Wedding Chocolate - Adrianne Byrd Mills & Boon Kimani Arabesque

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      “I must be going crazy,” he chuckled. Turning away, he saw Isabella, rounding a corner on the lower floor. “It can’t be.” Derrick raced down the stairs.

      “Hey, watch where you’re going,” a few gym members shouted in his wake.

      “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder, but refused to slow down. Derrick caught a glimpse of an outfit: short shorts, halter top...and high heels?

      “Hey, wait!” he shouted, but the woman rounded another corner.

      Derrick picked up the pace until he was at a full run and then raced through the first door he came upon. Before his brain registered his mistake, sonic waves of hysterical screaming pierced his eardrum.

      Shutting his eyes, he performed a 180 and raced back out of the women’s locker room, apologizing the whole way. Once he was safely back out into the hallway and before a long wall of windows, he saw his mysterious woman from Washington, or her look-alike, climb into a SUV. Before he could reach the door, the vehicle peeled out of the parking lot and disappeared into traffic.

      Isabella’s makeover went from bad to worse.

      Lingerie shopping turned out to be one of the most humiliating experiences of her life. But after hours with Waqueisha and the best-looking drag queen she’d ever seen, Monique, Isabella’s B cups were pushed up to C and her flat behind had been upgraded to bootylicious.

      “What happens when I have to get naked?” she innocently asked. “Don’t you think this is false advertising?”

      Monique rolled her eyes and cradled her hips. “Honey, after you do your little striptease number, your man is only going to be interested in getting to one thing.”

      “Amen to that,” Waqueisha co-signed and gave the boutique owner a high five.

      Isabella couldn’t stop glancing at her image and feeling like a fraud.

      Handing over her credit card, Isabella charged a ridiculous amount of money for very little material. Next stop was Prestigious Hair Salon.

      “I don’t know,” Isabella said after hearing what the stylist, Aubrey, had planned for her long locks.

      Aubrey cradled Isabella’s shoulders and leaned close so their gaze would meet in the mirror in front of them. “Sweetheart, trust me. You’ll be looking fierce when I get through with you.”

      Isabella looked over at Waqueisha, who was talking and texting half of Georgia in preparation for the Kidd Rhymes CD release party that night. “I don’t know,” Isabella hedged.

      “Hold on just a minute,” Waqueisha told her caller and then lowered the phone to speak with Isabella. “Izzy, trust my girl Aubrey. She’s the best.”

      That was not the support Isabella was looking for.

      “What do you say, girlfriend?” Aubrey asked.

      “Okay,” Isabella said through gritted teeth. “I’ll do it.”

      An hour later, Isabella was in tears.

      “It’s orange!”

      “Now calm down,” Aubrey said, trying to shush her and calm her growing hysterics.

      “I can’t calm down,” Isabella screeched. She jumped out of the stylist’s chair to edge closer to the vanity mirror. Maybe it was just the lighting.

      No. Her hair was orange.

      Isabella pivoted toward Waqueisha who stood frozen with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. “I can’t go anywhere with my hair looking like this!”

      “Uhm. Er.” Waqueisha blinked. “It’s actually...kind of...cute.” She glanced at Aubrey. “Sort of a golden auburn.”

      “What?” Isabella swiveled back to the mirror, but through her tears her hair looked like a pumpkin.

      “Honey, don’t panic.” Aubrey jumped into action and led her back to the chair. “If you don’t like it, we can tone the color down a little.”

      “A little?” Why had she trusted this stranger with her hair? She would have been better off if the woman had shaved her bald. She couldn’t stop the tears even if she tried. Once they started, it looked like there was no end in sight.

      “Trust me. I’ll take care of it,” Aubrey promised, glancing over at Waqueisha.

      Waqueisha, however, stood staring at Isabella’s orange hair with bulged eyes and a slack jaw. What could she say?

      An hour later, Aubrey had not fulfilled her promise. And when she at last consulted the product she was using she discovered the hair color was permanent and not temporary as she had originally thought.

      “Oh, Isabella. I’m so sorry,” Aubrey apologized profusely.

      “Sorry isn’t going to fix my hair,” Isabella sobbed.

      “We can always buy you a wig,” Waqueisha suggested.

      “Or I can give you a nice little cut and you can rock a slanted bob,” Aubrey tossed in.

      Was she serious? After screwing up her hair color, did this woman really think Isabella was going to trust her with a pair of scissors?

      “No, thank you. I think you’ve done enough.” Isabella snatched the cape from around her neck.

      But Waqueisha placed a restraining hand against Isabella’s shoulder. “We have to do something with it.”

      “I am. I’m going to find a pharmacy and buy some black hair color and change my hair back.”

      “You can’t do that,” Aubrey and Waqueisha exclaimed.

      Isabella blinked at the force of their protest. “Why not?”

      “Because your hair will fall out,” Waqueisha advised gently and then pried the cape out of Isabella’s tight fingers. “You know the color is not that bad.”

      If she was lying, Isabella couldn’t detect it.

      Waqueisha finished snapping the plastic cape around Isabella’s neck and then took her hand into hers. “It’s just a radical difference because we’ve never seen you with much color. But trust me. After a nice cut and a visit to the M.A.C. counter, you’re going to look like a new woman.”

      “I already look like a new woman: Rainbow Brite’s black sister.”

      Aubrey laughed but quickly clammed up after twin smothering glares from the sorority sisters.

      Waqueisha gave Isabella’s hand an affirming squeeze. “Trust me.”

      Isabella reluctantly settled back in the stylist’s chair and tried to prepare for the worst, if there was such a thing.

      “I’m not going,” Isabella declared after staring at the stranger in the mirror for the past hour. She had signed up for a makeover—not to look as though she’d enlisted in the federal witness protection program where she could only be identified by fingerprints.

      “Of course you’re going,” Keri said, sliding a gold hoop earring through her ear. “You look fabulous.”

      Waqueisha bobbed her head in agreement as she slipped into a red backless number and then jumped into a pair high-heel pumps.

      Instead of Waqueisha’s place, they had all agreed to dress at the downtown Ritz Carlton because it was closer to The Zone—where the CD release party was being held.

      “You didn’t do all this hard work for nothing. Just think of tonight as a practice run for when

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