Three Wrong Dates: New Year Bae-Solutions Read online

  Three Wrong Dates

  New Year Bae-Solutions

  Kelsey Green

  Copyright © 2020 by Kelsey Green

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction.

  Editor: There For You

  Cover Design: Sherelle Green

  Three Wrong Dates

  Ivory Vaughn was raised to uphold her family’s prestigious expectations. Marry a man from a well-known family. Create a life others envy. Live wealthily ever after.

  Her New Year’s Eve date is set to be the start of her perfect life. But when the sexy, unpolished Jackson “Chef” Keating crashes, all plans get thrown to the wind. He might stand for everything she believes is wrong, but Mr. Right is sometimes the man you least expect.

  NEW YEAR BAE-SOLUTIONS:

  New Year. New You. New Bae?

  Meet eight grown and sexy Book Baes to help you celebrate the New Year!

  Eight Naughty Nights by Nicole Falls

  Seven Month Drought by Sherelle Green

  Six More Minutes by A.C. Arthur

  Five Midnight Moments by Sheryl Lister

  Four Page Letter by Angela Seals

  Three Wrong Dates by Kelsey Green

  Two Hot Kisses by Yahrah St. John

  One More Drink by Elle Wright

  To Krystal, thank you for inspiring one of my favorite surprises in this book.

  To my sister, Sherelle, thank you for always encouraging me and being my forever support system.

  To all my readers and supporters, I wouldn't be here without each of you and I appreciate you more than words can say.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Would Love to Hear From You

  Other Works

  The Renegade Bid

  Excerpt: The Renegade Bid

  Mutually Exclusive

  Excerpt: Mutually Exclusive

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  IVORY

  “Stop fidgeting,” I whispered as I continued unzipping his pants.

  “Easy for you to say,” he responded.

  The tug of my skirt in his fist-clenched grip reminded me of the first time we met. Dirty. Ripped clothes. Messy hair. The scent of jasmine overtaking the moment. It was about seven months ago, and you could count on one hand the number of words we’d exchanged.

  The sound of the zipper freeing sent that euphoric feeling surging through my body. It didn’t matter that his pants were now wrapped around his ankles. His hands gently resting along my hips. Hell, the only thing that mattered was the fact that my skirt was finally freed from his retched zipper with no pulls or damage.

  Being hidden in a coat closet with none other than a man referred to as Chef was embarrassing enough. Let alone the humiliation I would have faced having to return to my prominent date with a ripped skirt.

  “I’d say it was fun,” I began, still examining my clothes.

  “But you don’t have fun, so why lie?” Chef added with a smirk.

  “Let’s never do this again,” I snapped.

  “You hauled me in here, darlin’. Out of the blue I might add,” Chef countered, gathering his pants to cover up his Christmas boxers. A detail I hadn’t even noticed in the frenzy to ensure my silk-twill, pleated Gucci skirt didn’t snag on his plain Levi jeans.

  Pulling the closet door open, I scanned the restaurant to ensure no one else was around. “Be that as it may, you are still the reason we are in here. So, was it Sasha or Cadence who sent you here to mess with me on my date?”

  He halted, lifting his deep brown eyes to meet mine as I continued. “Wait, this has Ace or Trent written all over it. They seriously joke around too much. But I suppose when you spend all day with kids then you start acting like one.”

  My best friend, Cadence Alexander, and new bestie, Sasha Allen, had both met and fallen in love with men who loved two things. Kids and pranks. They were the epitome of men who acted like boys in my opinion, leaving my girls to be the responsible ones.

  Satisfied with my own assessment, I opened the door a little more.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his jeans still unzipped as a puzzled expression overtook his face. “You seem a little …”

  “Stressed,” I answered, finishing his sentence. “I’m on an important date, and this country bumpkin I met in the woods one time at my friend’s fiancé’s camp shows up, waving at me and planning to cause a scene and ruin my date.”

  He exhaled with his mouth dragging open for a few moments before he uttered a word. “Firstly, I was going to say crazy not stressed. You seem crazy. Even more now than a few seconds ago. Secondly, the only part of that rant you got right was us meeting at Ace’s camp upstate and me waving at you here today when I recognized you. Something most people call being polite.”

  “Sure, Rudolph,” I retorted, referencing his boxers. “Whatever you say. Now just hurry up, zip your pants, and leave before my date sees you.”

  He was about to respond when a voice came screeching through the cracked door, “Ivory?”

  “Charles, I was just heading back,” I replied, squeezing through the doorway without opening it more in hopes Chef stayed hidden.

  “Okay, but what are you doing in the coat closet?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Nothing. Just grabbing my lipstick out of my pocket.”

  I proceeded to grab his arm to lead him back to our table, but he grasped my hand instead. “So then, where is your lipstick?” he asked.

  “I already put it on and placed it back in my pocket.”

  I was surprised when the lie left my lips with so much ease. Even more stunned at how convincing it sounded. I was usually a horrible liar. A skill my mother said I needed to improve upon if I were ever to make a good wife.

  I was almost home free when a commotion coming from the closet drew Charles back in time to see Chef standing up from the floor and zipping his pants. It looked bad. Real bad. The expression on Charles’ face said everything I needed to know. Our date was officially over.

  I tried to explain to Charles how my skirt had gotten stuck in his zipper as I passed this stranger in the coat room, but as the truth mixed with slight lies came pouring out of my mouth, the less and less even I believed it. The encounter had from all counts been innocent, but image was everything. And the optics on how it all appeared was undoubtedly scandalous.

  I wasn’t really that sad nor surprised when Charles stormed out. Our date had been arranged by our parents like a business meeting. As things were usually done in our elite circles. Though I dreaded hearing the backlash from this, along with the fact that my New Year’s Eve invitation to the most prominent, exclusive gala in New York City had just been rescinded.

  “This was all your fault,” I barked at Chef before grabbing my jacket and exiting the restaurant.

  “Still wasn’t, Ivory. But I think you had it right before, so let’s never do this again.”

  Ugh. The nerve of him to show up, ruin my date, and kill my New Year’s Eve plans in one foul swoop. I still wasn’t sure which of my friends put him up to this charade or why, but they’d pay. Tomorrow night’s New Year’s Eve ball was set to be the event of the year, and I couldn’t believe that I, Ivory Vaughn, was just blacklisted.

  I
used to love the holidays. The fancy dresses. The midnight toasts. I was the princess of every ball. I never needed a prince or that happily ever after shit.

  My girls may have thought they were the realists, but it was always me. I wasn’t the Cinderella of the masquerade waiting to be unmasked. I wasn’t the shy, hooded girl in the corner waiting to be noticed. No, I was the one in the red dress and stilettos throwing my mask to the floor the moment we stepped inside.

  Masks and dancing always equaled sweating and possible acne problems, which other women may have time for but certainly not me. Besides, why would I hide one of my best assets behind that cloak and dagger nonsense? Men liked the way I looked. The way I walked. Spoke. Demanded attention.

  Men were easy when it came down to it. Their wants were simple. Sex. Money. Prestige. Power. Perhaps not in that order, but ultimately that summed them up. Despite my always manicured nails, lavishly trendy hairstyles, and dolled-up wardrobe, my mindset was that of a man. Pretty words and lovesick glances don’t keep you warm at night. Only Merino wool fabric woven with small gold carats and a silk jacquard could do that.

  Plenty of women may not have experienced that type of luxury bedding due to their high yet reasonable price tag. My sleep was worth the thousands they cost, though, and if others shared my priorities then they might agree. I’d been called stuck-up. A gold digger. Hell, there wasn’t a bitchy term I hadn’t heard thrown my way.

  Why people persecuted you for caring about comfort and security over true love was beyond me. A point I would voice openly, whether asked or not. I was honest. Blunt at times.

  Honesty is a quality people claim to want above all else. Yet in my thirty-two years of living, I’d come to find that telling the truth was rarely appreciated. Bosses like to be told you’ll get the job done no matter what. Clients like to be told they’re right. Men like to be told their size and stamina are the best. Everyone likes to be told the truth if it fits what they already want to hear.

  My socialite mother would say the truth is relative. All statements can be made truthful. I had no idea what she meant given I was only five years old the first time she gave one of her teachable rants. My bestie, Cadence, and I just shrugged her comments off so we could continue our game of dress up. However, as I grew older her words of wisdom grew clearer. I may not have agreed with her concept but there was no denying their merit.

  So now that I’d been excluded from an elite party that would hit my influencer status like a tornado before Valentine’s Day, I needed to regroup and figure out a way to change the narrative of my absence. Everything in life comes down to perception and I needed to protect mine.

  Glancing over my shoulder was a mistake … I knew it even before I caught Chef’s eye. The crafty look on his face halted me in my tracks. As his mouth twisted into an equally guileful smile, I found my curiosity creeping up. What the heck is he so smug about?

  The thought was short lived as he raised his right arm, shooting me a quick wave before placing both hands back in his pockets. Walking away in the opposite direction. The act was infuriating, sending a heat of rage soaring through my body as I lost our standoff, in a sense, giving him the final word. After pulling my phone out of my pocket, I dialed Cadence’s number. Since currently, even more important to me than saving my influencer reputation, was the need to figure out exactly which of my no-good friends deserved my wrath for sending Chef to ruin my date and by extension my New Year’s.

  Chapter 2

  CHEF

  “Sounds like she really got to you,” Trent said, loading the last of the bags into my pickup truck.

  “Yeah, she ruined my last perfectly good day in the City,” I responded.

  It was a great week in New York City. From spending Christmas here with a few friends to today being New Year’s Eve, I’d enjoyed it all. The only snag throughout the whole trip had been Ivory. Bold. Disrespectful. Beautiful … before she opened her mouth, Ivory Vaughn.

  “I’ve never seen a woman affect you like this,” Trent responded as I finished updating him on yesterday’s restaurant disaster.

  “Trust, it’s not a good thing.”

  “Maybe not yesterday, but I’m sure you’re over it now, right? It’s not in your nature to let petty feelings linger.”

  “You’re doing that city talk again, bro.” I laughed. “Petty feelings linger? It all sounds too prissy for me.”

  Trent let out a deep sigh, almost tripping over his feet as he moved. “Really, dude? I get a break from my girl who loves to give me a hard time for no good reason and you feel the need to pick up from where she left off in her absence?” Trent shook his head. “Shit ain’t right.”

  This morning, Trent and I were both heading back upstate to the camp we worked at to spend the New Year’s Eve countdown with our friends. Trent’s girlfriend, Sasha, lived up there as well as a few of our other friends, and despite his statement I knew his ass was more than eager to get back to her. They were pretty inseparable. Working together. Sleeping together. Hell, I’d bet they even bathed together on the regular.

  “Anyway, back to my other question,” Trent said. “You’re over what went down between you and Ivory, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m straight, man. Why you keep asking?” I barked.

  “No reason,” he responded, reopening the door on the bed of my pickup.

  “What are doing? I thought we packed up everything.”

  “We loaded all of our stuff, but not quite everything.” He shrugged, pointing over my shoulder.

  “Fuck no.”

  I didn’t even need to look to know Trent had been up to some bullshit. Sure enough, my suspicion was confirmed when I turned around to find Ivory rolling an extremely large suitcase in our direction.

  “You have to be joking.” Scowling, I turned my attention back to Trent.

  “Not such a prissy question now, huh?” He guffawed. “So, my man, are you sure you’re not feeling petty?”

  If it had been any other time, I’m sure I would have been over the whole ordeal the moment it ended. After all, Ivory was no more than a stranger, and I didn’t let people I wasn’t even associated with affect my mood. But damn she’d gotten under my skin yesterday with all of her presumptions and demands. I worked as a chef at a kid’s camp for God’s sake because I hated being told what to do and stressful situations.

  I had a good head on my shoulders and continually strived to do what was right. Therefore, other people pushing me to do things always rubbed me the wrong way. I lived my life the way I wanted. Spending every day following nobody’s guidelines but my own. The peace you can find in that decision is a harmony people spend their whole lives searching for. And no prima donna would change that.

  “Hey, guys,” Ivory said once she reached us. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I wanted to tell her to keep steppin’ and find a new ride with someone who wasn’t such a country bumpkin as she so eloquently put it yesterday. Instead, I allowed my cooler temperament to take hold, mumbling, “It’s our pleasure,” through gritted teeth.

  Leaving her bag on the sidewalk, she opened the passenger door of my truck. “You might want to tell your face that then,” she replied, climbing in.

  “I was just trying to be polite, again.”

  “Well then you failed,” she smiled, “again.”

  The nerve of this broad. She might have shown up wearing this sexy, forest green jumpsuit that had zero business being on a road trip, but a spicy getup complementing her striking copper skin and long, jet black hair doesn’t excuse her poor manners.

  “So, this will be a fun road trip.” Trent laughed, grabbing Ivory’s suitcase and placing it into the open truck bed.

  I was surprised Trent grabbed her luggage given I was usually the gentlemen between the two of us. However, I was still too shocked by her rudeness to move.

  “You got one coming,” I warned.

  Trent knew exactly what he’d done. It was about to be a long five hours for all of us.
/>   “Come on, Rudolph,” Ivory squawked out the passenger window. “This sorry excuse for a truck isn’t going to drive itself.”

  “God, give me strength.”

  “We’re not changing the music, end of story,” I snapped for the third time in a row. The snowstorm we’d hit heading to upstate New York had extended our trip, during which Ivory had been complaining for the past six hours. First the truck was too cold. Then it was too hot. It smelled. The ride was bumpy. My voice gave her headache. Trent’s snoring made her headache worse. And my music …

  “Is like nails on a chalkboard,” she stated.

  “If by that you mean relaxed and full of character then I’d agree.”

  She turned the station to yet another Beyoncé song, causing me to turn back to my mixture of blues and country. In truth, I enjoyed all types of music from hip hop to alternative. However, knowing a woman like Ivory probably hated country music made it the perfect choice. She was clearly used to getting her way, and that wasn’t going to fly with a man like me. I might be a country gentleman but that’s never to be confused with a pushover.

  “Please, I’m begging you to change it,” she whined. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Now see that’s a tempting offer,” I responded.

  With no hesitation she replied, “Name your terms.”

  Her response was quick. The directness catching me off guard. “I will,” I finally said, turning the radio back to her pop station.

  “Naming your terms is usually an immediate thing you do before giving in.”