I married him when I barely knew him. “I brought you a rose,” he said, blushing just a little bit. I thanked him and held the beautiful flower with it’s tiny buds and blood colored petals. I hugged him again and looked up at him, tears in my eyes. I know, I know, I can be a bit of a sap. I had just been so lonely and it felt so good to have Dallas home again. Strong, sexy, wealthy and ready to take care of me.


He sat next to me and helped me finish the rest of the Pinot Noir while regaling me with hilarious tales of his trip with his brothers (as he called the team). Things sounded like they got pretty intense, and a few of the guys on the team were struggling to avoid arrest the entire time. Dallas claimed that he’d been pretty good, but I must admit that I had my suspicions. I mean, I love my husband, but I have no pretenses about the life he leads.


Having plied myself with alcohol, I began to wonder if Dallas had that animalistic fervor that had first drawn me to him… Was he willing to continue making additions to our family? I felt like I had waited long enough for him. He was always on the road and Dante was almost two years old. If Dallas was truly faithful to me, his desire for me should be off the charts. I wanted him to crave me desperately, to prove his faithfulness. Of course, I felt like I couldn’t confront him about my fears of his infidelity. What if he confessed? Then I would be heartbroken, another foolish girl who thought she could keep a professional athlete just for her.


I didn’t have to wonder for long. As he lay next to me, Dallas turned over and looked deep into my eyes. Unlike what they say in romance novels, this wasn’t half as much of a turn on as much as a point of bewilderment. Why was he staring so intently? Dallas cleared his throat and asked me, “Have you been faithful to me Kimani?” I was surprised to hear him voice the same fear that I’d had. Were we really on the same wavelength to that degree? “Yes, of course I have!” I responded urgently. I honestly didn’t think I’d given him reason to doubt me.

“I worry, leaving you here lonely in this big old house, that you’ll find someone better to replace me,” he said. “No one could ever replace you Dallas. I mean, think about how we met, how Dante was brought into our lives. No one could give me the excitement, the passion and the protection that you offer to me,” I assured him. Dallas seemed satisfied. It would have been the perfect opportunity for me to share my concerns about his infidelity on the road, but I said nothing.


Continue reading NFL Player Wants Black Wife 2 here!

If you liked this excerpt, you'll probably enjoy reading the excerpt for the prequel to this story. It's steamy hot and just as intriguing. Check it out on our website. Click here to read more!

Romantic Comedy Novels: NFL Player Wants Black Wife

romantic comedy novelsAlthough not quite one of Jamila's romantic comedy novels, this is one of Ms. Jasper's short bwwm books and one of her earliest pregnancy romance books. NFL Player Wants Black Wife is sweet and funny without sacrificing deliciously steamy content. This story is about Kimani, a black owner of a PR firm, opens up a new world of pleasure when she has an erotic experience with a white NFL player she meets at a party.

Their love escalates, spiraling almost out of control and she ends up pregnant... to her surprise and his. Find out more in this tantalizing tale of forbidden love and sacred passion. Also, if you enjoy this book, you'll definitely want to check out the sequel.

This book is one of Jamila's steamiest stories, and luckily for you, the audio book is available as well and it's narrated by the author herself.  Check out the excerpt completely free to see if you enjoy it.

Romantic Comedy Novels: NFL Player Wants Black Wife Excerpt


White football players are desperate for black girls. They are desperate to fit in with their majority black teammates and the one place where it’s easiest for them to do that is in the bedroom. If a white football player can get with a black girl, it essentially validates him to the entire team. These multimillionaire athletes are hungry and desperate for the rare breed of upper class nouveau riche black girl looking to come up in life. She might be an instagram model or she might be a professional “business woman” who you can “book” for god knows what.


I’m not knocking the lifestyle at all. See, I’m one of these women. I feed off these white boy’s desperation for black pussy and I have satisfied many of their needs in exchange for having my own needs satisfy. Of course when I first got into the professional athlete sex game, I had no notion of settling down with any of these guys. I was working on starting my own PR firm, Kimani Jones PR. I was mostly in it for the fun and the extra wealthy connections it would provide.


I started this because it was fun and I guess I ended up having too much fun because I ended up having a child by a white football player baby daddy. Yup, I got pregnant. If you want to hear my story, keep on reading. It was totally unexpected and it totally changed my life. I guess I was initially attracted to football players because this was ultimately my destiny. I was searching for “the One”, for the guy who would be able to step up like a real man and treat me like a lady. Real men are hard to find these days, but somehow I managed to find one.


One of my platonic NFL friends was a large buff player for a southern team who was gay. Yup, a gay NFL player, they’re more common than you would think. One drunken night I came onto him aggressively. He took me back to his place and as I tried to aggressively mount his cock, he pushed me off and confessed to me he was gay, sobbing the entire time. He’d tried so hard to fuck all the women who were throwing themselves at him and he’d had the final straw with me. Oops. Although I was drunk, I did feel a great deal of compassion for him. I turned off “vixen Kimani” and held him close all night as he cried about the difficulties he was experiencing with his sexuality. Sometimes, he still took me out, if he wanted to avoid questions and have someone to guard him from the homophobia he was likely to face if he was seen single for too long. Devon was a sweetheart, and I was glad he had stopped me from sleeping with him. I’d made a lifelong friend.


Devon had taken me out one evening to a big party hosted by his sister, Aaliyah, a light skinned diva (think Mariah Carey meets JLo) who was married to an incredibly sexy Dominican baseball player. Normally athletes from all kinds of teams knew each other so there were more than just baseball players and their women at the party. There were baseball players, basketball players, NFL players, a few Olympic athletes and even a few hockey players. Although, most of these guys were Canadian and didn’t frequent the south very much.

Aaliyah welcomed me and her brother into her giant mansion which was already filled with hundreds of high profile guests. I swore I saw a few rappers and celebrities along with their groupies. I suppose I was nothing more than a groupie myself, but I was so close with Devon that I didn’t quite see myself that way. Plus, I’d cooled off on my quest for football player dick a lot since my last ex and I had dated. He’d done a number on my self esteem and put me off the idea in general.


As I was milling about the party, separating from Devon to get a chance to meet new people, a beautiful man caught my eye. He was tall and thick; he was definitely an athlete but I couldn’t tell what sport he played specifically. Probably not basketball, but perhaps he was a point guard, who didn’t need to be as tall. I wasn’t sure he noticed me, but soon he began to make his way over to where I was standing. “Can I get you a drink from the bar?” he asked me. “Yeah sure,” I said, smiling up at him, flashing my perfectly white teeth. “What would you like?” he questioned. I told him that I wanted a cranberry vodka and he disappeared towards the bar. Just as soon as he left, he appeared again holding the most delicious looking cranberry vodka that I’d ever tasted.


“What’s your name? I’m Dallas Scott.” he asked me. “My name’s Kimani Jones, Kimani Jones PR.” I said to him, looking up at him seductively. This guy was amazingly attractive. We began talking. Dallas was the most interesting football player I ever met. We hit it off even better than I’d hit it off with Devon. Plus, he could give me something that Devon couldn’t. He was so arousing and I could tell he was aroused by me too. He kept biting his lip as he looked down at me. He seemed like he wanted to ravish my tiny black body.


I kept flirting with him, trying to get closer to him. What was most amazing about our meeting is somehow I felt like we connected on a level deeper than physical attraction. Within a few minutes, our brief conversation sounded like it was between people who had known each other for years. I was hanging onto his every word as he moved closer to me. There was something here. I wanted desperately to sleep with him and test this connection out. How could one guy seduce me so quickly? We had so much in common from our interests to our childhoods… and it all came out so fast. I felt a strong urge to touch him… to kiss him.


“Do you want to go talk upstairs?” I whispered to him, tiptoeing to reach his ear. He nodded, and took my arm, leading me up the stairs to the part of the mansion that was technically off limits to the party. Dallas was close with Aaliyah’s husband however so we easily made it past the security team to the plethora of furnished bedrooms upstairs. It was the perfect place to sneak off and have sex and it was remote enough that it seemed romantic, and not like your typical trashy party hook up.


Once upstairs, we closed the door to the giant bedroom we were occupying. It was so luxuriously fancy, perfect for a long night of pleasuring each other. Dallas began to take off his clothes the second we were up there, and I did too. We quickly dropped the pretense that we had any intention of just talking. I am around five foot four with a fat ass and decent sized tits. I was wearing a dress that hugged all my curves so it took extra effort to peel it off my tight, small body.

Dallas was staring at me the entire time I undressed, mesmerized by my petite frame and my voluptuous curves. I couldn’t help staring at him too when he undressed. His frame was perfect -- NFL bodies aren’t always. He was thick with a big juicy ass and incredible muscles. His build was broad, as opposed to slim and muscular, just the kind of body I was attracted to. When we had both stripped down to our underwear, he made a move to get closer to me and started kissing me. It was so passionate and erotic. Thrills and shivers ran down my spine one after the other as he held onto the small of my back and kissed me. His arms were so big and strong. I immediately felt safe… I was so wet, as my kiss put me in tune with his body. Our energy, the vibrations of our connection felt incredibly strong. I couldn’t wait for him to penetrate me deeply.


Click here to keep reading NFL Player Wants Black Wife!

If you enjoyed this romantic comedy excerpt, perhaps you'll enjoy this story by Raven Ferrari. Walking Down the Aisle is one of her recent releases and it's not only laugh out loud funny, the romantic plot will keep you turning the page until the very end. Click here to check it out.

Romantic Comedy Novels: Walking Down The Aisle

romantic comedy novels walking down the aisleThis story cemented Raven's position as one of the best contemporary writers. Another one of her romantic comedy novels that became a best-selling African American romance novel. This is a perfect book if you love romantic stories and enjoy hilarious romance novels with plenty of twists and turns.

Rachel is a young, hot, African American novelist, and she's in a bind. She's got a big event coming up on Friday which could make or break her career, but she doesn't have a date. Her mom twists her arm into taking Michael, a world-renowned artist with more than a few quirks. Rachel, however, just can't seem to figure him out, and it's driving her crazy. As far as she's is concerned, he's either the most attractive man she's ever met, or the most terrifying. But which one is it? The deeper Rachel goes down the rabbit hole, the more she finds out about Michael, and the more she desperately she hopes that her heart is correct.

Can Rachel discover all of Michael's secrets and still love him?

Romantic Comedy Novels: Walking Down the Aisle Excerpt




It was an interesting time in my life. I had spent my years after college waiting tables to pay my bills while following my dream of becoming a successful writer. In three years, I’d written three romance novels, and published each independently. Each title received a respectable amount of success, but the true reward came when some talent scout at Simon & Schuster read some of my work and decided that I would be the next author they would bring into the limelight. Mind you, my first three titles had already netted me a fair degree of success -- especially with black women, my target audience. So while I might have had to sign a few autographs when I was at the hair salon, I was still pretty much unknown to the rest of the world. With a big publisher behind me, my goal for my next novel was nothing short of becoming a New York Times Bestseller.


Just because I knew how to craft a tantalizing romance between a black woman and a white man didn’t actually mean that I had personal experience. I must confess that I hadn’t been on a date in months, and I’d never even slept with a white man before –– I’d never so much as seen a white guy’s cock before in real life. As a BWWM writer, I was always paranoid that I’d say something in my books to expose me as a fraud who didn’t know what she was talking about. For example, one time I compared my lead character’s junk to a pink strawberry. I thought for sure that all of the penis experts would throw their arms up in protest, but nobody noticed. Do white men’s penises really look like pink strawberries?


Anyway, my pathetic love life especially bothered my mother. You see, my mom was a former Ford Model -- one of the few black ones in her time, I might add -- and she never forgave me for not being as hot, or as successful as she was. She had long since given up hope that I might grow out of my awkward phase, but now that my career as a writer was starting to take off, she was absolutely thrilled with the idea that maybe she did rub off on me a little bit. To give me a warm welcome, one of the bigwigs at Simon & Schuster had invited me to a snobby social, and my mom had decided to use the upcoming event as an opportunity to initiate the one thing that no black woman wants to hear from her mother: it was the dreaded relationship intervention.


A relationship intervention happens when your parents, relatives, or closest friends decide to push you out of the driver’s seat of your own love life and start steering you in a different direction. This usually involves meeting up for what looks like an innocent get together followed by an ambush of unsolicited relationship advice and demands. Case in point: One quiet afternoon, my mother and I were having a delightful lunch at a bistro downtown, when our laughter and fun conversation took a sharp turn…


“Oh, c’mon Mom. Do we really need to talk about this? My love life’s fine!”

“No it’s not, Rachel. You’re almost 30 and you haven’t even met a decent man. Do you think you’re going to keep those fresh looks forever? When was the last time you went on a date?”




“Your older brother has four kids and Trisha’s pregnant with a fifth. Your little cousin Dwayne’s fifteen, and he can’t stop talking about getting married –– or about getting to third base. Even your grandpa found himself someone online. The man’s been a widow for 20 years; he’s so computer illiterate that he needs tech support to figure out how to turn his computer on, but he figured it out because don’t nobody want to be old and alone. You don’t want that, do you?”


“No…” I groaned, rolling my eyes…


“C’mon, now. You’re not getting any younger. You don’t want to wind up like your aunt Mary Jo, do you? All she’s got is a dog named Michael Ealy who gets to stay in the room when she masturbates.”


“Eww! Mom, I don’t wanna know about that…”


“Your little sister is seven years younger than you, and she’s already married. She was smart –– she married young and fetched a hot black Wall Street banker with a six pack. Who knows if you’ll ever be able to bring home something like that…”


“So what do you want out of me, Mom?” I barked. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t just snap my fingers and have the man of my dreams appear before me…”


“Nobody’s talking about pie in the sky miracles, Rachel. I just want to give you a little push in the right direction.”


“Huh?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “What are you getting at?”


“I have it on good authority that you don’t have a date for your Simon & Schuster social on Friday night. I have the perfect guy for you––”


“Oh no,” I protested. “No way. Besides, I already have a date.”


“Really, who?”


“I’ll go with one of my girls.”


“Seriously? Have I taught you nothing? If you take one of your girlfriends, then you might as well not go at all…”


“What do you mean?”


My mom cleared her throat as she prepared for her triumphant speech…


“God bless them, but every one of your friends suck. If you show up with Amber, she’ll peck at every guy within a ten foot radius of you. You know she’s an overly competitive whore who can’t stand the idea that a man might find you more attractive.”


I folded my arms disapprovingly and wrinkled my face. My mom continued…


“Monica will chase men away because she I’m pretty sure she hates them.”


“She’s not a lesbian, Mom.”


“Sure, whatever…”


“And what about Troya?” I offered. “She won’t be so bad. She might even help me find a guy...”


“Are you kidding me? She’ll cockblock you the whole night.”


“No, she won’t.”


“Honey, Troya’s the worst of them all. If a guy approaches you, she’ll death stare you from across the room to try to slut shame you into submission. You know how she gets with her weird religious mumbo jumbo.


“I know that what I’m saying seems harsh, but darling, now that you’re in the limelight, you need to get it through your head that appearances mean something. If you –– romance author extraordinaire –– show up without a nice, hot man by your side, everyone’s going to want to know why. It’s bad press. You’re going to want to show up with a man, whether or not you’re sleeping with him, because with a hot man by your side, you’ll be seen as untouchable, and that’s right where you want to be. Dogs always try to sniff around the alpha male’s patch of pee. Do you see what I’m saying?”


“Wait. Mom, did you just compare me to a patch of pee?!”


“It doesn’t matter. Look, baby, why don’t you let your mommy set you up this one time? I promise, if it doesn’t work out, I’m never going to stick my nose in your business again…”


“But Mommm,” I complained, “These setups never work. The guy always turns out to be some wimp who’s thirty and still living in his mom’s basement, which is precisely why he tries to get old ladies like you to set him up with their daughters. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to show up to such an important event with a complete stranger. There’s going to be reporters and press. No way…”


“Have a little faith, dear. You don’t think your mother knows the type of man that you want most? His name his Michael. You’ll love him. He’s an artist -- mostly photography -- and he’s totally handsome. And here’s the best part: you write romance novels, and he’s one the sweetest, most romantic men I’ve ever met in my life.”


I tried to decode my mother’s language. She said artist. I heard: broke. She said totally handsome. I heard: Maybe he’s not balding. As for the whole romance connection, now I was already convinced that I’d hate him, because behind my big romance writer nametag, I fancied myself to be about as romantic as a potato…


“I met him through some of my old Ford connections,” Mom said. “You’ll love him, I promise.”


My mom looked over my shoulder toward the bistro’s front door. It was then that I realised that my mother wasn’t asking my permission for a setup. She was merely informing me that it was already happening…


“You brought a guy here? Mom, how could you?”


“Don’t worry, darling. I promise, you’re going to love him.”


My mom looked at the front door again expectantly. Just then, a tall, clean shaven, dark skinned man entered the room. If he wasn’t successful, he certainly played the part perfectly. He wore a sharp, pinstriped suit, he walked with a confident swagger, and he was the spitting image of Idris Elba. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How had my mom done good and set me up with a handsome hunk like that?


Before I had the chance to thank her, the handsome black man walked straight past the two of us and joined the table of businessmen at the opposite corner of the room. Moments after that, my mom pointed at the front door…


“There he is…” She said.


I tried to adjust my eyes to the blinding light from outside, and soon the real Michael came into focus. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The man who had just waved to my mother, and was approaching our table, was covered in dirt from head to toe. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a coal mine. I took one look at his pale skin and blue eyes couldn’t help but feel like my mother was trying to pull a fast one…


“What the hell is this, Mom?” I said. “Why is this man covered in dirt? And why’s he white? You think that just because I write about white men all day long that I’m trying to get locked down by Adrien Brody? Mom? Mom?”


My mother wasn’t listening to me anymore. Her plan was already set in motion, and she had already set her mind on seeing it through to the end. As Michael arrived at our table, she stood up to greet him. I kept my ass glued to the chair. I was seething…


“Oh Mikey,” my mom said while kissing each of his dusty cheeks, “I’m so glad you came. Meet my beautiful daughter, Rachel. Isn’t she lovely?”


“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rachel,” Michael said, extending his hand toward me for a handshake. I was having none of it. I was willing to admit that Michael was handsome -- in a David Beckham after a muddy soccer match kind of way -- but what kind of white guy shows up to a nice restaurant in the middle of the day, covered in dirt? I was on high alert…


“Why exactly are you covered in dirt?” I said, with the most unimpressed tone I could muster.


“Oh, this?” Michael said, referring to his entire appearance. He seemed to have become self aware for the first time. He laughed and scratched his head. “You know, I just got back from digging up a few graves…”


My mom gave me a side eye that only an angry black mother can do. In one look, she said it all: Don’t embarrass me, or I’ll kill you! She wasn’t bluffing, either. I could tell from my mom’s intense grimace that if I put up too much of a fight, she really might kill me. She would at least pull out her belt and whoop me in public, and I was too old for that, so I decided to play a little bit more diplomatically. I extended my hand to shake his…


“It’s nice to meet you, Michael,” I said with a slightly sarcastic tone.


At this point, my mother decided to give Michael and me a chance to get to know each other a little better so she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room, however not before she gave me one last death stare. Don't fuck it up! She seemed to say. I gave her a hopeless, groveling look. It was obvious that I didn't want to be there, but since she’d forced my hand, I tried to make the best of a bad situation. In spite of the fact that Michael was covered in dirt from head to toe, at the very least, he was handsome and jovial.  I tried to keep that in mind as my mother left the table, and Michael sat down…


After Michael and I had exchanged a few awkward pleasantries, I discovered a few things about him that changed my opinion from ‘hell no’ to ‘maybe’. For starters, he didn't let his appearance get in the way of him being charming and fun. I liked that. His smooth, deep voice also worked to sooth my reservations about him, and I also figured out right away that he was definitely very bright. He happened to mention that one of his favorite authors was bell hooks. We got into a heated discussion about black sexual politics, and needless to say, I was impressed.  I had spoken to a lot of handsome white guys in my day, but meeting one who appreciated a top black feminist scholar was a first.


Most surprisingly of all, Michael had a decent explanation for why he had shown up to such a nice restaurant in the middle of the city looking so bad. To tell you the truth, I had already gotten so engrossed by our stimulating conversation that I had almost forgotten about the whole covered in dirt issue, but when he brought it up, he handled my objection like a champ.


“I guess I ought to apologize for showing up like this, covered in dirt. I'm very passionate about the work that I do. I'm working on an art piece that's going to be my magnum opus. I like to think of it as my version of the Sistine Chapel. Sometimes I get so obsessed with it that I forget that how messy being an artist can be.”


“Wow. That sounds intense,” I said. “What are you working on, exactly?”


“That's top secret for now,” he said. “But perhaps I’ll show you when it’s closer to being finished?”


“Okay…” I said. I was admittedly a little bit mesmerised. I had never actually met a guy who had such a combination of eloquence, charm, intelligence, passion and masculine grit. Michael had a sort of glint in his eye that revealed a magnetic charisma. I somehow knew that he wasn't playing around. He really was some sort of hopeless romantic who was wild about his craft. Suddenly, the dirt that covered his body seemed kind of sexy…


“But for starters…”  he said. “How about we talk about that date?”


Right about that time, my mom showed up again. It was an obvious and shameless tactic to bully me into saying ‘yes.’ My mom gave me an admonishing glare, and Michael waited in anticipation for my response. All of a sudden, the pressure was on. Was I really going to take Michael up on his offer? After all, I still didn't know who he was. Could I trust him? Forget about him embarrassing me in public, how could I be sure he wasn’t some sort of creep? I couldn't. That was the whole problem. My eyes told me one story about him, but my gut said something else entirely. I struggled to make my decision, and the seconds ticked on.


Seeing my prolonged hesitation, my mother cleared her throat loudly to prompt me for my answer. Michael also sensed my uncertainty. He stepped in to give me an out…  


“Look,” he said. “I know this is a little awkward. Fifteen minutes ago, you didn’t even know my name. Now here I am, perhaps not looking my best––”


“No kidding…” I blurted out. Michael smiled, then he leaned into my ear so he could whisper the rest of his message…


“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “If you say ‘yes’ to get your mother off your back, I won’t hold it against you if you stand me up later.”


I realized right then that Michael was in as much of an awkward position as I was. He wasn't some desperate loser who needed some old lady to hook him up with her daughter. In fact, he wasn’t even here for me at all. He had only shown up to the bistro out of respect for my mother, one professional to another. He felt as awkward about the whole thing as I did. In fact, he was probably trying his best to turn me off, which was probably the real reason why he was so filthy.


That realization suddenly made me feel like an asshole. Here I was, resisting him with all my might, when in fact, he was trying to do the same thing…


“Fine,” I said. “You can be my date on Friday night. But you better be freshly washed and in a tuxedo.”


“You have a deal,” Michael said. “You can meet me at my place. Here’s my address.”


As Michael handed me a napkin with his handwriting on it, he shot me a coy smile and a wink, making sure that my mom didn’t see. I knew what that wink meant. The ball was still in my court. I could either meet him Friday night at eight, or show up to my Simon & Schuster social all by my lonesome. What would I do?


* * *


The next day, I had an appointment to get my hair done with my three best friends: Monica, Amber, and Troya.  Under the noise and heat of our hair dryers, I discussed the issue with them…


“Don’t do it! You don’t have any facts about him. Based on what little you know, you can’t even rule out the possibility that he’s not a serial killer. I don’t like those odds. Next thing you know, he’ll be using your nice brown skin for the cover of his Satanic Bible.”


That was my friend Monica. She was a senior accountant for ExxonMobil eastern division as well as a Princeton graduate. After years of fighting her way to success in a male dominated industry, Monica carried a huge chip on her shoulder when it came to all men, everywhere. My mother was wrong; Monica wasn’t a lesbian. She was, however, a numbers girl. In life, just as in business, she always crunched the numbers and demanded a good return on her investment.


“Don’t listen to Monica, try him out. As I always like to say, men are a never ending sausage buffet; if you kill one, another one will rise up to take his place. Show up with him, if he turns out to be a dud, leave with someone else, and post the story on Instagram. Do you have any idea how much people will pay to see that kind of stuff on a daily basis?”


That was Amber. She was a femme fatale with a vengeance. She used her powers of seduction to attract men, and then troll them on Instagram. She had built an entire media empire around it, with millions of followers and endorsement deals from a wide variety of designer companies.


“Rachel! Don’t ever have two dates in one night. It goes against the word of Christ to act so lustfully. Besides, if you want to keep a man hooked, you’ve gotta make him wait at least seven days before you meet up with him.”


Troya managed the investment portfolio of the entire North American branch of the Baptist Church. There were two things that she was most proud of in the world. The first was being noticeably light skinned. The second was being a self proclaimed “virgin of Christ”. Troya was definitely not a virgin, but she did go out of her way to make sure that she could never, ever, be accused of being a slut.


Both Monica and Amber kissed their teeth in chorus. “Oh, please,” Amber said. “Virgin, my ass,” Monica muttered.


“Follow the seven day rule and you’ll be on the fast track to having a serious relationship. Just like me...”


Troya smiled as innocently as she possibly could. Almost as if a halo were over her head. This only served to aggravate Monica and Amber, but I jumped in before they could take her down a peg…

“What’s the seven day rule, Troya?”


“It’s a stupid rule that some Catholic nun probably made up to keep women’s thighs glued together,” Amber chimed in.


“Amber’s wrong,” Troya explained. “The seven day rule definitely works, and it sets the guy up for perfectly for the 30% percent rule. In a nutshell, a woman must always make a man wait, while only putting in 30% of the effort. The longer you make him wait before the first date, the harder he’ll work for your attention, and the longer he’ll wait to have sex. And every girl knows that the longer you wait for sex, the more a guy loves you, and the more likely for your relationship to turn into marriage.”


Monica shook her head in protest…


“The 30% rule already sounds like a lot of hard work to me. If a man shows up covered in dirt and asks me out on a date, he’ll have to bring his bank account statement, doctor’s report, and a recently updated background check. That would help me a long way in deciding whether I want to bother showing. Besides, Troya. For all of your seven day rule this, and 30% rule that, how’s your new man doing?”


“We’re doing just great,” Troya said snootily. “He buys me flowers all the time, we talk on the phone almost every night for hours, and he hasn’t even pressured me for sex. #Winning.”


“Gay…” Amber blurted out.


“Probably not,” Monica rebutted. “But he definitely has something to hide. Have you been to his place yet?”


“No…” Troya said sheepishly.


“I’m shocked -- and appalled, quite frankly,” Amber said.


“You’ve been dating this guy for like three months, he hasn’t fucked you, and you’ve never even seen his place? He sounds like textbook male hoe,” Monica said. “I bet he’s got two cell phones, three aliases and he gets lots of sexy text messages from Domino's.”


“Well, at least I’m not trying to find men online,” Troya sneered, “like some desperate loser…”


“Actually,” Monica said. “Online dating is a proven and effective way to meet a man. Did you know that one in eight people who get married these days have met online? eHarmony has an excellent algorithm for matching couples based on compatibility, with a 93% success rate. Now those are odds that I like. And, as it so happens, I’m going to meet a gentleman that I met online on Friday myself.”


“You girls are so boring,” Amber said. “When was the last time you let a man enjoy the thrill of the chase? If you really want to improve your odds of success, you’ve got to put yourself out there more. First you show up to the club wearing a sexy black dress and the tallest pair of heels you can find, then try to look as ‘damsel in distress-y’ as possible with an empty martini glass in your hand. Works every time.”


“But Amber…” Troya gasped, “That’s sinful.”


“I’d rather size a hundred men up within seconds and fuck the best one at the end of night than waste three months of my precious life, only to find out that my ‘man’ has been sleeping with half of the city. Seriously, Troya, you need to figure out what your man is hiding ASAP before you regret it. Take it from the girl who really knows how to have a successful marriage. If a man loves me, we can keep it casual for 30 years, and tie the knot on my deathbed. That way I’ll die knowing my marriage was definitely a success and I don’t have to divorce a guy because ten years into our marriage, I found out he had a baby diaper fetish.”


After my date at the hair salon with my girls, I started to wonder…  


How much should you trust a man in a relationship, and what was the best way to do it? Should you crunch the numbers, like Monica, and let statistics be your guide? Should you have blind faith in a man because he lived up to your rules and regulations, like Troya? Should you never trust a man at all, like Amber, but just give him the benefit of the doubt as time marches on?


And what’s the best way to find out about the skeletons in a man’s closet? Can you ever really know someone for sure? Should you? What if you find out something that destroys your entire relationship? In other words, if you find out that your partner has a scat fetish, would that be a deal breaker, or can you really know every crappy little thing about another person -- so to speak -- and still like them?


That night, I had several nightmares about what would happen if I agreed to meet Michael on Friday night.


I dreamt that he was covered in dirt because he’d just dug his way out of federal prison. In this equation, I was just a body that he could use as a cumdumpster and human shield before he escaped to Guatemala.


Then another dream came. In it, Michael was one of those peep show freaks who hides at the bottom of latrines and lets women piss and shit all over his face just to get a peek.


Then, in another dream, Michael just liked dirt, and he wouldn’t have sex with me, unless I went a week without showering.


Was I losing my mind?

When I woke up, I decided that I couldn’t allow my imagination to get in the way of my love life. I decided then and there to show up to the Simon & Schuster social with Michael on my arm.


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