The Unexpected Affair

Chapter 5

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

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

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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