Momo, My Everything

By Posy Roberts

Brave the spotlight for the man he loves or stay alone in the shadows . . .

William Harris is a reserved man, private and guarded. He has no one to go home to. He's never found a man worth sticking around for. He's never been in love.

Nate Kelly is William's opposite, social and easy going. He comes into William's life as the elegant geisha Momo. When William realizes Momo is a man, he's captivated.

From their first date, Nate changes William's world. He soon discovers being with this carefree man means always attracting attention, which makes him want to retreat.

If they stand a chance, William has to be comfortable standing next to someone so at home in the limelight. Their future together and William's happiness depend on it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boho Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781544109015

Posy Roberts

Posy Roberts started reading romance when she was young, sneaking peeks at adult books long before she should’ve. Textbooks eventually replaced the novels, and for years she existed without reading for fun. When she finally picked up a romance two decades later, it was like slipping on a soft hoodie . . . that didn’t quite fit like it used to. She wanted something more. She wanted to read about men falling in love with each other. She wanted to explore beyond the happily ever after and see characters navigate the unpredictability of life. So Posy sat down at her keyboard to write the books she wanted to read. Her stories have been USA Today’s Happily Ever After Must-Reads and Rainbow Award finalists. When she’s not writing, she’s spending time with her family and friends and doing anything possible to get out of grocery shopping and cooking.

Book preview

1

Momo

A re you kidding? Gary Nermer said. Last year at this get-together, Smith bought lap dances for everyone. That was a great night! Hell, it was fun.

The room burst into laughter, no one willing to call the boss out on the salacious story in a work setting, myself included.

I was the last person who wanted to rock the boat. The man hated me.

Oh, and Stacy, she played along beautifully when this buxom redhead sat in her lap. Nermer made a lewd gesture, hands cupped around imaginary breasts he pretended to push together and jiggle. Right?

Stacy Lewis set down her sake and pushed her chestnut curls over a shoulder. That I did, Nermer, she chewed as if his name tasted like shit in her mouth. The woman deserved to make a decent living, and she was highly skilled at her job, from what I witnessed.

Nermer drew in a quick breath and gave her a devious smile. Are you telling us something? He was tightrope-walking a line of questioning that could easily get him into legal trouble.

Stacy leaned forward. I hope the cash I gave her helped put food on the table so her kids didn’t go hungry.

Nermer’s jaw dropped. He was speechless, which was unusual yet wonderful.

Leave it to Stacy to shine a spotlight on the reality many lived. Her painted lips parted to reveal her perfect smile, and her eyes sparkled in a way Nermer completely missed.

Gotcha, you entitled prick.

All employees from Fred Ros had spent the week packed like sardines in meetings, and now the administrative staff was celebrating the successful week at a Japanese restaurant and teahouse. It had been a few years since the company had the annual meeting at home.

I was thankful for not having to travel far, even if I was forced to put up with the juvenile antics of my boss for longer because I couldn’t easily excuse myself and head up to my hotel room, as I’d done in recent years.

Anyway, Nermer continued, much to my chagrin, when they got to Harris, you should’ve seen him." His attempt at mimicking me was horrid, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and doing his best to project nerd. He failed.

A few disapproving expressions flashed around the table. The sake had loosened Nermer’s tongue enough so his sexist side came out to play, so why not another side? Colleagues glanced from Nermer to me, clearly worried a racist joke would come next. Still, no one stopped him.

Do you starch your face in the morning when you starch your collars, William?

Ha. Ha.

Everyone laughed, but for many, it was in relief that he hadn’t crossed that line.

I bet you’ve never loosened up around a woman in your life, have you?

I didn’t bother responding.

Are those dreadlocks of yours wound so tight you can’t appreciate a beautiful, half-naked woman even when she sits in your lap?

I appreciate beauty, I said, wanting the focus off me. Couldn’t he just let it go?

Yes, I’d been uncomfortable with the lap dance and had gone out of my way to maintain my usual stoicism. I’d also kept my hands to myself, which everyone had noticed. They read it how they’d wanted, even if I’d done it to respect her personal space.

I bet you washed your hands the second she left, didn’t you? Nermer asked. He whispered, Persnickety germaphobe, under his breath, intending only me to hear.

I studied the gray hair at his temple, the shine of his scalp under his comb-over. As a matter of fact, Gary, I did, but not for the reason you think. What’s that goop that keeps your hair in place? She touched it, I deadpanned as I made a show of adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose to get a better look. And Smith nearly forced her hand down his pants. If there’d been a shower, I might’ve rinsed off too.

That drew the loudest laugh of the night, and Nermer threw his hands up in surrender. I allowed a satisfied smile to shine, even as I considered how long of a shower the woman must’ve taken after dirty old men pawed at her like an object.

Just then, the rice paper partition opened and three lovely geishas walked in carrying all the accoutrement for the tea ceremony. These were different geishas than we’d seen all night. Taller. Not nearly as petite as the ladies who’d served the cha-kaiseki, our meal.

One stood several inches above the others. She glanced at me with her deep-set eyes as she kneeled in place for the ceremony.

Silence filled the room, and all hilarity was set aside to give respect to the time-honored tradition.

The tallest geisha elaborately prepared the tea in fluid yet regimented movements. Much of the ceremony seemed to be about cleaning utensils before she added green matcha powder to a bowl. Everything was placed at precise angles, as if each tool had a perfect spot.

She was fascinating to watch, her pale hands moving through the air in such delicate ways.

After the tea was whisked and her tools set aside, she bowed to the bowl. The other geishas glided across the room and offered the brew to Nermer. He sipped and nodded respectful thanks.

The geishas then served tea that must’ve been prepared in another room — most likely without all the pomp and circumstance. I tasted the green tea and was surprised I enjoyed it. I’d never been a tea drinker, but this was different. It smelled sweet but tasted of growing things. I drank until it was gone, then set my bowl down, wondering if I should’ve sipped it slower.

I was the first person done. Some slowly finished their tea while others only took a few sips before pushing their bowls away. I couldn’t help thinking they were being disrespectful, but at the same time, I wasn’t surprised. I was sure the geishas were used to it too.

My attention was drawn to the geisha in the front of the room as she cleaned the tea-making tools in almost the reverse order of how she started the ceremony. I contented myself by getting lost in her beautiful movements once again.

Soon, the serious tone of the room dissipated, the tea ceremony bowls and tools were taken away, and the geishas knelt on the floor beside our cushions to socialize with us. The woman who’d performed the ceremony sat beside me, refilling my teacup with a much inferior brew, and then settled into entertaining my colleagues.

She was funny, telling subtle jokes that drifted over the heads of some of my coworkers. That, in and of itself, made me smile wide. She even got me to laugh out loud a few times, which was not an easy feat when I was in work mode.

Although I generally got along with everyone, my coworkers were not privy to the real William. The real me only came out at night after the custom-tailored suit was hung in the closet and the black Wayfarer glasses came off. Comfortable clothes came out then, like my favorite Italian V-neck sweater aligned just so over dark jeans that perfectly set off my calfskin Chelsea boots.

Of course, my hair, which I typically wore pulled back in a restrained knot at the base of my neck, was released so my locs hung loose around my face and down my back, something my coworkers had never seen.

I was a different man away from the office.

Past experience had taught me my sexuality was no one’s business unless I wanted it to be, and I knew to hold that secret close to my chest as long as I felt necessary.

Discretion worked well for me. I wasn’t involved with anyone long-term, and since my day and nighttime personas didn’t mingle in the same circles, I didn’t understand the need to have the same flayed-open honesty at work so many of my queer friends insisted