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.
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
