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The Unexpected Affair
Monica Richardson


Love doesn’t fit any preconceived guidelinesDetermined to avoid relationships that will only end in painful break-ups, Whitney Talbot made a checklist of everything she wants in a life partner. Construction worker Lane Martin possesses a few of those traits—especially, the tall, dark, and devastatingly attractive part. But Lane has unavoidable baggage…He’s divorced, with a teenage son. So why is Whitney still fantasizing about taking their mutual infatuation to the next level?It took an accidental encounter at a new condo development to open Lane’s eyes to the possibility of second chances. On a trip to Whitney’s family B&B in the Bahamas, their friendship transforms into something richer and much deeper. If only the beautiful kindergarten teacher and aspiring songwriter didn’t have such firm ideas about what makes the perfect husband. Now Lane could lose her to another man . . . unless Whitney opens her heart to the one thing she left off her list—love.







Love doesn’t fit any preconceived guidelines

Determined to avoid relationships that will only end in painful breakups, Whitney Talbot makes a checklist of everything she wants in a life partner. Construction worker Lane Martin possesses a few of these traits—especially the tall, dark and devastatingly attractive part. But Lane has unavoidable baggage... He’s divorced, with a teenage son. So why is Whitney still fantasizing about taking their mutual infatuation to the next level?

It takes an accidental encounter at a new condo development to open Lane’s eyes to the possibility of second chances. On a trip to Whitney’s family’s B and B in the Bahamas, their friendship transforms into something richer and much deeper. If only the beautiful kindergarten teacher and aspiring songwriter didn’t have such firm ideas about what makes the perfect husband. Now Lane could lose her to another man...unless Whitney opens her heart to the one thing she left off her list—love.


“So what are you having?” he asked.

“I don’t know. You seem to know what I like.”

“What do you like?”

“I’d like for my date to be on time. And in the future, if he’s going to be late, I’d like for him to call or text to let me know.”

“So you’re saying there will be another date. Or should I say, future dates?”

“Let’s get through this one first.” She smiled at him.

It was easy to be with him, she noted. Some dates were so strained, uncomfortable.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“I’ll have the fire hot wings,” she said.

“Can you handle the fire hot wings?” he asked with a huge grin.

She peeked over the top of the menu. Took note of how handsome he was—dark face, silky, smooth skin. Perfectly trimmed hair and mustache with just a hint of gray. His arms were strong, and his hands were huge. She wondered what it would feel like to be hugged by those arms, but not more than she wondered what the story was behind his sad eyes.

“I can handle a lot.” She smiled back at him.


Dear Reader (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4),

Lane Martin is a complicated fellow, sort of like that India Arie song “Complicated Melody”—a melody so complex, it can’t be sung on key. That’s Lane. Being hurt in love has made him that way. But he’s charismatic and easy to fall in love with, despite everything else. He’s a truck driver and blue-collar—the total opposite of anything Whitney Talbot is accustomed to. So, she prejudges him, as we often do when we’re not accustomed to something.

Sometimes, we only see black and white, and not the gray areas in between. She doesn’t quite see or understand the whole of him. And because he has very few qualities on her Man Menu, she almost misses out on the love that could change her life. Not to mention she’s dealing with her own fears of love and commitment, which is why these two are made for each other. The chemistry and love between them are undeniable, even though they both spend way too much time denying it.

I hope you fall in love with Lane, and enjoy his and Whitney’s story. Writing this book was somewhat effortless, yet intricate all at the same time.

I’ve thoroughly enjoyed writing the Talbots’ story. Because my family is from the Eleuthera Islands, it’s like sitting with them and having a great Bahamian meal while researching the beautiful island they call home...and I call my homeland. I hope you continue to love the Talbots and make them your favorite family.

Visit my website at monica-richardson.com (http://www.monica-richardson.com/) or email me at Monica@Monica-Richardson.com (http://www.monica-richardson.com/About.html).

Happy reading!

Monica Richardson


The Unexpected Affair

Monica Richardson






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


MONICA RICHARDSON writes adult romances set in Florida and the Caribbean. Under the name Monica McKayhan, she wrote the Indigo Summer young adult series. Indigo Summer hit the Essence and Black Issues Book Review bestseller lists, and the series also received a film option. Monica’s YA books have garnered accolades and industry recognition, including several American Library Association (ALA) placements on the Quick Picks for Reluctant Young Adult Readers and the Popular Paperbacks for Young Adults annual lists. She penned her first romance novel, Tropical Fantasy, in 2013.


For my granny, Rosa A. Heggie

(November 1927–2008)

She was special in so many ways and the strongest woman I knew.

My life is rich because of her.


Acknowledgments (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

To my family and friends—you are my support system.

To my readers—you give me the energy to continue to write. I’m sure you will enjoy the Talbot family and get to know them well. This is for you!

To my family in the Bahamas—visiting with you and talking to you about my history has made the research and writing of this Talbot series a complete joy.


Contents

Cover (#u81d30f35-a8cc-510d-afc1-5991b15d3b7b)

Back Cover Text (#u050cb594-9ba9-5493-989d-40a074dccb0a)

Introduction (#u6255f1ac-036d-5460-9003-2d98b073a6f1)

Dear Reader (#u17021614-7c77-546c-8088-29bf6d48c926)

Title Page (#u7e2346d9-8015-5112-8594-4d663cf67e8f)

About the Author (#uef8d2b7f-40f9-5906-9b79-8de385945655)

Dedication (#u2ba7e0c7-99ad-554b-a007-be21ee1cccb9)

Acknowledgments (#ucfab2f8d-8316-53f5-ad92-1f504dd3ed4d)

Chapter 1 (#u79d81f13-d81b-58e4-9083-3a3269562d77)

Chapter 2 (#uac024fa6-000e-53cc-a163-a9e906f488a2)

Chapter 3 (#ufa2413c8-9955-5851-ae5c-3a0a7e02b79b)

Chapter 4 (#ua5ce5a36-7ca3-54a1-99cd-616cd9b39ccb)

Chapter 5 (#u5e900586-fd34-531e-b2e9-5d6d40bd0f9f)

Chapter 6 (#uafa0d10c-99db-5ba4-aaed-65d37a3c5805)

Chapter 7 (#u7b078b0b-e668-554f-bd85-fc4f3f2d6b23)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

Whitney Talbot went over the details of her Man Menu in her head. First and foremost, he needed a college degree. Beyond that, he needed an ample salary and he needed to own at least one piece of real estate. He needed to be tall—at least six feet—dark, handsome. He shouldn’t have any children or have been previously married—she didn’t need any baby-mama drama. He needed to appreciate the arts and music and love children—because she intended to have at least one, maybe two. He needed to be a conversationalist, because she enjoyed a good conversation.

Her Man Menu was a page long, and she used it loyally. She used it because she and her friends had developed it at the Starbucks just down the street from their college dorm during their Texas A&M. days. They had spent hours pulling it together. It was their bible—their source. They wouldn’t be stuck with the wrong man under any circumstances.

After college, Kenya had ended up with Will. Though she spent more time alone because Will traveled 90 percent of the time, she swore that she was happy. He was providing for his family, she always defended him. And though Tasha’s husband, Louis, had fathered another woman’s child during their marriage, she still swore that he was the perfect man, according to their Man Menu. Yes, he’d made a mistake, but they were repairing their marriage. Marriage took work, she’d say.

All of it terrified Whitney, which was why she had remained the single one in their threesome. She wanted love at the top of her list. Otherwise what was the point? But she wasn’t confident that she would find all of the things on her Man Menu plus love. She’d lost faith in that long ago. And as a result, she would date a man just long enough to discover that he was getting too close. Then she’d break things off, regardless of whether he lived up to her Man Menu list of qualities or not. It was easier this way. And though her best girlfriends both proclaimed they were living in romantic bliss, she knew that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The dating game had become exhausting and a huge disappointment. Her younger sister, Jasmine, and her older sister, Alyson, had found happiness with good men. She wanted what they had, but men like her brothers-in-law didn’t come around that often and surely didn’t exist in Texas. She was convinced that they didn’t even exist on the planet. And she wasn’t taking just any-old-body home to meet her family. Her family was a traditional Bahamian family, and they were certainly a down-to-earth bunch. But their impression of her was that she’d gone away and done well for herself—and she needed to live up to that image. If she took a man home, he needed to be perfect and their connection needed to be real. Her family would see right through her. She was the middle girl and didn’t need nearly as much attention as her other sisters, but she needed a man who loved her. And she needed to love him, for that matter.

She’d gone to college in Texas and landed a teaching position at a local elementary school in Dallas. She wasn’t crazy about Texas but vowed never to return to the Caribbean for any length of time. She needed her independence, and her family wouldn’t allow that if she moved back home. They would be all up in her business, running her life. She had almost entertained the thought of it when she and her siblings had inherited three historical properties from their grandparents. Her family had since transformed the properties into beautiful B and Bs along the Bahamian coast. Though she hadn’t been there during the renovation, her siblings had been instrumental in making the Grove the extraordinary property that it was. It had quickly become one of the most sought-after properties on Harbour Island.

She’d promised her family that once the property was up and running, she’d return home after the school year ended and help out with the family business. Unfortunately, returning never happened and she hoped they wouldn’t bring it up. After the Grove was fully staffed, she figured there was no need for her services, and she was fine with that.

Her older brother Edward had recently remarried his ex-wife, Savannah. They’d fallen in love all over again—or was it that they’d never fallen out of love? Whichever the case, they were throwing a huge soiree in the Caribbean at the family’s property to celebrate their nuptials. The entire family was expected to be there, and she was no exception. It seemed that every time she turned around, the Talbot family was celebrating something and expecting her to hop on a plane and traipse to the islands as though they were just around the corner. She loved her family and loved spending time with them, but she was tired of returning home for these parties and celebrations and she was the only one without a man. So before she headed off to the Bahamas for another blessed event, she was determined to find that perfect someone to accommodate her.

Her best friend, Kenya, claimed to have the perfect guy for her.

“He has everything on the menu, girl!” Kenya squealed. “I swear.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” said a doubtful Whitney.

“Okay, maybe not every single thing, but most stuff,” Kenya assured her. “You have to be a little flexible or you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life! And you have to stop running guys away when they get too close. Thomas was perfect for you, but you...”

“I don’t mind being alone, Kenya. I’ll die alone before I settle.”

“Well, you need somebody to take home to the Caribbean, right?”

“Right,” Whitney resolved. “I guess we don’t have to get married or anything. I just want him to impress my father, who is a retired physician, and my mother, who was an educator—in her other life.”

“First of all, I’ve met both of your parents. They’re sweet as pie...not one bit judgmental. I think they just want the best for you—whatever makes you happy,” said Kenya. “Which reminds me. Did you tell them how miserable you are teaching little kindergartners?”

Whitney loved her teaching career. Loved making a difference in the lives of her children. She wasn’t miserable and certainly had no plans of leaving her day job. Her mother would be crushed if she even thought she was leaving the teaching realm. After all, Beverly Talbot lived her teaching career vicariously through Whitney, and she wouldn’t let her mother down. However, she had found that songwriting made her heart soar. She’d been writing on the side and it actually made a good supplement to her teacher’s income, and it gave her a creative outlet. And when someone had actually performed one of her original pieces at Kenya’s birthday party, she’d actually entertained the idea of doing it full-time. That is, until her friend Tasha shot the idea down and made her feel ridiculous for even considering it. Needless to say, her good sense had kicked in and knocked her back into reality. Besides not wanting to disappoint her mother, she would never squander her education. Her father had worked too hard to put her and her siblings through college. Not to mention, she loved her children.

“I’m not miserable teaching, and I haven’t told them anything. In fact, I haven’t decided what my career plans are. I’m just taking it a day at a time.”

“You’ll figure it out, Whit. You always do.” Kenya was always her encourager. “Anyway, Will and I will meet you at the Cheesecake Factory at six. His friend Jason will be there, too. He won’t have much time, because he has another commitment after dinner. But he desperately wants to meet you. He’s educated, a business owner, fine as hell...”

“Is he tall?”

“He’s not quite six feet, but he owns a home in Mansfield and some commercial property, too.” Kenya skirted right past the issue of his height. “He has a house on the beach in Galveston.”

“Okay, fine,” Whitney resolved. She hated blind dates but didn’t want to disappoint Kenya.

“Be on time, Whitney,” warned Kenya. “He’s a busy man and has another commitment.”

“Fine.”

Whitney had a commitment of her own. She’d just purchased a lot in the new housing development in Cedar Hill, near Joe Pool Lake. Her first taste of homeownership and she was beyond excited. She’d long outgrown her Dallas condo and was tired of the hustle and bustle of Dallas traffic. She was having her dream home built and couldn’t wait to do her daily drive-by to see how things were coming along. She just wanted a peek and hoped she could make it to the new development and then back to Sundance Square in downtown Fort Worth for her blind date with the good friend of Kenya’s fiancé’s. She hoped that Dallas traffic would be milder than usual.

As she pulled her Nissan into the development, she smiled when she saw the cement truck backing into one of the lots. They were building more homes in her popular neighborhood. She drove to the cul-de-sac at the end of the block, turned around and came back. Kenya sent her a text and she looked down—for a split second—to read it, and when she looked up, she realized that the cement truck was now moving forward and not backward. She’d already slammed into the side of it before she knew it.

“Dammit!” she exclaimed as the phone hit the floor. She put the vehicle in Park and stepped out of the car. She smoothed her dress over her hips.

The driver hopped down from the truck, a frown on his face. “Lady, what were you doing?”

He wore an orange-and-silver reflective safety vest, but all Whitney saw was the tight gray T-shirt underneath that hugged his biceps. With a hard hat on his head, he pulled the dark shades from his eyes and peered at her.

“I’m so sorry. I just looked down for a split second,” she said. “When I looked up, there you were.”

“What are you even doing here? This is no place for you to be driving around.”

“I’m here because right over there is my house—my lot!” She pointed at the space across the street where the foundation of a home had just begun to be built. “I have every right to be here.”

“You should watch where you’re going.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, called his company to explain the details of the incident. She gave an apologetic smile to the other workers who had gathered at the scene. They weren’t at all happy with having their workday interrupted. The ordeal seemed to last longer than she’d hoped.

She hated to ask but knew that she had another commitment. “Can we speed this along? I really have somewhere else I need to be,” she stated as they awaited the arrival of the local police.

“You’re serious.” A slight smile danced in the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

“You should’ve thought about your other commitment before you hit my truck,” he said. “There’s a process to this.”

She rolled her eyes at him, pulled her cell phone out, called Kenya and explained that she wouldn’t make it for her blind date.

“Blind date, huh?” he asked after she hung up.

“Were you eavesdropping on my conversation?”

“I couldn’t help it. You weren’t exactly whispering.”

Mr. Cement-Truck-Driver was quickly getting under her skin, but she tried to remain calm.

“It’s rude to listen in on people’s conversations. And even more rude to put your two cents in.”

“I didn’t know people actually did blind dates anymore.”

“Well, they do,” she said.

“I see.”

She ignored him and began to engage in text messaging with Kenya until the officer arrived. The officer jotted down each of their contact information, gave them each a copy and then disappeared in his patrol car. She glanced at her copy. Lane Martin was his name. She crumpled the paper and stuck it into her purse. Headed for her car.

“Why do you need a blind date, anyway?” he asked. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a man.”

“For your information, I don’t have trouble finding a man,” she stated, “not that I’m looking.”

A slight smile danced in the corner of his mouth again. He seemed to enjoy getting under her skin. “I’m sorry about your car.”

“My insurance will be through the roof, if they don’t cancel me.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Insurance companies are crooks anyway.”

She stood there, when she should’ve been moving toward her car. She was mesmerized by him. Couldn’t take her eyes off his chest. He was tall, a big strong guy. Football-player strong, she thought.

“I’m Lane. Sorry we got off to a bad start.” He held his hand out to her.

“Whitney.” She took his strong hand in hers. She appreciated the ruggedness of it. It wasn’t soft, and his nails weren’t manicured, but they were decent—clean and trimmed.

“That accent. Jamaican?” he asked.

“Bahamian.”

“It’s nice.”

“Thank you,” she said. She got that all the time. People loved her Caribbean accent.

“So that’s going to be your new home, huh?” he asked, pointing at the lot across the street.

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.” He smiled genuinely. “I poured the concrete over there, too.”

“Thank you, I guess,” she said, looking at her watch. “I really have to go.”

“Oh, that’s right.” There was that beautifully sly grin again. “Blind date.”

The truth was, she’d already missed her blind date, and she wasn’t even mad about it. In fact, she felt somewhat relieved. She hadn’t been too keen on meeting yet another guy she wouldn’t be the least bit attracted to. She would only go through the motions and hope that she’d find something about him that she could tolerate.

“Good day, Lane,” she said. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

She was grateful for the dress she’d chosen that day. The one that hugged her ample hips in just the right places. She put an extra swing in them as she made her way back to her Nissan.

“Pleasure was all mine,” she heard him say. No doubt he was watching the rhythm of her hips.

As she sank into the driver’s seat of her car, she exhaled. She glanced at Lane. Just as she’d suspected, he was, in fact, watching—his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against his truck. She was nervous, and just making it to her car had been a challenge. Her heart pounded. Why was she behaving this way? This guy most likely met very few of the requirements on her Man Menu. She started her car, turned up the volume on the Jill Scott tune that amplified through her speakers. Gave him a slight wave as she pulled away.

He was not her type. She was sure of it.


Chapter 2 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

Lane Martin needed another incident like he needed a hole in his head. He’d just been written up for another incident a month prior. He’d been with the company for almost twenty years but the new company supervisor had it in for him. He didn’t need any more trouble. His job was his pride and joy. He wasn’t working in the field of his degree. Instead he’d chosen to work with his hands, rather than selling out for a white-collar position in corporate America. Though he’d invested well, he didn’t believe in splurging on unnecessary things. He owned a modest ranch-style brick home on the outskirts of Mesquite, Texas, and drove a regular old pickup—a ten-year-old Ford F-150. He hadn’t bought a new vehicle since his divorce. He knew that he would have to send his son to college one day, although he still had several years before Lane Jr. even thought about college.

Even at the age of thirteen Lane Jr. was already an impressive athlete. Lane had been an impressive athlete, as well. He’d attended Mizzou on a football scholarship and had been a running back. At one time, he had hopes of being picked up by the Dallas Cowboys, but a fatal car wreck had robbed him of those dreams. His life had changed the night that he and his older brother Tye had been celebrating a football victory. Tye insisted on driving them home, although they’d each had one too many drinks. Neither of them was awake when they plowed into the rear end of an 18-wheeler. Tye didn’t survive the crash, and sometimes Lane thought that he hadn’t either. His life came to a screeching halt that night. He blamed himself for the accident. If only he’d convinced Tye not to drive, he would still be alive. From that night on, Lane had no desire to ever play football again.

He jumped into a marriage to try to mask the pain of losing his brother but failed miserably as a young husband. By the time he realized that his marriage was over, it was too late—his wife was leaving him. He packed his things into his car, kissed his toddler son goodbye and went out to find his way in the world. He was determined to be better at fatherhood than he had been at marriage, and so far he was batting a thousand. Alongside having a career that he was proud of, making a nice salary and owning a nice home in a small Texas town, being a father was right there at the top of his greatest-achievements list.

Grief, fear and failure had robbed him of ever finding love again. However, after exchanging information with the beautiful stranger who had run into his cement truck, he had to admit, she was attractive. He remembered how she kept going on and on about having to report the accident to her insurance company and the risk of higher premiums—or worse, cancellation. He thought maybe he could fix things for her. That was what he was—a fixer. Always fixing others’ problems. Yet his problems had gone unsolved.

He kicked his boots off at the door and opened each piece of mail that he’d gathered from the box. He plopped down on the sofa in his family room, rested his head against the back of it. Working long hours usually left him exhausted. He grabbed the remote control and tuned the television to ESPN, caught the commentary before the playoff game was to begin. Watching sports after a hard day’s work was usually the highlight of his day. Except for today. The highlight today had been the beautiful stranger who had rammed her car into his cement truck. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his head since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.

He made his way into the kitchen and checked the chicken that he’d placed in the slow cooker that morning before work. He tasted a piece and closed his eyes. It was perfectly seasoned and tender. Over the years, he’d become a great cook. Bachelorhood had taught him self-sufficiency and he’d mastered it. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and made his way into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

He dried his hair and then wrapped the towel around his waist. He put on a pair of basketball shorts and pulled an old Mizzou T-shirt over his head. He wasn’t startled when he heard the doorbell ring. It wasn’t unusual for his best friend, Melvin, to show up unannounced, and especially on the night of a playoff game. Before Lane could answer the door, Melvin was already inside.

“It’s game time!” Melvin yelled, a baseball cap turned backward on his head and a Cavaliers jersey barely covering his belly.

“You smelled the food cooking,” said Lane.

“Now that you mention it—” Melvin raised his eyebrows “—what are we eating?”

“We aren’t eating anything,” said Lane with a grin.

Melvin usually made himself right at home. And today was no different as he reached into the refrigerator and grabbed himself a beer. “Last beer, bro,” said Melvin, raising it into the air.

“Well, maybe you should run on down to the store and grab us another six-pack.”

“At halftime, bro,” Melvin promised as he plopped down in the chair in front of the television.

Lane knew that he wouldn’t be making the beer run. He never did. “I’m holding you to it.”

“Halftime. I promise,” said Melvin. “How long before dinner?”

Lane laughed at his best friend, who had been his college roommate and his teammate on the football field. Melvin knew him better than anyone—had been with him through all of the highs and lows of his life: his marriage to Helena, his divorce from Helena, the death of his brother. He’d been his rock, and often his sounding board. Melvin was family. They’d grown up in Saint Louis together. And after Lane had moved to Texas and gotten settled, Melvin soon followed. Slept on his couch for a few months until he’d finally landed a job and his own place.

Lane described his day to Melvin—told him about the woman crashing into his cement truck. “She was concerned about filing a claim with her insurance,” said Lane.

“Was it a bad dent?”

“Not too bad. Nothing you can’t handle.”

In addition to owning his own accounting firm, Melvin also tinkered with old cars. He owned a body shop in South Dallas where he transformed old cars into new ones. He also worked with insurance companies to repair damaged cars.

“Have her bring it over to the shop, and I’ll knock it out for her.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” said Melvin. “Why are you so concerned about it, anyway?”

“She was a nice lady. Just trying to help her out.”

“Mmm-hmm. I see,” said Melvin. “She cute?”

“She’s not bad on the eyes.”

Melvin had been slouching in the chair. He sat straight up. “You like her.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“I don’t even know her, bro. I’m just trying to help her out.”

“Right,” said Melvin as he made his way to the kitchen to fix himself a plate. “You can do something for me, too.”

“What?”

“Tyler needs a job,” said Melvin. “You know my nephew Tyler. He’s moving in with me for a few months. Needs a new start. Getting into all kinds of trouble in Saint Louis. His daddy thinks he’ll do much better here in Texas. Maybe you can get him on down there at the plant.”

“Does he have any experience?”

“Fast food. But he’s smart. He’ll catch on fast.”

“I don’t know, man,” said Lane. He’d been burned too many times before trying to help people out. Situations like this ruined relationships. “Youngsters aren’t dependable.”

“He’ll be dependable. I’ll make sure of it.”

Lane shook his head. He didn’t like the idea of putting his job on the line for people, but he knew Tyler. And he knew how it was growing up in Saint Louis and running with the wrong crowd. “Have him come down and see me on Monday. I’ll see what I can do.”

“He’ll do good, man. I promise.”

“He’d better.”

Lane disappeared into his bedroom for privacy, shut the door. Pulled the folded piece of paper from the pocket of his work pants, unfolded it and searched for Whitney’s phone number. She answered on the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hey,” he said nervously. “It’s Lane Martin. You know, from the accident today.”

“Oh, hello.”

“I’m sorry to call so late. But...” he paused “...I just wanted to tell you, I have a friend who owes me a favor and can knock that dent right out of your bumper. You can take your car over there tomorrow. That way you won’t have to report it to your insurance company.”

“Really?” she asked. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m a nice guy,” he said with a smile in his voice. “And my best friend owns a body shop.”

“Okay,” she said cheerfully. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

“Text me the address of the shop.”

“Okay, I will. As soon as we hang up.”

“Cavs up by two!” Melvin yelled from the other room. “Lane, get your ass in here!”

Whitney giggled. “Sounds like you need to go.”

“Sounds like I do.”

“Thank you again,” said Whitney.

“No problem. Have a good night,” said Lane. “And I’ll text the information right away.”

“Great.”

She hung up.

He sat there on the edge of the bed for a moment, a subtle smile in the corner of his mouth. He typed the address to Melvin’s shop into a text message, hit the send key and then made his way back to the game.


Chapter 3 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

Whitney glanced at the text message. She was grateful for the gesture, Lane arranging to have her car repaired. She shut her phone case and walked over to the baby grand piano that rested in her living room. She loved her piano, though it crowded her space, which was another reason she was having a house built. She needed the extra space for her baby.

She’d played the piano since the age of twelve and had mastered it. Music was her lifeline. She was from a musical family—her grandfather and father were both musicians. So her love for music made sense. In addition to playing, she wrote songs. She’d written a few pieces and sold them. Songwriting had brought about a nice supplement to her teaching income. She’d even entertained the thought that if she wrote full-time, she could probably make her current teaching salary or more. But the fear of not having a secure income always trumped her love for writing.

Whitney started a bubble bath and lit a candle. She’d gone to the gym, and a bath after a workout always soothed her aching muscles. She sipped on a glass of red wine to wash down the chicken breast and brown rice that she’d prepared for dinner. She peeled sweaty clothes from her body, pulled her hair up into a bun and stepped into the bathtub. She needed to steal a few moments to pamper herself before settling in for the night.

When she slipped into bed, sleep came quickly. She’d fallen asleep long before nine thirty and with the television blaring with Don Lemon’s commentary on CNN. It seemed that morning always came abruptly.

* * *

Whitney moseyed over to the door, opened it. The bell rang and fifteen kindergartners rushed from their chairs and headed toward the door.

“Excuse me!” exclaimed Whitney. “I don’t remember dismissing anyone.”

The children slowly made their way back to their respective seats, waited patiently for their teacher to give them permission to move.

“Now you may form a single-file line in front of me. Bus riders first.”

The children formed a line in front of the door, and Whitney escorted them out of the classroom, through the hallway of their elementary school, past the office and out the side door where the buses waited for them to get on board. She ushered all of the children to the correct school buses or to their parents’ cars. After seeing that all the children made it to their modes of transportation, Whitney made her way back to her classroom.

She sat at her desk and graded a few papers, turned on her laptop and checked her email. This was her quiet time. She loved her children but looked forward to those quiet moments when they all went home. After responding to emails from parents and shutting down her computer, she tidied the classroom a bit. Placed crayons and bottles of glue into cubbyholes and threw trash away.

She checked her watch. She had just enough time to make her appointment at the body shop. Lane’s friend Melvin had promised to make her car look like new. She looked forward to it and appreciated Lane for even suggesting it. She grabbed her purse from the locked bottom drawer of her desk, pulled her keys out. She shut off the lights in her classroom on her way out the door. Her cell phone buzzed. Kenya.

“Hey, girl,” she answered.

“I need a drink,” said Kenya. “Meet me at Duffy’s.”

“Can’t. I have an appointment.”

“Oh, Whit! Are you going to make me drink alone?” Kenya whined.

“Why do you need a drink so badly?”

“Will’s mother is in town. You know she gives me hives. I can’t do anything right with her!” said Kenya.

“Oh, no! Not his mama.”

“She’s already started. Now she’s trying to plan the wedding. I don’t mind her input, but damn, this is my wedding,” said Kenya. “She’s added like twenty extra people to the guest list.”

“No!”

“Twenty extra mouths to feed!”

“What does Will say?”

“That’s just my mom, babe.” Kenya’s voice was in a baritone as she mocked her fiancé. “You know how she is.”

Whitney laughed. “Sorry.”

“This is so not funny, Whit. I’m going crazy!” Kenya exhaled. “She wants to look for alternate choices for the rehearsal dinner, and now she’s asking why the bridesmaids’ dresses have to be so provocative.”

“Did she specifically say bridesmaids’ dresses, or did she mention my maid-of-honor dress, too?” Whitney laughed.

“Whit!”

“You do need a drink,” said Whitney. “Meet me at the body shop and we can find somewhere to go from there.”

“Thank you. Damn, girl.”

“I’ll text you the address.”

Whitney bid the custodian a good night with a nod. He gave her a wide grin, and had she not been on the phone, he’d have struck up a long conversation about his ailing mother. Once Whitney revealed to him that she was from the Bahamas islands, he always went on and on about his Caribbean roots. She walked out the door quickly and to her car.

* * *

She waited for Melvin to appear in the customer waiting area after the receptionist called for him. He was not at all what she’d expected, actually the opposite of the image she had in her head—he was clean shaven, tall and handsome. Not at all a body-shop type of guy. She shook his hand.

“Good to meet you,” she said.

“Pleasure’s mine.” His smile was handsome. “Let’s take a look at that dent.”

He followed her outside to her car.

“Here it is.” She pointed at her vehicle.

“Ouch,” he said. “But it’s not so bad. Won’t take me long to knock that out.”

“Good. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Lane is my best friend,” he told her. “And he insisted that I take good care of you.”

“Did he, now?”

“Yes, but he didn’t mention that you were so beautiful and had a sexy accent. Where are you from?”

“Bahamas.”

“Nice,” said Melvin. “Now, if you’ll just have a seat in the customer waiting area, I’ll get you squared away.”

“Actually, my girlfriend just pulled up. We’re going to run out for a bit, and I’ll just come back in a little while.”

Melvin squinted to get a better look at Kenya as she pulled into the parking lot. “She look like you?” He smiled.

“She’s engaged.” Whitney smiled and began to walk out of the shop.

“Engaged, but not married, right?” he called as she walked away.

“They’re just about there.” Whitney laughed, giving Melvin a wave as she exited. She hopped into the passenger’s seat of Kenya’s sedan.

Kenya lowered the volume on the Rihanna song she was blasting. “Who’s the nosy guy?”

“Melvin.” Whitney wrapped the seat belt around her. “Lane’s friend.”

“Oh, Lane.” Kenya grinned. “Now you’re on a first-name basis.”

“What? His name is Lane. You want me to keep calling him the guy whose truck I plunged into?”

“I guess not.” Kenya gave her a side-eye. “Now, where around here can we go for that drink? I don’t know anything about this neighborhood.”

“Right,” said Whitney, pulling her cell phone out of her purse. “I’ll just check Yelp.”

“Okay.”

“It says there’s a bar just around the corner. They have great reviews and even have a happy hour,” said Whitney. “Make a left here at the corner.”

* * *

They stepped into the quaint bar, snagged a small table in the corner of the dimly lit room. Soulful music played casually, and some people swayed to it, while others engaged in loud conversations. Whitney ordered her signature rum and pineapple juice, while Kenya sipped on a glass of Merlot.

“Can we have an order of the hot wings, too?” Whitney asked the half-naked server.

“Sure,” said the young woman. “You want mild or hot?”

“What do you think?” she asked Kenya.

“I’m not eating any hot wings. Girl, I’ve got to fit all of this into that wedding dress in a few weeks.”

Kenya was always watching her weight. Always on some diet or taking a supplement for this or that. And since getting engaged, she’d been on a mission to maintain her weight at her current size because she was not buying another dress.

“I’ll take the hot ones,” said Whitney, and as soon as the server walked away, she leaned toward Kenya to talk over the music. “A few hot wings never hurt anybody.”

“I’m not like you, with your perfect figure that you never have to work for!”

“Oh, I work for it. But I cheat sometimes,” said Whitney. “I hit the gym, too.”

“When, Whit?” asked Kenya. “When was the last time you were committed to a workout?”

“Last night.”

“But before that, how long?”

“It had been...” Whitney thought for a moment, took a sip of her drink. “Okay, it had been a while. But I’m back now. I’m sore right now, but I’m back.”

“Why do you bother?” asked Kenya. “Look at you. You’ve got it in all the right places.”

Whitney’s five-foot-four physique was coveted by many. Her 152 pounds seemed to fall in all the right places. In her mind, though, she needed work. She needed her butt lifted and her stomach flatter.

“So do you. You just need to tone a bit,” said Whitney. She knew that weight had been a long-standing and touchy subject for Kenya, so she changed the subject. “I found the perfect shoes for my dress.”

“Really? Where?”

“DSW.” Whitney pulled her cell phone out, sorted through her photos and showed Kenya. “Look at these beauties.”

“Oh, they are beautiful!” Kenya grabbed the phone. “I need to send this to all of the bridesmaids.”

Whitney snatched her phone back. Her Bahamian accent was stronger at times. “No, honey. I’m the maid of honor. My dress and shoes will be different.”

“You’re right,” Kenya resolved. “It’s just that these women are dragging their feet. I don’t even think that Tasha has gone to get fitted for her dress!”

“She will.” Whitney laughed. “You know she’s late for everything. She’ll be late for her own funeral.”

“Why can’t she ever be on time?” Kenya took a sip of her wine and made room on the table for the piping-hot wings that the server placed on the table. “Thanks, honey. Can we get some extra napkins, please?”

The server walked away, but not before rolling her eyes at Kenya.

“Did she just roll her damn eyes at me?” Kenya asked.

Whitney chuckled. “I think she did.”

“See, that’s why I don’t come over here.”

“It’s okay.” Whitney was already tearing into a hot wing and licking sauce from her fingertips. “Some of the best places have the worst customer service. Try these wings, girl. You’ll forget all about what’s-her-name.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it.” Kenya grabbed a wing, her pinkie finger in the air.

Whitney shook her head and grabbed another wing.

* * *

Just as they pulled up at the body shop, Melvin was pulling Whitney’s car out of the bay.

“You’re all set.” He stepped out of the car, grinned and dangled the keys in the air.

“Thank you.” Whitney gave him a smile and grabbed her keys. She took a long look at her bumper. It was like new. “Looks good!”

“Damn right!” he boasted. “Now, tell my friend Lane that I took good care of you.”

“I certainly will.” She walked around to the side of her car. Melvin opened the door for her and she sank into the driver’s seat. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He slammed her door shut.

She drove off, found a track on her playlist and smiled as the music resonated through the car.


Chapter 4 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

Lane relaxed on the sofa and flipped back and forth between two football games. Why they had to air them at the same time was beyond him. He had bets riding on both of them. He wasn’t a gambler in the traditional sense, he’d convinced himself. He just dabbled a bit. He didn’t need the money. In fact, he’d made a nice salary driving his cement truck for the past seventeen years. Betting on sports was just a pastime. He could quit at any time.

He yelled at the television, a plate of food on the coffee table in front of him. He sipped on a cold bottle of Budweiser, leaned back on the pillow and pushed the comforter aside. The sofa doubled as a bed for him because that’s where he slept most nights. It had been weeks since he’d slept in his bed. He worked insane hours, and usually he’d fall asleep in front of the television before the last quarter of any game. He was the epitome of a bachelor, and his relationships had struggled in the past. His long hours left minimal time for dating.

Besides working long hours, he hadn’t found a woman worth the work of dating long-term. He usually found something wrong with her. Too clingy, too self-centered, too fat, too skinny, low self-esteem—all were reasons to break things off before anyone got serious. His divorce had left him gun-shy, and he wasn’t sure that he’d let anyone else in after that. Love was painful, and he didn’t have time to be hurt again.

His phone buzzed and he looked at the text message.

Just left Melvin’s shop. Thanks for everything!

“Whitney,” he whispered. A smile swept across his face, and he couldn’t wipe it away.

He replied, Yrr welcome.

He wanted to say more but didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Didn’t want her to think that he was interested in anything more than making sure her car was taken care of. He placed the phone on the coffee table and stuffed a forkful of green beans into his mouth.

I hope you have a nice night, she texted back.

You too, he replied, and then waited for the notification that she had texted him again.

He waited. Grabbed the phone and typed, Are you free Friday night?

What was he doing? Friday night was his night to fall asleep in front of the television again. He didn’t need to make appointments that he had no intentions of keeping. He hit the send key anyway.

Free for what? she asked.

Idk. Dinner?

“I don’t know?” he whispered. “Dammit!”

He didn’t even have a game plan. He’d approached her without a plan. And on top of that, he wasn’t even sure if he really wanted to take her out. It was just something that had slipped out, an impulsive act on his part.

Sure, she texted.

Had she said yes? He sat up straight on the sofa, stuck his chest out. He was cocky now.

Cool, he typed.

Where would he take her? She was undoubtedly a wine-sipping fancy-dinner-spot type of woman. He was a sports-bar type of guy. That was a good enough reason not to follow through with this crazy idea. He leaned against the back of the sofa, considered how he could get out of this date that he’d just made on impulse. How had he even gotten here? They were as different as night and day. And he wasn’t up for anyone trying to change him. Nope. He’d been there, done that with the last woman, Erica. She’d tried her best to change him. Buying him these corny outfits and insisting that he wear them to the cocktail parties and office dinners that he’d been forced to tag along on. She hated when he watched the game or hung out with the guys from work. Wanted him to spend every waking hour with her. He was relieved when she finally disappeared from his life.

I know a nice sports bar in the Arts District. The Cowboys are playing that night. Not that I’m a fan of the Cowboys, but I enjoy a good football game, she texted.

He smiled when he read the text. “Damn,” he whispered.

Well, who are you a fan of? he asked.

Broncos. I don’t know why. I grew up watching soccer myself, but I just like the team. You?

Kansas City Chiefs. After my hometown, Saint Louis, lost the Rams to LA, I went with the next best team.

The Chiefs? The next best?

He laughed aloud and then dialed her phone number. Forget the texting. He needed to set her straight! She was laughing on the other end of the phone.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” he asked.

“Did I push your buttons?” she asked, still laughing.

“What do you have against the Chiefs?”

“I’m not saying that they’re crap overall. Their season is pretty good this year.”

“They’re doing great this season!”

“You’re right. And they do have Andy Reid.”

“What you know about football?”

“I know a lot,” she said. “Now, are we meeting at the sports bar on Friday night or what?”

“Send me the info and I’ll meet you there,” he said. He tried to remain calm. Friday wouldn’t get here soon enough, he thought.

“Good!” she exclaimed. “I’ll see you then.”

“Okay.”

“I’d love to talk to you more about the Chiefs, but I have an early morning with twelve kindergartners. I need my beauty sleep.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep. It seems to be working pretty good.” He chuckled.

“I’ll see you on Friday.” Her voice smiled.

“Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

He held the phone long after she’d hung up. He took his plate into the kitchen and washed the few dishes that were in the sink. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and decided that he’d turn in for the night, as well. Three o’clock in the morning usually came knocking a lot sooner than he was ever ready for.

* * *

Lane pulled his Ford F-150 into the parking lot. Sat there for a moment and gathered his thoughts. It was early, and though he’d done these hours for many years, he still needed a moment each morning. He listened to the ending of the song on his playlist before finally shutting the engine off. Made his way across the gravel to the office and punched the time clock. He made his way over to his cement truck, hopped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He smiled at the rumble of it. He hopped out and then did an inspection of his truck. Priscilla, he called her. He and Priscilla had been together for many years. He’d been with Priscilla longer than his ex-wife.

When he heard the sound of a notification on his phone, he pulled it out of his pocket.

Don’t forget about LJ’s game, the text read.

Helena had a bad habit of reminding him of things he already knew. Two games. He’d had to work late a couple of times and missed two games, and she hadn’t let him forget it.

I’ll be there, he typed.

And don’t forget he needs new sneakers, she added.

Got them already.

He was becoming more irritated by the moment. He didn’t need her reminding him of things he already knew. He wasn’t her husband anymore. In fact, she had new a husband now. She needed to tend to what’s-his-name and stay out of his affairs with his son. He and LJ had things under control. They talked every afternoon when he got out of school. LJ kept his father abreast of his game schedule, his grades and everything that was important to him. He’d even asked for advice about girls on occasion—a rare occasion.

LJ was somewhat shy, laid-back. Unlike his father at that age, who was a social butterfly. He’d had no problems talking to girls in high school, and certainly not in college. Being a star running back at both schools, he was popular. There was no need for him to chase, because girls flocked to him. And he basked in the glory of it—until that one girl captured his heart. The one he married. The one who broke his heart. They were supposed to live happily ever after, but his happily-ever-after quickly changed when she walked out of his life, their son in tow. He swore that no one would ever get the chance to do that to him again. Ever.

He placed the hard hat on his head and secured his reflective safety vest around his torso. He turned up the volume on the radio—listened to the antics of the disc jockeys on the hip-hop station, K104. He slowly pulled the cement truck out of the parking lot and headed for his first job of the day. Tried not to think about Whitney, but he couldn’t help it. She was already creeping into his thoughts, uninvited.


Chapter 5 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

She sat on the rooftop patio, at the high-top table, and sipped on a glass of water. She checked her watch. It was already seven fifteen. They’d agreed to meet at seven, and she was there at six forty-five. She was always prompt and expected nothing less from her suitors. Promptness was an item on her Man Menu. It was right up there with cleanliness. In the past, she’d have walked out and never answered her phone again. But something made her sit there and wait, even as seven thirty flashed across the big-screen television where the Cowboys had just scored a field goal.

“Can I get you something else to drink, ma’am?” asked the blond-haired server.

“She’ll have a Heineken,” said the male voice behind her, “and one for me, too.”

She wanted to tell him about his tardiness. Had already rehearsed the speech in her head, but when she looked at his beautiful chocolate face and he flashed that beautiful smile, everything she thought she wanted to say dissipated. He cleaned up well, and the jeans and black shirt were a nice change from his work attire. Lane kissed her cheek and took a seat across from her at the table.

“What makes you think I wanted a beer?”

“It’s a sports bar. The game is on...” He grinned. “I can order you something else if you’d like.”

“What makes you think I wanted you to order for me at all?” She almost smiled. “I’m fully capable of ordering for myself.”

“I couldn’t tell. When I walked in, you were sipping on a glass of water.” He grabbed a menu and began to look it over.

“You were late,” she mentioned.

“I’m sorry. My last job lasted a little later than expected. I had to rush home, shower and change.”

“No text to say ‘I’m running late’?” she asked.

“I’m so sorry. That was totally inconsiderate of me,” he said. “Forgive me?”

She grabbed a menu and held it up to her face. “This time,” she said.

“Thank you.”

The server placed a beer in front of each of them. She looked at the green bottle and watched as Lane poured his into the chilled mug. She wasn’t a beer drinker but liked the idea of trying something new. She poured hers into the mug and took a sip. It wasn’t as bad as she’d anticipated.

“So what are you having?” he asked.

“I don’t know. You seem to know what I like.”

“What do you like?”

“I’d like for my date to be on time. And in the future, if he’s going to be late, I’d like for him to call or text and let me know.”

“So you’re saying there will be another date. Or should I say, future dates.”

“Let’s get through this one first.” She smiled at him.

He was easy to be with, she noted. Some dates were so strained, uncomfortable.

“Fair enough,” he said.

“I’ll have the fire hot wings,” she said.

“Can you handle the fire hot wings?” he asked with a grin.

She peeked over the top of the menu. Took note of how handsome he was—dark face, silky smooth skin, perfectly trimmed hair and mustache with just a hint of gray. His arms were strong, and his hands were huge. She wondered what it would feel like to be hugged by those arms, but more than that she wondered what the story was behind those sad eyes.

“I can handle a lot,” she flirted.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” She smiled.

“I know you teach kindergarten for a living, but what do you do for fun?” he asked.

“I sing, play the piano and write music.”

“Really?” He was surprised. “Let me hear something.”

“No!” She smiled.

“Why not? It’s just me and you,” he encouraged.

“Not the time or place.”

“Chicken.”

“I guess I am,” she said. She felt comfortable with him, but not comfortable enough to sing. Not just yet.

“Fine. One day.”

“One day.”

“You’re beautiful.” He watched her, and even when she looked away, he didn’t break the stare.

“Thank you,” she said while looking at the television.

“Your accent is sexy,” he said. “I bet you get that all the time, though.”

“I get it quite a bit.”

“So what do you do when you’re not teaching children or singing?”

“Either hanging with my girls or watching Netflix—alone. Not Netflix and chill,” she said.

He laughed. “Okay.”

“What about you? When you’re not driving a cement truck, what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m at my son’s football games, yelling at the ref to call the right plays. I’ve been banned from the field twice.” He laughed.

“Wow! No self-control.”

“I have self-control. I just like to get my point across.”

“By getting thrown from the field,” she said sarcastically. “Yeah, that will definitely get your point across.”

“You’ve been teaching little people too long.” He pointed a finger her way.

She laughed. “We need to exercise self-control.”

She pointed a finger at him. He unexpectedly grabbed her small hand, stroked in between her fingers. Rubbed the ring finger on her left hand.

“No shadow where a ring should be.”

She pulled her hand away. “What? I’m not married!”

“You can’t be too careful with these women out here.” He laughed. “They pretend to be single, when they’re really married.”

“What type of women are you running into?”

“All types. It’s why I’ve been single for so long. I don’t trust anyone.”

“That’s a hard way to live.”

“You always get taken for a ride in this game,” he stated. “No feelings. No trust. It’s the only way to be.”

“When was your last serious relationship?”

“My marriage. Been divorced five years. Since my son was five years old.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? I’m not. She got what she wanted. She wanted out,” he said. “My only regret is that I can’t live in the same home with my son. But it’s okay. I see him often, and we talk every day.”

“That’s good.”

“We were young, fresh out of college.”

She mentally checked his education off on her Man Menu. He was a college graduate, and that was definitely a plus.

“What college did you graduate from?”

“Mizzou.”

“Tigers, huh?”

“All day.”

“What’s your degree in?” she asked.

“Computer science.” He took a sip of his beer.

“Why aren’t you working in your degree, for some major software company? I bet there are millions of them in Dallas.”

“Because I don’t like corporate America!” he stated emphatically. “Got no time for the bullshit that goes on there. Besides, I make a good salary.”

“Seems like a waste of a good degree.”

He shrugged. “I just wanted to play ball. And I did. I was the star running back for my team.”

“But now you’re all broken down and old. How is football helping your life now?” She laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know you like that.”

“It’s cool.” He balled up his napkin and threw it at her. “You can’t be much younger than me.”

“I’m thirty-six.”

“Okay, I’m thirty-eight with bad knees and a terrible back. So what?” He laughed.

“How did you end up in Texas?”

“Ex-wife wanted to move here. She wanted us to have a fresh start.” He sighed. “I’m here now. I’ve built a life, own my home.”

She made another mental check to her Man Menu. He owned his own home. That, too, was a plus.

“That’s great,” she said.

“What about you? You’re a long way from home.”

“I came here to attend college. I wanted to be as far away from the Bahamas as I could get! It was the only way to express my independence.”

“Independence from what?”

“From my family, my parents. They would run my life if I let them. My mother would, anyway,” she stated. “I promised to move home last year, when my siblings and I inherited some property. We now own a bed-and-breakfast, and they wanted me to come home and help run it. But I don’t want to go back there. Like you, I’ve built a life here in Texas.”

“I hear you.”

Though Lane held a few of the traits on Whitney’s Man Menu, he was coming up short on the ones that made the biggest difference. He was definitely tall, dark and handsome. He had a college degree and owned his home. But her ideal man wasn’t supposed to drive a concrete truck. What would Kenya and Tasha think about that? No, the ideal man would own his own business or he’d be an executive at a Fortune 500 company. He wouldn’t be a blue-collar worker with calluses on his hands. Though she didn’t mind calluses so much, her friends’ husbands might notice them when he shook their hands. And her ideal man certainly wouldn’t be a divorcé with a kid. She had to draw the line somewhere. She’d taught eighth grade before and knew that preteens could be brutal, particularly the ones from broken homes. And even though she was enjoying his company tremendously, he definitely wasn’t her type.


Chapter 6 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

He walked Whitney to her car and checked to see whether or not his friend had done a decent job of knocking the dent out.

He rubbed his chin. “He did good,” he said.

“I thought so, too.”

He took note of her round hips and the way they filled her jeans just right. A Broncos T-shirt hugged her ample breasts and small waist. He tried not to stare but found it hard to peel his eyes from her.

“What do you know about cars, anyway?”

“I know enough to know that he did a good job knocking that dent out and saved me the trouble of reporting it to my insurance company.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

“The least I could I do.” He took a chance, grabbed her hand. Hoped she didn’t pull away. She didn’t. He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her. Gave her a strong hug. He felt her hands on his back. He looked down and into her eyes, gave her a warm smile. “Thank you for meeting me here.”

“Least I could do.” She smiled right back at him.

He didn’t ask for permission, just kissed her forehead. Her eyes were closed, and he was sure that she wanted more. But he took it slow. He let her go and reached for the driver’s door of her car. She hit the lock.

“Please text me when you get home.” He opened the door.

She stepped into the car, sank into the driver’s seat. “I promise.”

“Thank you. Drive safe.” He shut her door and then stepped away. Watched as she buckled her seat belt, started the engine and pulled out of her parking space.

Instantly he regretted sharing so much. He feared that he’d run her away with talk of his ex-wife. As he made his way to his truck, he also made a conscious decision to give her some space, time, whatever. But he wouldn’t pursue her. He’d been rejected once, and that was enough to last him a lifetime. He wouldn’t put himself through it again—that he knew for sure.

* * *

He tossed his keys on the coffee table, pulled his shirt over his head and hit the power on the remote control. Searched the channels for ESPN. When his phone played a tune, he pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the screen.

Made it home.

Good. Thank you for letting me know, he typed.

I had a great time.

“Even after I aired all of my dirty laundry?” he whispered to himself. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was just being cordial. It was a nice thing to say.

Me too, he replied.

Let’s do it again.

Was she serious?

I’ll call you. He typed it but knew it wasn’t true. He wouldn’t call her again. She was much too sweet, too beautiful, to get caught up with a guy like him. He had too many hang-ups, worries, troubles. She didn’t need that in her life. She appeared to have her shit together, and the last thing he wanted to do was interfere with that.

Have a good night, was all he typed. Left it at that.

Went to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

* * *

Rest didn’t come easy with a demanding job, and before he knew it, Monday morning had crept up on him. He pulled into the parking lot and backed into his usual space. Hip-hop music blasted through his speakers. He’d arrived a few minutes early, just before two in the morning—dawn nowhere in sight. So he sat there for a moment, bounced to the music. Considered sending a text to Whitney, just to say good morning, but didn’t want to wake her at such an early hour.

When someone tapped on his window, it startled him. He let the window down to find Tyler standing there in an old T-shirt, a pair of jeans and work boots.

“Hey, Lane. I’m here, ready to work.”

“Good,” said Lane. “But don’t tap on people’s windows like that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Let’s get you clocked in.” He turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. “Follow me.”

“Uncle Melvin said you always get here early. Is this the usual schedule?” asked Tyler.

“It’s whatever time they need us here. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No problem at all.”

“It means that on work nights, you can’t hang out partying with your friends. You have to take your ass to bed so you can get up in the morning.”

“I don’t even have any friends here yet. So I’m good on that.”

“Well, whenever you make friends. You need to be disciplined,” Lane lectured the young man. “And because I’m putting myself on the line for you, don’t even think about not showing up, missing work or not pulling your weight. I don’t have a problem letting you go.”

“I really need this job, man.”

“Good! We’ll see just how bad.”

“I won’t let you down. I promise.”

“All right, then. I’ll show you how to clock in, and then we’ll inspect the truck.”

“Cool.”

Lane led the way, and Tyler followed close behind. He’d reluctantly taken the supervisory position only recently, and he was already feeling as though he’d made a mistake. He didn’t like having to oversee other guys—just wanted to take care of himself. But since the previous supervisor had gone out on a disability unexpectedly, they’d asked Lane to step up in the interim.

“Just until we hire someone else,” they’d pleaded.

Five months had come and gone, and his replacement still hadn’t been hired. And on top of it, he despised the red-haired young man he had to report to. Blake was half Lane’s age—still had milk on his breath—and cocky as hell. He micromanaged his staff of supervisors. Didn’t allow them to manage their staff without interference. Lane feared that he might choke Blake if they didn’t find a replacement soon.

* * *

Tyler was a quick study. His first day went exceptionally well. Lane was pleased, and relieved. He didn’t need any other issues, and he didn’t need dissension with his best friend because he had to let Tyler go on his first day. All was well, and he gave the young man a strong handshake.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the opportunity, Lane.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Continue to do a good job, and we won’t have any problems.”

He packed his cooler into the bed of his truck. Removed his hard hat and reflective vest and threw them both into the bed, as well. Exhausted, he shrank into the driver’s seat of his truck. He exhaled and let the window down, found some good riding music. Every muscle in his body ached, and all he wanted was a cold brew. He pulled his cell phone out of the pocket of his pants and checked his text messages.

Hope you’re having a great day. He read the text from Whitney.

She’d sent it two hours prior, but he’d been busy training Tyler.

He replied, Busy. And yours?

I work with little people, remember? Busy as well. Headed home now.

Me too.

He wanted to invite her out for a quick bite to eat, but chances were he had another early morning. He wanted to see her beautiful face again but didn’t want to rush things. Needed to take it slow. He was thinking about her too much and needed to take time and analyze those thoughts. Understand them. And moreover, attempt to dismiss them.


Chapter 7 (#u29af3668-a5d8-5f91-9a55-3d455d286bb4)

Whitney unsnapped her bra. Pulled it through the sleeve of her shirt and tossed it onto the floor. She exhaled and rushed to the toilet. Her bladder had been about to burst as she’d sat in rush-hour traffic on the interstate. She’d almost run two red lights just to get home. She sat there for a moment contemplating dinner. Wondering if it was worth the effort to cook something or if she should just run out for fast food.

She’d just gotten back into her workout regimen because she knew she needed to maintain her current weight. It was imperative that she fit into her dress for Kenya’s wedding. She’d already been fitted for the flowing red gown, with the back of it sinfully low. She wanted the silky material to hug her body effortlessly and knew that those hot wings and fries might not treat her as nicely as a baked chicken breast with a side of broccoli would.

She washed her hands and headed for the kitchen. Turned on the oven. She lit a jasmine-scented candle and found some music—Jhené Aiko. She needed something mellow to wind down from the kids, and Jhené’s voice was soothing enough. After pouring herself a glass of Merlot, she seasoned a piece of chicken and tossed it into the oven.

Her phone rang, and she studied the phone number. Didn’t recognize it but decided to answer anyway.

“Hello, Whitney,” the male voice greeted her. “It’s Jason, Kenya and Will’s friend. You and I were supposed to meet at the Cheesecake Factory last week.”

“Ah, Jason.”

“I heard about your accident. I hope you’re okay.”

“I’m fine. It was just a small fender bender. Nothing serious.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Jason. “Kenya gave me your number. I hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, fine,” said Whitney as she sorted through her mail.

She opened the manila-colored envelope—a formal invitation for her brother’s wedding reception. The blessed event would take place at the Grove, her family’s B and B on Harbour Island in the Bahamas. She had only a few weeks to find a cheap flight, a nice dress and a suitable escort. She would not be going home alone—not this time.

“I would love another opportunity to take you to dinner.”

She barely heard a single word as thoughts of Lane filled her head. She wondered how he would feel about accompanying her to the islands. When another call came in, she looked at her screen. Him.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I have another call coming in, and I really need to take it. Would you mind terribly if I called you back?”

“Of course not.”

“Good! I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up before she missed the call.

“I think I dialed the wrong number,” said Lane.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“How did you manage that?”

“My phone does weird things sometimes. Like calling people randomly, just because I think about them.”

“Wow, that phone is intuitive.”

“Indeed.” His voice smiled. “Has a mind of its own.”

“How did it know that I was thinking of you at that moment?”

“That is scary,” Lane laughed. “So you were thinking of me, too?”

“Sort of.”

“How do you sort of think of someone?”

“It’s possible.”

“I don’t see how. That’s like being sort of pregnant or sort of married. You can’t sort of think of someone. You’re either thinking of them or you aren’t.”

“Okay, I was thinking of you!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” teased Lane. “And what exactly were you thinking?”

“Well, I got this invitation in the mail for my brother’s wedding reception. He remarried his ex-wife. Long story, but the point is I need a date.”

“Okay. Details.”

“It’s in the Bahamas in a few weeks, at my family’s property there. And I would completely understand if you can’t go or don’t want to.”

“I’d love to.”

She hadn’t expected that response, and so quickly. She completely figured him the type to take days and mull over things.

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not? I have plenty of vacation time. And I’ve never been to the Bahamas.”

“Well, okay. I’ll buy you a ticket, and—”

“Whoa! I can buy my own ticket.”

“Okay.” She didn’t mean to insinuate that he couldn’t. “And you’ll need a passport.”

“I have one, though I haven’t had much of an opportunity to use it,” he said. “Will I need a suit?”

“Yes. Will that be a problem?”

“No.” He was a bit hesitant. “I have a suit.”

He didn’t strike her as the suit type, but he said he had a suit. She had no reason to doubt it. She just hoped it was an appropriate one. She didn’t need any surprises. The imperious part of her wanted proof of this suit. A photograph. A description.

“Send me a pic.”

“Of the suit? Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“No, sweetheart. You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

Trust? It was something that didn’t come easy for Whitney when it pertained to men. She often ended anything that resembled a relationship before it had time to blossom. It was easier that way. And here Lane was asking her to trust him—but only with a suit, not her heart. That she could handle.




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