The Unexpected Affair Read online

  “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.

  “Okay, but don’t show up in anything powder blue, or with ruffles.”

  Lane laughed. “Should I wear white socks, or no?”

  “Not a good look.”

  “Okay, I’ll make sure I don’t wear anything powder blue or ruffles or white socks.”

  “Whew! Now that we got that cleared up.”

  “Right. Now we can move on to Friday night.”

  “What’s happening Friday night?”

  “Well, I have these tickets to the Mavs game. Center court. I could take Melvin, but I’d really rather take you.”

  “Seriously? Are you sure you don’t wanna go with your buddy? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “No imposition,” he said. “And besides, you’re much prettier than he is.”

  “Okay, I’ll have to agree with you there,” she said. “I guess it’s a date.”

  “I guess so.”

  His smile lingered in her head long after she’d hung up the phone. Lately, he was spending too much time there—in her head—and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  Chapter 8

  Loud screams and stomping—those were the sounds that filled the American Airlines Center. Lane carried their beers as he cautiously followed Whitney to their seats at center court. He was always able to snag good seats. He’d done work for very influential people, like pouring concrete for a good friend of Mark Cuban’s. He was even able to get good playoffs tickets as a result.

  Whitney spotted their seats and slid into the row, which happened to be on the end. It was the beginning of the first quarter, and Lane checked the clock as he plopped down into his seat. He handed Whitney her beer and took note of how beautiful she looked in her college T-shirt and baseball cap turned backward on her head. Her jeans were snug and hugged those hips he was growing fond of. He couldn’t help watching them as they bounced with each step when he’d followed her to their seats.

  He took a long sip of his beer and adjusted his ball cap, which was also turned backward on his head. He wasn’t really a Mavericks fan, but tonight he was. Especially since he wasn’t particularly fond of the Memphis Grizzlies. He watched as Dirk Nowitzki stood at the free-throw line, bounced the ball a few times and sank it into the basket. Fans yelled and stomped as Dirk sprinted downcourt afterward.

  “You good?” he asked Whitney. “You need anything else from the concession stand?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  He was happy that she was a sports fan. It was refreshing, really, considering he lived and breathed sports. She watched the game with the intensity of a true spectator. She was cheering for the Grizzlies.

  “You’re a Grizzlies fan?” he asked.

  “I noticed that you were going for the Mavs, so I thought I’d go for the opposite team. Give you a run for your money.” She flashed that smile that he was becoming addicted to.

  “So how much you got on it?” he asked.

  “I got five on it.”

  He reached his hand out to shake hers. “Not much of a big spender.”

  “Okay, ten.”

  “How about something worth a little more, like a kiss?” He dared to throw that into the wager.

  “On the cheek or the lips?”

  “Lips,” he said emphatically.

  “With tongue?”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “Okay, ten plus a kiss.”

  “Cool.” He knew that win or lose, he was a winner.

  They shook on it. He was going to enjoy taking her money and her kisses at the end of the night. He knew the Memphis Grizzlies didn’t stand a chance at winning. He grinned, sank deeper into his seat and took another drink of his beer.

  * * *

  He pulled his Ford F-150 into the driveway of her condo. He hopped out of the cab and headed around to her door. By the time he got there, she’d already jumped out of the truck.

  “I was coming around to open the door for you. I tried it when we got to the game, too, but you’d already hopped out of the truck,” he stated. “Not used to a man being a gentleman?”

  “I guess I just didn’t expect it from...”

  “From a guy like me?”

  She hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m always misjudged.” A half smile played in the corner of his mouth as he followed her to the front door. “My mama taught me to be a gentleman, though.”

  “I see that.” She searched for her key and, once she found it, unlocked the door. Turned to him. “You wanna come in?”

  “Sure.”

  They stepped inside. The light scent of jasmine was in the air. Her place was neat and cozy. Clean, with its mahogany hardwoods and walls painted in warm colors. A white leather sectional was the focal point of the living room. Essence and Ebony magazines were arranged neatly on the coffee table. Multicolored pillows were everywhere. The bookshelf was filled with books of every genre. Beautiful African art adorned her walls. She had taste, he thought.

  “Nice place. Why are you leaving?”

  “I’m leasing here. And on top of it, I need a bigger space for my baby grand.”

  That’s when he noticed the beautiful white piano in the corner of the room, taking up a great deal of her living space.

  “I see. That’s a serious piano.”

  “I’m a serious musician.”

  “One day you’ll sing for me.”

  “I suppose I will.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “I don’t have beer,” she stated as she dropped her purse on the counter and slipped her sneakers from her feet. “I have soda, juice, rum and vodka.”

  “Well, you just said the magic word. Vodka. That’s my drink.” He took a seat on the sofa. “You have cranberry juice, by chance?”

  “You’re in luck. I do.” She smiled. “Make yourself at home, and I’ll fix us a drink.”

  He sat on the edge of the sofa closest to the television and resisted the urge to reach for the remote control and search for ESPN. Instead he stood and walked over to her stereo and turned it on. It was a vintage piec
e, the kind that played old-school albums as well as CDs.

  “This is nice,” he said.

  “I found it at my little antiques store in Plano,” she said. “A rare piece. I like to collect rare pieces.”

  “Nice.”

  “Find us some music,” she said as she carried drinks into the living room, placed them on coasters on the coffee table.

  She sat on the sofa, her legs curled underneath her as she watched him. He sorted through her collection of albums, and when he found one, he looked at her and smiled. She tried to pretend that she hadn’t been staring, but he knew she had. She was sizing him up, he thought—trying to see if he fit the bill. He caught her eye and then slipped the album from its cover and placed it on the record player.

  “What do you know about this?” he asked as Donny Hathaway’s voice resonated through the room.

  “What do you know about it?” she asked and took a sip of her wine.

  “I know that my mother used to wear him out when I was younger,” he said. “Every Friday night, a game of cards and old music. Mostly the blues, but some artists like Donny Hathaway, Marvin Gaye and a few others.”

  “My parents entertained a lot. But I grew up listening to old Bahamian artists. George Symonette, especially.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s okay. I listened to enough of him for the both of us.” She laughed. “It was only in college that I discovered some of the old-school American artists like Donny, Marvin and others. My girlfriend Kenya has an old soul and used to play their music.”

  “I see.” He relaxed on the sofa again, took a sip of his drink. “She has good taste.”

  “She does,” said Whitney. “It took me a while to locate some of those old albums, but my brother Nate lives in Atlanta and found a record store that sells them.”

  “How many siblings do you have?” he asked, and regretted it. He knew that asking about her siblings would only lead to her asking about his.

  “It’s six of us. I have three brothers and two sisters. Most of us live in the States, except for my younger sister, Jasmine, who runs our B and B on Harbour Island. And my sister Alyson, who now lives in the islands, too,” she said. “Once upon a time, I was supposed to go back to there and help run our family business, but that didn’t happen.”

  “You don’t want to return to the islands.” He remembered her mentioning it before. “Why not?”

  “Not for good. I kind of like Texas. I’ve gotten settled here,” she said.

  “Me, too,” said Lane.

  “How many siblings do you have?” she inquired.

  His heart began to beat at a fast pace. It was a subject that he hated to talk about. Siblings. And especially his brother. He knew that he’d have to tell her about Tye one day, but tonight wouldn’t be it.

  “There were three of us. I had two older brothers, Clint and Tye. Clint lives in Saint Louis. My brother Tye is deceased.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s okay.”

  He knew he had to change the subject, and quick. Talk of Tye always changed his mood and he didn’t want that tonight. They’d had a great night. Besides the fact that the Mavericks had lost and he’d lost the bet, he was having a nice night. He figured he’d won anyway, because before the night was over, he’d be getting kissed real good. That is, if she didn’t renege on their wager.

  She must’ve sensed his discomfort. “You owe me ten bucks!” she exclaimed.

  He stood, dug into the pocket of his jeans. Pulled out a wad of cash, removed the money clip. He peeled a ten-dollar bill from the stack and handed it to her. “Happy?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “You owe me a kiss, as well.”

  He held his hand out to her. She reached for it and he pulled her up from the sofa. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her into him. The fragrance she wore was intoxicating. His nose touched hers and electricity rushed through his body. His lips found hers. He kissed her and then parted her lips with his tongue and allowed it to dance inside her mouth—just as he’d promised.

  Chapter 9

  She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually on Saturday morning, she would be up, preparing a protein shake before heading to the gym. She usually had a laundry list of errands that needed to be run. But this morning, she relaxed. Thoughts of Lane danced in her head. She thought of how those strong arms had wrapped themselves tightly around her. It felt good there—safe. She thought of his dark face and silky, smooth skin. His smile had brightened the room more than it already had been. And his kiss was sweeter than she could remember a kiss being before. Her hormones had stirred when his tongue danced in her mouth. That never happened.

  Whatever this was she was feeling, she needed to dismiss it. She’d invited him to the islands, but only because she needed a date. After that, they’d go their separate ways and she’d go back to life as she knew it. He wasn’t her type. She knew it. He had barely any of the traits on her Man Menu. Sure, he had potential, but she was so tired of running into guys who had potential. She needed a complete package. She had no desire of bringing anyone up to speed or waiting around for someone to live up to her standards. Yes, she had standards. And if she didn’t stand by them, then what was the point of having them?

  She got up, washed and moisturized her face. Pulled her hair into a ponytail and headed to the kitchen to brew a pot of Ethiopian coffee—the kind that she special-ordered from a local roaster. She loved how the aroma filled her home. She would pass on the gym workout—didn’t feel much like lifts, squats or crunches. And her errands could wait. Instead she needed a new swimsuit for the beach. And she wondered if Patrice, her hairstylist, could fit her in for a last-minute appointment. She looked at her nails and thought she could use a manicure, and her toes needed a pedicure, like, months ago. A couple of new outfits wouldn’t hurt either.

  She expected Patrice’s shop to be packed on a Saturday morning. And it was. There was barely anywhere to sit in the waiting area. But she was grateful that she was able to fit her in, though she would pay for it with the long wait. Luckily, Kenya and Tasha were both there for their standing Saturday-morning appointments. At least she’d have someone to talk to while waiting. She snagged a seat in between them.

  “Well, look who’s here,” said Tasha. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

  “I know.” She gave her friend a tight squeeze. “How have you been, honey?”

  “Not bad. Work is a beast!”

  “I’m still coming by to see you about my portfolio. I’d like to do some rearranging of my investments,” said Whitney.

  “Please do, sweetie. We really need to get your portfolio in order. You won’t be young enough to run around chasing five-year-olds forever, you know?”

  “Plan for the future. I know.”

  “What are you doing here?” Kenya asked. “This is your gym time.”

  “I know, but I needed my hair done,” said Whitney as she held out her hands in front of her friend, “and these nails.”

  “You couldn’t care less about your nails. I usually have to drag you to the nail shop kicking and screaming.”

  “Well, the time has come that I can’t neglect them any longer.”

  “They are pretty bad, Whit.” Tasha grabbed her hand to give her nails a closer look.

  “You’re up to something!” said Kenya, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Is there a man involved?” asked Tasha.

  “You talked to Jason, didn’t you?” Kenya asked.

  “Who’s Jason?” Tasha was on the edge of her seat by then.

  “He’s Will’s friend.” Kenya grinned. “A real cutie! Owns his own business. Has just about every damn thing on our Man Menu.”

  “Really?” Tasha smiled wickedly. “Do tell.”


  “There’s nothing to tell.” Whitney decided not to tell them that they had it completely wrong.

  It wasn’t Jason who had her switching up her entire routine, fussing over hair and nails, her hormones completely out of whack. No, she’d barely even talked to Jason. But she was enjoying the fact that they didn’t have a clue.

  “Is he going with you to the Bahamas? To your brother’s reception?” Kenya asked.

  “You’re taking a man to the Bahamas?” asked Tasha. “Do you even know him like that?”

  “Oh my God, how romantic! I wish I could get Will to take me to one of those exotic islands. I need a vacation so desperately.”

  “Yes, you do!” Whitney finally got a word in edgewise. “You’re going to Bermuda for your honeymoon.”

  “I know, but that’s so far away.”

  “Your wedding will be here before you know it.” Whitney gave her friend a warm smile and grabbed her hand.

  She was genuinely happy for Kenya, though she knew that the couple would have challenges in their impending marriage. Will was married to his career. Barely had time to take Kenya to a movie, or even out for a bite to eat. She’d spent many a night with Kenya—the two of them sipping on a bottle of Riesling as Kenya poured her heart out about how neglected she felt. She was under the impression that marriage would somehow repair their problems or fill the gap between them. Whitney knew that it wouldn’t, but she didn’t have the courage to break her friend’s heart.

  Will was always going to be a workaholic. Just as Tasha’s husband, Louis, was always going to be a womanizer. And the thought of both men shook Whitney to her core. Watching her friends endure such pain in their relationships was what made her steer clear of anything that looked like a commitment. She guarded her heart like the Secret Service guarded the president of the United States—with her life. With her friends she pretended to look for that perfect man who had every single quality on her Man Menu—but secretly she hoped that she never found him. And if any guy ever came close, she looked for something—the smallest something—that would disqualify him.

  “When do you leave?” asked Kenya.

  “In a couple of weeks.”