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  Zaria’s heart tugged and she gave him a wink. “I love you too” she mouthed back.

  Not now, little one. Mama’s trying to marry Daddy and I absolutely refuse to plan another wedding . . .

  By the time Zaria reached Kaleb at the altar there were tiny beads of sweat across her brow and the top of her nose. Kaleb eyed her oddly and then with concern. She slid her hand into his as they faced the minister, who peered at her over the rim of wire framed spectacles.

  A spasm hit her and she squeezed his hand tighter as her eyes widened. “Ow!” Kaleb frowned and his eyes widened as the bones of his fingers pressed together. His knees dipped. “What the—”

  The minister stopped, and closed his bible with his finger, as he eyed them.

  Zaria felt the murmurs of the people behind them. “I’m in labor,” she whispered as she closed her eyes.

  “Huh?” Kaleb, the minister, and the twins asked in unison, leaning in toward her.

  “The baby’s coming,” she admitted.

  Kaleb wrapped his arms around her waist. “Alright, baby. Let’s get to the hospital.”

  “Awesome,” the twins said in unison.

  The minister cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the wedding has to be postponed—”

  Zaria held up her hand. “Oh no, we are going to do this right now, Rev,” she insisted. “I’m not going anywhere until we’ve stuck a fork in this wedding hoopla.”

  Zaria heard the footsteps of their family and friends coming from the pews to surround them. The sudden heat of their bodies irked her a bit. The clamor of the voices protesting with her really kicked her agitation up a notch.

  “Baby, we have to get to the hospital,” Kaleb whispered in her ear as he attempted to guide her out of the church.

  Zaria gave herself a three count before she opened her eyes and looked at the Reverend. “Just finish,” she insisted, giving him a stern look.

  “My water hasn’t broken. It’s just labor pains. It’s not the end of the world people. The time it’s taking y’all to complain and try to change my mind, we could have been done and on the way to the hospital.”

  The minister shifted his eyes to Kaleb. He nodded, tightening his grip around her body.

  “Remember to breathe through your mouth, baby,” Kaleb whispered to her as the minister began the ceremony.

  Zaria nodded and pursed her lips through another contraction. She barely focused on the minister’s words of love and commitment as she concentrated on her breathing.

  “Rev, let’s just cut to the chase,” Kaleb said, his concern for Zaria evident.

  “Right,” he said with a nod.

  Zaria reached her free hand out toward her daughters and they both clutched it tightly.

  “Do you, Kaleb, with all the love, commitment, patience, forgiveness, and devotion needed for a lasting union, take Zaria to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  “I do. I do,” he promised, before pressing a kiss to her damp brow.

  Zaria clenched his hand again at another contraction. She smiled a little when she felt his hand stiffen to keep her from crushing his fingers. “You ready this time, huh?” she asked.

  “You know it,” Kaleb assured her.

  The crowd around them laughed lightly. “And do you, Zaria, with all the love, commitment, patience, forgiveness, and devotion needed for a lasting union, take Kaleb to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the minister asked, looking at her over his spectacles.

  Zaria nodded, lifting her head to look at Kaleb with a soft smile. “I do,” she told him with earnest. “I really do.”

  The crowd sighed.

  Kaleb’s eyes searched hers as he gave her a bit of smile in return.

  “Now by the power vested in me by the state of South Carolina and under the spiritual governance of God, I hereby declare these two beings into one legal and spiritual union only to be separated upon death. You may kiss your bride . . . and get her to the hospital.”

  Kaleb and Zaria kissed as the crowd applauded and laughed.

  Another contraction hit her and Zaria let her legs go out from underneath her.

  Kaleb swung her into his arms as the crowd opened to allow him to stride up the aisle. Their limo driver looked surprised by their sudden appearance and rushed to open the door.

  “Get us to Colleton Memorial,” Kaleb demanded as he eased Zaria onto the seat and then climbed in behind her.

  “Yes sir,” he said, racing across the car to climb into the driver’s seat.

  Zaria was glad when Kaleb leaned her back against him. “We’re having a baby,” she said softly.

  Kaleb laughed.

  There was a knock at the window just as the limo pulled off. Kaleb looked at the twins running beside the limo. “Stop,” he ordered the driver.

  They opened the door and carefully climbed in. Zaria was glad for their presence. “And baby makes five,” she said, looking over at them.

  “Awesome,” they said in unison.

  The foursome laughed as the limo sped away from the church.

  It wasn’t until Kaleb left the delivery room, still dressed in his scrubs, that he realized that their entire wedding had come to the hospital. He was expecting to see just the twins but his handsome face filled with surprise as nearly thirty people rose to their feet in the small waiting room.

  “Zaria’s fine. It’s a boy. Our son. Kasi Dean Strong,” he said, feeling like he was on a natural high.

  Everyone rushed forward to embrace and congratulate him.

  His step-daughters. His parents. His brothers. His sister. His sisters-in-law. Niece. Nephews. Cousins. Friends. He felt surrounded by love and didn’t bother to stop the huge smile that spread across his face in that moment because he realized that everything he hoped and dreamed for had come to fruition.

  Dear Readers,

  Thanks again for the love and support and desire you have shown for the Strong family series. I hope you have come to care for these characters as I have. Zaria and Kaleb had to fight and face so many obstacles outside of them and inside of them before they gave in to a love that they both needed like rain for a drought and food for the hungry. Love makes all things possible, and these two soon found that chemistry brought them together but love will keep them together. And that’s what romance is all about, right?

  Next up, the baby sister of the clan. She’s lovable and fun and spoiled beyond belief by her father and all of her brothers. It’s going to take a special man to tame this wild woman, and I have someone just right in mind—Quinton “Quint” Wells. I haven’t selected a fiery title yet, but please stay tuned for more details on this final tale of love and romance for the Strong family clan.

  Here’s wishing you lots of real love and real romance to last a really long time.

  Best,

  Niobia

  About the Author

  Niobia Bryant is the acclaimed and bestselling author of more than twenty works of fiction in multiple genres. She writes both romance fiction and commercial mainstream fiction as Niobia Bryant. As Meesha Mink, she’s the coauthor of the popular and bestselling Hoodwives series (Desperate Hoodwives, Shameless Hoodwives, and The Hood Life) and kicked off her own solo Real Wifeys trilogy with Real Wifeys: On the Grind. The Newark, New Jersey, native currently lives in South Carolina where she writes full-time. She is busy at work on her next piece of bestselling fiction.

  Connect with Niobia:

  Web site: www.NIOBIABRYANT.com

  E-mail: [email protected]

  Twitter: /InfiniteInk

  Facebook: Niobia Bryant-Meesha Mink

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  Facebook: /InfiniteInk

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  Myspace: /niobiawrites

  Shelfari: /Unlimited_Ink

  GoodReads: InfiniteInk

  Yahoo Group: /Niobia_Bryant_News

  Don’t miss

  One Hot Summer

  Niobia Bryant’s steamy novella from Heat Wave

  On s
ale now from Dafina Books!

  PROLOGUE

  It’s amazing how pain—that deep, searing, emotionally based heartache—can eventually lead to feeling completely numb. The line between the two is way thinner and flimsier than the one floating between love and hate. The jacked-up part was, Nylah Lovely knew about each line very well, and in that moment, she drifted across both.

  Bzzz . . . bzzz . . . bzzz . . .

  Her body was stiff with shock, afraid to move, afraid to do anything to intensify the pain that felt as if she had been shot by a bullet and not shocked by the truth. And so nothing but her pain-filled eyes shifted from the computer to take in the vibrating cell phone on the edge of her desk.

  “Do you want me to get it?”

  Her eyes shifted to the concerned face of her best friend, Tashi Oyoni. “No. It’s either Byron with more lies or the press with more questions and speculations,” she said softly, barely above a whisper before she sighed as she forced her body to lean back against the leather sofa of her best friend’s home. “I don’t have it in me for either.”

  Falling in love and getting married was risky no matter what the circumstances. Everyone took a chance on placing their heart into someone else’s hands and could only hope not to have it crushed within their grasp. Love under the spotlight was even more tenuous. It felt like groupies, bloggers, and the entertainment news media were drooling, waiting to hear about one of the mighty falling. Like her husband, multiplatinum R & B star Byron Bilton.

  Their entire relationship had been chronicled, from the first spotting of them trying to have a low-key dinner at a tucked-away restaurant to their two-year relationship and subsequent fairytale marriage at a castle—and everything in between. They knew her name, they took her picture, but truly they forgot about the person out of the limelight—the noncelebrity—just trying to be happy in her relationship, just trying to make it work, just trying to enjoy being in love. That person became a casualty of something they simply considered news.

  They cared nothing about her shame, her pain, her heartbreak. Her embarrassment. And yes, yes, she was woman enough to admit that having his infidelity exposed to the world before she even knew and could process it made the pain all the more worse. All the more haunting. All the more difficult to forgive . . . or forget.

  What woman—what person at all—would want to discover that their husband had cheated via some blog post showing the crappy cell phone video of him, his privates, and some faceless woman?

  Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .

  Tashi looked down at the BlackBerry. “It’s Byron again. Do you want me to answer it?”

  Love said nothing. She had nothing to say.

  She had nothing to say to him. She had so much to say to him.

  Another line to swing back and forth over.

  “Byron, hold on, Love’s right here.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked up at Tashi setting the cell phone on the table in front of her.

  “Love,” he said, his deep voice echoing.

  “You put him on speaker?” Love mouthed, her face incredulous.

  Tashi immediately looked apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed back, before biting her bottom lip.

  “Love, I know you don’t believe that bullshit.”

  Love’s eyes shifted again to take in the photo. “I know that I am looking at a picture of your privates snuggled deeply in a woman’s mouth . . . in our condo . . . on our couch . . . during the weekend I went home to Holtsville,” she said, her voice hollow.

  “Love—”

  “I know that we were supposed to celebrate our anniversary in another week. Celebrate our love. Our devotion.” She laughed bitterly. “But you never were ready for this. You are not the one for me. You are not going to be my husband. Or my lover. Or in my life anymore. That I know.”

  “Love—”

  “And I know that you need to give me fifty feet, because I didn’t need to find out in a fucking blog that the man I love ain’t shit,” she finished in a harsh whisper, tears filling her eyes before she closed them as a sharp and piercing pain radiated across her chest.

  One solitary tear filled with the weight of her pain raced down her cheek.

  “I love you—”

  Love laughed bitterly before she picked up her BlackBerry and threw it away from her. It hit the mirror over the brick fireplace, shattering the glass.

  “Oh, Love.” Tashi sighed, coming around the table to wrap her arms around her shoulders and hug her up in some sistah-friend love that she needed.

  The act of friendship and support shook her to her core and the dam broke from the act of compassion. The tears raced down her cheeks like an endless relay race to soak Tashi’s cinnamon brown shoulder.

  “Girl, what are you going to do?” her friend asked as she patted her back like a mother belching a newborn.

  The question made Love weary deep in her soul. Everything about her life and the path she was on—with love and marriage and family—was just shattered into a billion pieces and blown away by imaginary winds never to be reclaimed. Her life with Byron was over. It was way more than she wanted to tackle at the moment.

  CHAPTER 1

  “SUMMER LADY”—SANTANA

  Three Years Later

  May

  “If my lover could be the summer sun, I would lay naked beneath him, exposed and waiting for him to reach out to kiss and caress my skin as his heat would fill my body and his light would elevate my moods,” Love said in a husky voice with just a tinge of her South Carolina accent slipping through as she stretched her long and slender limbs up as if she could touch the clear blue skies from where she stood on the rooftop of her brownstone. “If only my lover could be the summer sun, I would have no regrets and our love would last a lifetime. I would even share his brilliance with millions as long as he stayed available for me upon request.”

  She fought the urge to slip her silk robe from her body and truly let the sun bronze her already cinnamon brown complexion. Even though she owned the two-story brownstone and, thus, exclusive rights to its spacious rooftop, she had no desire to give her neighbors a peep show. Instead she wrapped her arms around her body and looked out at the city landscape as the sun rose in the sky. Harlem.

  Once the mecca for African-American art and culture, the city was now known for more than just its historic Renaissance.

  Love flew to its warmth and character in the months following the end of her marriage to Byron. It was the place that embraced a wounded sistah needing to flee the flashing lights of the paparazzi as she tried to recover from the hurt and embarrassment from where she lived on the Upper East Side. Harlem’s warmth nurtured her. The sense of community embraced her. The success of its revitalization revived her. The beauty of the brownstones intrigued her. The history healed her.

  Duke. Langston. Billie. Ella.

  And now Love.

  There was nothing better than sitting on the rooftop just as the sun began to rise and writing about her day in her leather-bound journal. Knowing she was in the city that nurtured art and culture, and maybe even sitting on the same roof as a famous Renaissance writer, made her feel more connected to her words and their composition.

  She smiled softly as she picked up her sweating glass of peach tea from the ledge of the roof. Only the hint of summer was in the air, but she could feel it coming. And she couldn’t wait. Love had a jones for the summer season. There was a whole new life and vibrancy to Harlem during the summer months. Everything got kicked up a notch.

  The entertaining on rooftops.

  The summer festivals in the park.

  The sounds of music of many genres mingling in the air.

  Gospel brunches.

  Lovers strolling down the tree-lined streets at a pace that could be considered lazy by those who just didn’t understand how to relax and enjoy the moment.

  It was only May, but summer was almost home in Harlem.

  She smoothed the edges of her shoulder-length h
air pulled up into a loose chignon and took a deep sip of her home-brewed peach tea before she tilted her head back and allowed the rays to kiss her neck and the soft brown skin exposed in the vee of her robe. She hated to leave it, but other duties called for the day.

  With one last soft release of air, Love turned and padded barefoot across the brick-paved rooftop to the large black metal door. “If my lover could be the summer sun,” Love said, with one last look at the sun over her shoulder before she walked through the door, down the short flight of stairs, and across the hardwood floor of the hall to her brownstone’s third floor.

  She loved her brownstone. It was a mix of the building’s original 1900s architecture, with moldings, a fireplace, and hardwood floors, and plenty of contemporary upgrades and modern design.

  The entire building could fit inside the living room of the apartment she had shared with Byron on the Upper East Side, but this felt more like home than any of the three residences she walked away from. Everything about the warm décor with small hints of fuchsia was her. She never regretted her decision two years ago to move to the Hamilton Heights section of Harlem.

  It was a different pace—one that she desperately needed.

  Trying to heal her broken heart under the lights of paparazzi and bloggers had nearly broken her. She felt like she didn’t want to leave the house. She got tired of the hoopla. She got frustrated with the fame.

  True, her event-planning and design company, Lovely Events, had a celebrity client list filled with athletes, musicians, and actors, but she had found the balance between promoting them and their events while staying in their shadow.

  Unlike celebrities’ wives before her who had been done wrong, she had no comment to release, no publicist to tell her side, no wish to grace the pages of Essence, Vibe, or Vanity Fair to sing her sad song. She had a life to rebuild and a thriving business as an event planner on which to place her focus.