Free The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel by Jill Conner Browne

tongue.
    â€œYou’ve haven’t said anything about the most important room in the house,” he added.
    â€œI just said it was perfect!” I said, gazing around the small, blue cube that was the master bedroom.
    â€œI mean the kitchen!” he said, playfully poking me in the ribs.
    It was more of a galley than a true kitchen, but as Sonny had pointed out many times, this was just our starter home. In the next few years, Sonny would be made partner at his firm, and we’d move to a bigger house. Sonny had our whole life plotted out on a legal pad: how many children we’d have (three), how we’d space them out (two years apart), and when he expected promotions. Before I met Sonny, my life had been like a pony on a carousel—measured ups and downs, all in the same little circle but amusing enough; now it was beginning to feel more like a mule, pulling a covered wagon doggedly across the prairie, with no trees in sight.
    After a few minutes of discussion, we decided to make an offer. Sonny wrote Neecie a two-hundred-dollar check for earnest money.
    We were going to celebrate by doing “you know what” at Sonny’s apartment. As Sonny shed his jockey shorts and folded them into a neat square, I was reminded of the first time I’d ever had sex with him. We’d been dating for about four months and after one particularly sweaty and scintillating make-out session, he grabbed my hand—which was slipping down the waistband of his khakis—and said, “Jill. Let’s stop for a minute. We need to talk.”
    He sounded so serious I spat a piece of hair out of my mouth, tucked an errant titty back into my bra, and trained my eyes on him.
    â€œI’d like to make love with you, but I want it to mean something. I want it to be a step toward strengthening our commitment.”
    I’d never heard a guy actually say “we need to talk” before. That and “commitment” coming out of a guy’s mouth within sixty seconds of each other sent my mind reeling.
    â€œDo you understand what I’m trying to say?”
    There was a smooth click in my mind, like a key turning the tumblers of a lock. This is a relationship. This is what braces, hair curlers, Mark Eden breast exercises, and reading Harlequin romances had been leading up to.
    Of course, once I knew what I was dealing with, I stepped right on up to that plate.
    â€œYes, Sonny,” I said. “I think I do.”
    â€œGood,” he said, tenderly touching my cheek. “I would like you to spend the night with me tomorrow, and we’ll consummate our devotion to each other.”
    I flinched at the word “consummate” (it sounded like a kind of soup to me) but figured I just wasn’t accustomed to a man using real words. This one had a whole six letters more than I was used to hearing from any guy.
    I showed up at the appointed hour, and Sonny greeted me at the door, smelling like he’d performed a full-immersion baptism in cologne.
    â€œJill,” he said, awkwardly pecking my cheek. “You look wonderful!”
    He led me into the apartment. Henry Mancini was playing on the stereo, and champagne cooled in an ice bucket on the coffee table. From the living room, I could see into the bedroom, and I saw that the covers were pulled back. The only thing missing was a glowing neon sign blinking TONIGHT’S FEATURE : SEX !
    â€œAre you hungry?” he asked, his forehead shiny with perspiration. “I originally thought we should eat first, and then it occurred to me that we might to be too bloated afterward and—”
    Don’t say bloated! I wanted to shriek. Bloated was not a sexy precoital word.
    â€œWe’ll eat later,” I said quickly.
    â€œWould you like a glass of champagne?” he said, shifting into debonair gear.
    â€œChampagne would be just lovely.”
    â€œChampagne it is,” he said.
    He returned with two glasses and handed