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.
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
