The Unexpected Affair Page 2

  “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

  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

  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.