Long Time Coming. Rochelle Alers

There was no mistaking the censure in her tone.

      “There’s nothing wrong with being one, but I like being a man, thank you very much.”

      Shifting slightly, Tessa stared at Micah. “Why?”

      “Because we can belch, scratch and adjust ourselves with impunity—because that’s what men do.”

      She scrunched up her nose. “That’s disgusting, Micah.”

      “Well, it’s true.”

      “It’s true because that’s what society has permitted men to do. Meanwhile if a woman chooses to breast-feed her baby in public—and even if no one can see her breast or nipple—she’s rebuked and castigated for something that is the most natural thing in the world. And some of those same narrow-minded people will go to the zoo and see animal mothers nursing their babies and claim it’s so cute.”

      “You’re preaching to the choir, Tessa. I’m not a sexist. How did you get into the wedding business?” he asked, deftly steering away from the controversial topic of differences between male and female.

      “I’m second-generation wedding business. My mother is a wedding dress designer, and my father and uncles own and operate a catering hall in Mount Vernon. My sister, cousin and I set up Signature Bridals four years ago. I’m the coordinator, my cousin Faith’s specialty is wedding cakes and my older sister Simone is a floral designer.”

      “You come highly recommended, because when Bridget attended the Jadya Fyles-Ashton Cooper wedding in Bryant Park she couldn’t stop talking about how spectacular everything was.”

      Tessa had addressed the invitations for the Fyles-Cooper wedding, and because there had been so many invited guests she’d hadn’t remembered Bridget Sanborn’s name until Bridget called to tell her that she wanted Signature Bridals to coordinate her upcoming wedding.

      “It took more than a year of planning to pull their wedding together. What helped was that Jadya knew exactly what she wanted from the onset.”

      “What about Ashton?”

      “The prospective grooms usually adopt a hands-off attitude. It’s the brides who become the Bridezillas.”

      “How do you handle them when they go ballistic?”

      “It varies from bride to bride. You’ll get an up-close-and-personal view when I deal with your sister.”

      “Bridget is a pussycat.”

      Tessa snorted delicately. “Don’t forget that a cat also has claws. I usually can tell within fifteen minutes of meeting a prospective bride what I’m up against.”

      “Have you ever turned anyone down?”

      There came a pause. “Yes. There was one woman who punched out one of her bridesmaids because she refused to agree on a color that was totally wrong for her complexion.”

      “What did you do?”

      “I gave her back her deposit, tore up her contract and told her to find another wedding coordinator. I wasn’t willing to run the risk of her hitting me if something I said or did offended her.”

      “What did she say?”

      “She cried and pleaded, but I wouldn’t change my mind.”

      “You’re tough, aren’t you?”

      There was another pause before Tessa said, “I’m all business when it comes to business.”

      “What happens when it’s not business?” Micah asked.

      Tessa smiled. “I’m a pussycat.”

      “A pussycat with claws?” he teased.

      She wrinkled her nose. “But of course.”

      Tessa entertained Micah with stories about some of the more bizarre weddings she’d coordinated that made him laugh and/or speechless. It was after one when her voice faded and she closed her eyes. She never knew when Micah turned off the flashlight, pulled the duvet up over her shoulders and draped an arm over her waist.

      Tessa woke hours later to see light coming through the silk-lined drapes and the space next to her empty. She stared at the impression on the pillow beside her own.

      It was the first time she’d shared her bed with a man who hadn’t made love to her. A knowing smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

      Unknowingly Micah Sanborn had earned a seal of approval from Theresa Anais Whitfield.

      He was a man she knew she could trust.

      Chapter 4

      Micah drove from downtown Brooklyn to Staten Island in record time. The trip that would’ve normally taken anywhere between twenty and thirty minutes, depending upon the flow of traffic, was accomplished in ten.

      It was Saturday. The power hadn’t been restored, and at six-thirty in the morning he was one of a dozen motorists on the Verrazano Bridge.

      He’d woken up in bed with Tessa Whitfield, her huddled to his chest like a trusting child, him experiencing a gamut of emotions he hadn’t wanted to feel at that time. It was when he felt a rush of desire for the woman whose bed he’d shared that he knew it was time to leave Brooklyn.

      Maneuvering into the driveway, Micah activated the remote device under the visor, raising the garage door. Less than a minute later he opened the door to his studio apartment and walked in. Streaks of gold had pierced the veil of night as the rising sun filtered through the skylight over a utility kitchen with a sink, a two-burner stove and a portable refrigerator.

      Whenever he returned home he made it a practice to look in on his landlady. However, the eighty-two-year-old former schoolteacher was currently in Florida with relatives.

      Diane Cunningham had complained of a pain in her side for several days, but when he’d offered to take her to the doctor she’d balked, saying she’d probably pulled a muscle from lifting a laundry basket.

      She’d proudly announced that she’d waited more than a year to travel to Sarasota to see her newest great-granddaughter and a little old pain was not going to stop her from making her scheduled flight. Two days ago he’d gotten a call from Mrs. Cunningham’s daughter telling him that her mother was in the hospital recuperating from an emergency appendectomy.

      Micah made a mental note to check on his landlady’s place as he emptied his pockets of loose change, keys to his office, credit card case and money clip, leaving them on the bistro table. He also had to call Tessa and give her an approximate time when he would pick her up on Sunday to take her to New Jersey.

      He undressed and walked into the closet-size bathroom to shower. A slow smile parted his lips as he soaped his body with a bath gel in a scent that matched his aftershave and cologne, washing away the scent of fruit and flowers. His smile faded when he remembered waking up to find Tessa’s face pressed to his shoulder. The velvety smoothness of her body, the moist whisper of her breathing on his exposed throat and the soft crush of her breasts against his bare chest had elicited lascivious thoughts that were truly shocking.

      What he did like about Tessa was her spontaneity. She was candid, without a hint of guile—attributes he hadn’t experienced with most women he’d dated. Her beauty and intelligence aside, it still didn’t explain why he’d reacted to her like a randy adolescent boy. Well, he thought, he didn’t have too much longer to wait to uncover why, because in a little more than twenty-four hours he would see her again—this time in the light and away from her cloistered sanctuary.

      Minutes after eight on Saturday morning electrical power was restored to lower Manhattan; Brooklyn a little before ten; and portions of Staten Island an hour later. Tessa trained her gaze on the television, channel surfing and listening to the same rendition of the possible and probable causes of the blackout from network correspondents.

      Experts