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.
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