The Trouble with Luv'. Pamela Yaye

as warm as an ice-rink. She took a step forward to leave, but the sting of his insult pushed her to ask, “How do you know we have nothing in common when you don’t know anything about me?”

      I know you’re aggressive and bad news. Xavier decided to keep his observations to himself. He shrugged one shoulder. “Call it intuition.”

      Ebony studied him. Low-cropped hair. Chiseled facial features. Sculptured physique. There was a distinguished almost regal bearing about him. He couldn’t be more than thirty, if that, but he was incredibly serious. Much too serious for a man so young. And handsome. Used to dating sociable, engaging men, not judgmental, ice-cold ones, Ebony quickly concluded that Xavier Reed would bore her to death and she was better off not going anywhere with him.

      “Well, it was nice meeting you.” He put his empty glass on the bar, smoothed a hand over his blazer and admonished her to enjoy the rest of her evening. Xavier turned, but was hampered when she coiled a hand around his arm.

      Ebony hated rejection. It was an incurable virus that could break someone down. Play with their mind. Taunt them when they least expected it. Xavier Reed might be stern-faced and aloof, but after a few drinks, and some laughs, he’d be putty in her hands. But first, Ebony had to convince him to go out with her. Then, and only then, would she seduce the pants off him. “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she purred, batting her eyelashes. “We don’t have to go to A Taste of Venice—we can go anywhere you want. When it comes to things like that I’m not fussy. I’m easy.”

      I bet you are, he said to himself. Xavier slapped a smile on his face, in the hopes of screening the irritation he felt. Six years ago, he would have jumped at her offer. Easily swayed by glamorous women oozing sex appeal, he would have taken her out for an expensive meal, worked it off at one of Minneapolis’ trendy nightclubs and then whisked her back to his place for a night she’d never forget. But Xavier wasn’t the man he used to be. Gone were the one-night stands, meaningless relationships and bad-boy ways. Xavier had known it was time to quit playing the field when his closest friends had started dropping like flies.

      First, Dominick had moved in with his girlfriend; then commitment-shy Lemar had gone off and gotten himself engaged; and these days, Juan was so consumed with his new lady love, two weeks had passed since they last spoke. The all-boys club had dismantled quicker than a female R&B group. He had lost his boys to women, and although he was happy for them, it made him hanker for a relationship all his own. He was saving up to buy a BMW, but aside from owning a temperamental, banged-up jalopy, every aspect of his life was in order. He owned a three-bedroom home in one of the city’s developing areas; had a substantial amount of money tucked away in low-risk investments; traveled two, sometimes three times a year; cooked, cleaned and washed better than most women and he had no baby mama drama to complicate his life. Returning to graduate school to earn a master’s degree in psychology was a long-range goal, but for right now, he was content being a high school guidance counselor and part-time economics teacher. All he needed was the right woman to complete the picture. He had played the field long enough and at thirty-two he was ready to start a family of his own. Xavier was in a settling-down frame of mind, and the woman clinging to his arm was not “the one.”

      I wonder if I’ll ever find Ms. Right, he thought, as his eyes skimmed the banquet hall. Chatting with Ms. Garrett reminded Xavier of why he was still single. The twenty-first-century woman was too assertive, had more game than a rap star and didn’t have the patience to wait for a man to make the first move. She wanted to be in control. Wanted to run the show. Wanted to be the one to wear the pants in the relationship. What happened to the good old days when a man used to ask a woman out? Where are all the traditional women hiding? he wondered. The room was crawling with women. A handful of them were even beautiful enough to strut the runway. But all the ladies who had approached him tonight were of the Ms. Garrett persuasion—pushy, abrasive and eager to engage in carnal pleasures. Sweet, nurturing and modest was more of what Xavier had in mind for a girlfriend. He didn’t want to be with a human doormat, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to be with a woman who crammed her opinions down his throat and called the shots, either.

      His eyes returned to Ms. Garrett. She smelled good, she looked good and she sounded good, but he wasn’t going out with her. No matter how hard she pushed. The woman was far too aggressive for his tastes. She had a backside that could rival J-Lo’s, but experience told him women who looked like supermodels—primed to perfection and smelling like a cosmetics counter—usually had the diva attitude to match. And besides, he wasn’t interested in a one-night stand; he was seeking a meaningful, long-term relationship that would eventually end up at the altar.

      “I’m sorry, Ms. Garrett, but I can’t.” He freed his arm from her grasp.

      “Are you sure?”

      He thought, this woman is as persistent as a recurring dream. “Again, it was nice meeting you.” Xavier walked away, without giving her or her offer another thought.

      When Ebony retook her seat a minute later, Opal greeted her warmly. “So, how did it go? When are you guys going out?”

      “A quarter to never,” she said.

      Opal broke out into a fit of giggles.

      Ebony didn’t know what her friend was tittering about. The man had been about as friendly as a bulldog. Draping her napkin over her legs, she reflected on their exchange. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. Mr. I’m-Too-Good-To-Go-Out-With-You was an arrogant jerk with an unlikable personality.

      Her eyes searched the banquet hall. In his tailored suit and designer shoes, Xavier Reed was easily identifiable in the crowd. He was standing near the stage and, to her shock, laughing it up with a plus-size woman with an outrageous weave. So, he can laugh with her but he can’t even give me a smile? As she scrutinized him from head to toe, her eyes narrowed in distaste.

      Xavier Reed wasn’t all that. He wasn’t even six feet and he had shifty eyes.

      What woman in her right mind would want to go out with a short, leery-eyed, sourpuss anyway? she thought, stabbing her fork into a coconut drop. Xavier had done her a favor by turning her down. Going out with him for dinner would undoubtedly have been the longest two hours of her life. Comforted by her thoughts, she told Opal, “He’s not all that. He might look good from a distance, but up close he’s just as cute as the next guy. The man is no Taye Diggs.” When Opal rolled her eyes, Ebony laughed. “He’s not the one to help you get your groove back, girl.”

      Brushing aside Ebony’s fallacious remarks, Opal said, “Who are you trying to fool? ‘He’s just as cute as the next guy.’ Please. That man is fine. He’d turn heads in the dark. You said so yourself.” After a brief pause, she asked, “Did you at least get his name?”

      “Xavier Reed,” Ebony uttered, as if saying his name made her mouth ache.

      “Ooh, he even has a sexy name!”

      Ebony said nothing. She sampled her piece of carrot cake, and then washed it down with some sparkling apple cider. “Can we please talk about something else?”

      “Oh, you’re just bitter because he turned you down. Just goes to show you, girlfriend. You can’t always get what you want.”

      “Says who?”

      Ebony checked her program. Eight performances left. She plopped her purse on her lap and fished around for her car keys. It didn’t matter if Kirk Franklin & the Family were up next, after this song she was going home. If Ebony had to sit through another hymn or contemporary gospel song, she was going to scream. Holler so loud people would think an evil spirit had possessed her.

      When a middle-aged Spanish woman with a beehivelike hairstyle took the microphone a few seconds later and started singing an off-key rendition of Donnie McClurkin’s “We Fall Down,” Ebony bit down hard on her bottom lip. Most of the performers had an abundance of talent, but they had no stage presence whatsoever. The delivery was always the same. Take the mike, say a few words of encouragement, sing, give the Lord a wave offering or two and wrap it up. The first performance was tolerable, but by the sixth it was akin to