And Layla knew, that had been the biggest mistake of her life, especially after dating over the last couple of years. She’d met Mr. Right Now, Mr. Booty Call and Mr. Will-You-Be-My-Mommy. It seemed that she couldn’t find what she had in Reed – a man who stimulated her body as much as he stimulated her mind. Often, she and Reed would lay in bed eating fresh fruit and talking about the current events of the day. Since she was a journalism student, the news was important to her. And then there were the Shakespeare debates. According to Reed, the Bard had mommy issues. Layla simply thought the man was simply creative. The fact that he’d been able to quote lines from their favorite tragedies made her hormones rage like the Atlantic Ocean. And Reed’s hard work to become a music producer had impressed her more than she’d ever let on. A lot of guys she’d attended college with had said they wanted to get into music industry but they thought releasing a mix tape had been the way to do it. Reed, on the other hand, had studied, interned with labels and built a reputation as a hard worker.
Just as she’d done in the world of journalism. Layla knew Reed had been her match. Now she would be interviewing the one man she’d never gotten over.
“You’re a professional, you can handle this,” she told herself. Two days later, Layla had received her package for the trip to Atlanta as well as a check for her lodging and food. She loved writing for Hip-Hop Glam. Arriving in the city from Washington D.C., Layla was impressed and finally understood why Atlanta was the mecca every Northerner wanted to migrate to. The place was pretty. She’d avoided Atlanta because of Reed and tried to imagine that it was some backwards overrated Southern city trying to pretend it was New York. She was wrong. As she pulled into the parking deck of the W Hotel where she was staying, Layla pulled out her cell phone to confirm her meeting with Reed. She chuckled as the phone rang, remembering when she’d be able to see Reed without going through PR people.
“This is Yolanda,” the woman said when answered.
“Ms. Gore, this is Layla Washington and I was just calling to confirm my six p.m. interview with Reed Clarke,” she said.
“Oh, yes. Everything is set. Meeting at the studio is OK, right?”
“That’s fine. If you could text me that address that would be great.”
“I do one better, since I know you’re not familiar with Atlanta, I’ll send you GPS directions. Also, the photo shoot needs to be rescheduled. Mr. Clarke is getting married and he has some wedding planning to do with his fiancée.”
“Oh,” Layla said, trying to keep her voice even and the bubbling emotions out. “OK, well, umm I will call my photographer and let him know.”
“I’ve already done that,” she said. “After all, that’s my job. He said that he’s going to be in Atlanta for two days and tomorrow will work for him.”
“Great, if more press agents were like you, my job would be so much easier,” Layla said honestly.
“Thanks,” Yolanda said. “Would you like to meet for lunch around two-thirty? I have a couple of other ideas to pitch to you.”
“Sure,” Layla said, not wanting to spend her time sitting in the hotel thinking about Reed’s upcoming wedding. Hell, who was she kidding? She was going to pump Yolanda for information while dining on Southern cuisine.