All Mine: An Interracial Poly Romance

By Savannah J. Frierson

It’s Ingrid Harris’s first anniversary with her friends-turned-loves Ade Olatunji, Boyd “B. B.” Bigelow, and Choi Ye-Jun. But instead of being ecstatic, she’s drowning. She could be stressed from starting her new business. She could be pregnant. All she knows is she’s completely at sea.

How does Ingrid n

• Language: English
• Publisher: SJF Books LLC
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781945568237

Savannah J. Frierson

Based out of Charleston, South Carolina, RWA-PAN member Savannah J. Frierson is a USA TODAY best-selling and award-winning author who crafts full, happily-ever-afters for readers who believe transcendent love is worth the wait. Savannah taps into women’s softness to show this vulnerability as a strength to be embraced and celebrated. Savannah’s characters find empowerment through love, and she hopes her dear readers do too.

Book preview

Chapter 1

There was nothing in the world Ingrid Harris wanted more at that very moment than a hug. Preferably from one of her men. Luckily for her, she had three from which to choose, and all three were world-class huggers. But for this specific instance, she’d go to Boyd B. B. Bigelow because he was her sweet blond Bubba of a boyfriend who’d console her while Ade Olatunji, the most exacting and persnickety of them all, would read her enemies a riot act full of words so large they’d need a dictionary to decipher them. And Choi Ye-Jun, last but certainly not least, would be ready to run up on someone just in case they couldn’t—or refused to—understand the words that were coming from Ade’s mouth. The self-appointed heavy, Ye-Jun wasn’t afraid of split lips and knuckles, considering them worth it if gained in defense of Ingrid’s honor.

Nevertheless, Ingrid was sure that a fight between Ye-Jun and a stacked commercial dryer would give her beloved Ye-Jun a Pyrrhic victory at best. And Ade would be a flat-out loser because inanimate objects were horrible listeners according to her life experience.

But B. B.’s hug would come through in the clutch. If he were here. But he wasn’t. None of them was. Ade was at his pharmacy doing pharmacist things and Ye-Jun and B. B. were in their architecture office doing architect things. Meanwhile, Ingrid was trying to figure out the physics of folding her big body into one of those thirty stacked dryers that were sitting on her empty laundromat floor. It was just twice as many dryers as she needed, possibly because she’d received none of the washing machines she’d thought she’d ordered too.

Hate to see it, the head delivery guy said, shaking his head, a toothpick dangling from his thin lips. Ingrid wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and poke him in the eye with it, but that was too violent of a thought, especially for her, and it wasn’t the delivery guy’s fault the order was wrong.

It was hers.

She hadn’t been paying attention to what she’d clicked on the website. Hadn’t checked and double-checked and triple-checked it was the washer/dryer combo stack she was ordering times thirty. She’d gotten distracted—over what, she couldn’t remember. But she wasn’t a juggler and trying to keep everything in the air would, invariably, lead to everything crashing to the ground.

But this mistake? This mistake threatened to put her out of business before she’d even opened it.

And she called herself an entrepreneur.

Those will have to go back, her younger sister, Delilah, informed the head delivery guy, her tone conciliatory, nearly beguiling. She had a voice for radio and a face for magazine covers, which meant people tended to heed her whether intentionally or not. We’ll call the company about the incorrect order. We apologize for the confusion.

It’ll be an extra charge to put them back on the truck, the head delivery guy warned, his balding head beading with perspiration because Ingrid kept the space hot enough to mimic Memorial Day even though Valentine’s Day was just around the corner.

We understand, Delilah said, going so far as to place a conciliatory hand on the head delivery guy’s elbow and squeeze. "But we gotta get them out of here. My sister’s too catatonic to speak right now, and that’s not a good thing."

She crazy or something? the second delivery guy asked, his blond hair limp and pulled back into a messy ponytail.

No more than I am. Her tone was as sunny as her smile even though thunderclouds brewed in her dark-brown eyes. But it’s a toss-up between a cry and arson, and neither one would be comfortable to witness.

Ingrid’s eye twitched and her fingers spasmed as if she were trying to grip a kerosene jug. How her sister knew Ingrid wanted to set the place on fire, and not just in the proverbial way, proved just how unraveled she was. But she took a deep breath and gave a long blink before resetting enough to address the head delivery guy.

The sales agreement states I should be able to return the machines at no charge if I’m dissatisfied for any reason, Ingrid said, her voice somehow calm despite the maelstrom of panic swirling within her. Her stomach rocked and roiled like a dinghy in a hurricane. So if I find an extra charge for shipping on my invoice, your company will be hearing from me.

The man narrowed his eyes, clearly torn between tangling with Ingrid, who was really starting to thaw, or Delilah’s suspicious bright personality. He ultimately decided he wasn’t ready for either of their smoke.

Right away, the head delivery guy mumbled and started to wheel the heavy machinery out of the laundromat.

We appreciate you! Delilah trilled, holding open the door for them. Ingrid didn’t bother to watch her sister charm the others out of the space, heading straight for the employee bathroom where her breakfast of a green smoothie and toast made their unwelcome reappearance.

She keened again, gripping the edges of the commode as if it could save her from her impending failure. She’d gotten too big for her britches. She’d seen her lovers making big moves in their careers—Ade now the head pharmacist at his pharmacy and Ye-Jun and B. B. working for on their first eight-figure contract—and had decided being the office manager of her family’s laundromat and dry cleaning service wasn’t good enough anymore. She wanted to own something outright, earn the privilege of owning something because of her effort and not her sheer luck of being born from the right womb. Not that she wasn’t proud that her family laundromat and dry cleaning service had persevered through nearly seventy years of continuous business, flourishing through segregation and gentrification alike. By opening this laundromat’s new franchise location, she was trading her silver spoon for a hammer, and she’d just whacked herself good with it on her big toe.

Ingrid.

She grunted, languishing. This was incredibly unsanitary but Ingrid didn’t have it in her to care. Two weeks until opening and all she had to show for it were top-of-the-line hangers that were still in boxes in the back room and rolling laundry baskets in a corner in the main space. The tables for folding were due to come tomorrow, assuming she ordered the right things for that, and the televisions she was installing in two of the space’s corners were coming the day after that.

Supposing she hadn’t accidentally ordered microwaves instead.

We won’t be charged a return fee.

That’s something, Ingrid muttered. Maybe you should’ve been the one to open this place.

Delilah, or Lila as she preferred to be called, tugged Ingrid up to her feet and brushed Ingrid’s curls from her cheeks. Unable to deny the affection, she whimpered and put her head on Lila’s shoulder, letting a few tears fall. She should’ve realized her sister could provide the hug she’d desperately needed earlier.

Garment care is your shtick, not mine.

‘Garment care,’ Ingrid repeated with a snort. Our mother sure knows her way around a turn of phrase, don’t she?

As Mrs. Dr. O’Shea Harris, she better, Lila said with an hauteur that would make Regina Logan Harris proud.

And what does she call you? A glass artisan? Ingrid asked.

Now Lila rolled her eyes. "Master glass artisan."

You are good, Ingrid said. You wouldn’t be taking over grandpa’s shop if you weren’t.

Phoebus Logan had been a master glassblower for most of his life, graduating to artistic