The Many Dates of Indigo

CHAPTER TWO

Indigo folded her arms and tilted her head. "Do you think I'm going to die a spinster?"

Tate's brown eyes went wide. "Huh?"

"I'll tell you over dinner." She strutted to the porch of her modern farmhouse-style abode.

The cool air chilled her cheeks as she stepped inside. Her home could've been mistaken for a Pottery Barn showroom if it hadn't been for the pops of purple accent pillows, Black art on the walls, and lavender lingering in the air. Once she kicked off her heels, she headed straight to the kitchen, in need of nourishment. Tate and Gambit followed close behind. Tate pulled out a ceramic dish of pasta primavera from the fridge and let the door shut behind him. "So . . . did someone call you a spinster?" He set the dish on the island and started fetching other items from the fridge. "I'm lost." He stared at her with a puzzled gaze.

Indigo's chic kitchen was the meeting ground for most of their conversations. Conversations that happened between 6:00 and 10:00 p.m., mostly because Tate loved to eat, and she loved to cook. It was a mutual agreement, and she didn't have to clean out her fridge since he'd feast on most of the leftovers.

"Everyone at that little baby shower was pregnant, married, engaged, or in a committed relationship—except for me." Her face twisted with disdain.

Tate switched the oven on. "Harrison was there. He's not married, engaged, or pregnant." He smiled at his attempt at a joke, but she didn't, so he let his smile fade.

"He's the one who brought it up. Then he enlisted Saxon, so they both let me know . . ." She poured herself a glass of tea from a pitcher, wishing it was something stronger, bourbon perhaps. No, too strong. She did have work tomorrow; sweet tea would have to do the job. "That I'm a loser who doesn't date."

"Wait!" Tate stopped scooping pasta into the pan. "They said that?"

"I know how to use context clues." Her mouth quirked to the side sourly. "This is not how I expected my life to be by twenty-nine."

"I think you have a pretty great life." He leaned on the island countertop pensively. "You're a talented, educated Black woman with the best shoe store in Texas."

Indigo narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't use my words on me."

"All I'm saying is, you shouldn't let a man or the absence of one dictate your success." He tossed a green bean into his mouth, gave it two bites, then swallowed it. "Or anyone else."

"I want to be a mother." She spun the glass in her hands.

He was quiet for a moment as he carefully placed pieces of oven-barbecued chicken into another pan like it was gold. "You could adopt. There are a lot of motherless, family-less children out there."

She gifted him a faint nod, acknowledging he was right about that. "But I want companionship."

"You have a sister, a brother, parents, a niece, a nephew . . . and Gambit." He slid both pans into the oven at the same time.

She propped her chin on top of her fist, looking at her baby lying on the kitchen floor, watching all the food with a string of drool hanging from his mouth.

"True . . ." She moved her gaze back to Tate as he set empty dishes in the sink, wrinkling her nose, and she thought of something that would stump him. "But I need sexual gratification." She smirked at the blood draining from his face. "A mind-numbing, leg-shaking orgasm would be nice." She lifted the glass to her lips with a snicker.

She wasn't the type to go out to the club, strike up a conversation, and bring a guy home, or to swipe left, go out for a coffee date, then burn off all that caffeine with a quickie in the back seat. Long-term commitments were her style, and since she hadn't been in a serious relationship in a while, she'd been in a drought. Her vibrator didn't count.

"You can either read the Bible . . . or . . ." He turned on the faucet and pulled a dishcloth off the counter. "Call me up and put me in the game, coach."

Mischief played on his handsome features, making it hard for her to read. Was he serious or playing around? She assumed the latter and rolled her eyes.

"You're dumb." She let out a sigh then added, "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

He shrugged. "What can I say . . . I'm a writer. We make shit up on our feet." His mood faltered a little as he folded the cloth.

"You still have writer's block," she intuited.

"Like the freaking Great Wall of China."

She glued the palms of her hands to the cold, pale-gray granite of the kitchen island. "It'll come to you. Don't rush it, Tatie Tate."

The nickname she'd been calling him since elementary school brought a smile to his lips. "Now look who has an answer for everything."

"What can I say . . ." She spun off the stool with the vigor of a child. "I'm Indigo Clark!"

"You don't wait for things to happen; you make things happen!" Tate boasted.

"Right!" She slapped her bare feet on the shiny hardwood floor that they'd buffed last week. "So, this is me getting back out there. I'm back on the market." She danced to the music filling the background.

"Uh-huh." Tate's face scrunched up with disgust. "Don't say market."

"I'm back in the game."

Tate nodded slowly. "Better, but don't do anything you don't want to do. If you want to say no, say no."

"Trust and believe." She slid her hands into the pockets of her romper. "If I'm not feeling the dude, he'll get the boot. You don't have to worry about that."

"I'll always worry about you." He leaned back against the farmhouse sink. The golden sunset seeped through the panoramic windows in the breakfast nook, painting them with warmth. "You're my best girl . . . friend."

"Come on, Tate. Let's be real . . ." She grinned with a tilt of her head. "I'm your only best friend."

"Oh! No!" He slapped his palms on the sides of his scruffy face, Home Alone–style. "The horror."

Indigo laughed. "You got jokes." She wagged her finger at him as she backed up out of the kitchen. "But if you eat up all that food while I'm in the shower, I'll give you a Friday the 13th massacre."

"A man eats the last oxtail once, and he never lives it down." He tossed the dry towel on the counter. "Can you believe that, Gambit?"

"Believe it," she called over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the kitchen.

For a second, her steps slowed as she remembered the look on his face when she'd brought up the notion of her dating again. She had her assumptions about why he felt that way, but he had to know that she wasn't going to be single forever. Right?