Page 88 of Ice Me Out

“As long as you know,” she said, sipping from her iced matcha. She narrowed her eyes and leaned towards the lens. “You at your sugar daddy’s place?”

“Stop calling him that,” I reprimanded gently, a little offended on Hart’s behalf.

Monica shrugged. “What? That’s what he is.”

“On paper… yes.”

“Off paper?” she said, wagging her brows teasingly.

Instead of answering, I flipped the camera and panned the bed. I smiled satisfyingly when Monica started choking and gagging.

“Well fuck me. You’re right. Calling that man a sugar daddy is disrespectful. Calling him anything less than ‘husband’ would be an atrocity.”

My cheeks flushed while I tried not to fall deeper for Hart in real time as I surveyed what used to be the bed that was now covered with clothes, shoes, and personal items, all for me. It looked like someone raided a high-end boutique and laid it out, folded with military precision.

The first thing I touched was a sweatshirt. It was thick, soft, heavy, and oversized just how I liked it. I counted eight in a variety of colors, including two Washington Warriors sweatshirts, before moving on to the crewnecks. I shook my head in disbelief, picked up the down coat, and held it to my frame. It was deceptively soft, and I needed two more just like it.

I lay the jacket down gently and reached for the leggings and lounge sets. Again, he purchased them in multiple colors, and I immediately abandoned them for the shoes.

“Are those Golden Gooses?”

“Affirmative. And Uggs,” I responded, dropping them on the bed for a pair of Nike tennis shoes. I shoved my feet in them and sighed at the perfect fit. I raised on my toes a few times and paced in a circle.

“Vera!”

“Huh?” I replied in a daze.

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“Not at all, but I’m listening now.”

“Does Hart have a brother or something?”

“He has two. Actually, I take that back. He has three.”

“Okay, so, introductions need to be made because this kind of behavior comes from a man who was raised right.”

I nodded. “Amen.”

I moved toward the bathroom, and my heart pounded for no reason other than I knew that man was about to blow my mind again.

I froze when I flipped the light on. My attention was first drawn to the velvet chair tucked neatly beneath the built-in vanity, then to the array of skincare products and makeup that coincidentally were the same brands I used. He bought it all—the cleanser, toner, moisturizer, dark spot corrector, Vitamin C serum, lip masks, under-eye patches, and a sunscreen you’d have to pry from my cold, dead hands. He even managed to match my foundation and concealer perfectly and copped a few vials of my favorite perfume.

I panned the camera, and Monica went silent.

“Put me closer. Put me closer,” she pleaded. “Do my eyes deceive me, but is that a Dyson Airwrap and a matching hair dryer?”

I lifted the lid of the new towel warmer that was nestled between the bathtub and shower. I didn’t have one myself, but I’d mentioned randomly that I wanted one.

“Oh, that man is not playing about you, Vera.”

“I know. I hate him,” I said, sighing as I entered the closet.

“Right? Like, sir, why are you manipulating me, but in a good way?”

“You get it,” I replied, flipping on the closet light. “I might have to change my stance about fighting bitches in the stadium parking lot.”

“I’m saying. It would be a tables, ladders, chairs match outside every game.”