A Date With Fate (6 page)

This tough-looking man staring at me across my store was certainly no male model. I hadn’t heard him speak, and knew nothing about him. I know men, I really like men, and men do not make me lose my cool and get all electrified and turned on for no reason other than a mere glance.

I’ve discovered a few facts about myself over the years. One fact is--I don’t have personal preferences what a man must look like before I will go out with him. I’ve come to accept the truth (by being bored to death) that often fabulous-looking men have more hair than wit. They can make me plot an early escape from a date. Conversely, an average Joe with a clever sense of humor can become irresistibly attractive upon getting to know him better.

Sure, some men are hot and can appeal right away. And some women will do a one-nighter with a man they have just met. A drive-by has never been my thing.

No, it takes a whole lot more than the excruciatingly boring pick-up scenario of a player to get me interested in getting naked. The routine of first staring at me across the room, then ignoring me, then finally talking to me by telling me a corny joke or giving a compliment, is so irritatingly lacking. I think a predator out only to get laid is such a tired cliché. I waste no time telling them not to waste their time on me. The actual sex with the drive-by man has to be described as underwhelming at best. Or so I’ve been repeatedly told in confidence from far too many women.

Nope, I need a dude to have real brains and lots of personality to interest me in even a first date, much less get me aroused to start with the stripping. I know this makes me sound like I think I’m all that. I cannot deny I’ve been told I’m conceited, arrogant, and definitely too picky--by both sexes. I’ve been called cold, cruel, and frigid, although never all three at once.

These kinds of comments make me smile and shake my head.

Here’s the deal; arrogant me simply can’t imagine deserving anything less then what I want. Why it’s considered conceited because I have some self respect and standards is beyond me. The picky part; I can’t help guys with brains and a personality aren’t plentiful. I would love to find men so described under every stone and rock. I’m sure were that the case, women would leave none unturned across the globe. If any man thinks I am frigid or cold; they are one hundred and fifty percent accurate. If speaking up, saying no, and knowing your own mind is perceived as cruel by those on the other end of the stick, I’m okay with being cruel.

Except for one awful aberration in my late teens, I have been unapologetically playing the field, staying single, and loving it. Guys chase as they will, but never catch me for long. I didn’t want to be caught then, and I don’t want to be caught now.

My attitude goes as far back as pre-school days where my first devotee, Bucky Mitchell, would throw a fit and not go to school unless I picked him up on my way. It’s my belief I skipped kindergarten and went directly to first grade just to avoid his possessiveness, and not because I could read and write like NanaBel claims.

So sitting in my store last April while minding my business, you can bet your bottom dollar I was confoundedly stunned to find myself aroused from receiving a mere glance sent in my direction by this man, a total stranger. My female parts didn’t give a rip if the man could add two plus two, spell the word dog, or even get a basic knock-knock joke.

Was I experiencing my first attack of extreme pheromones I’d read so much about over the years? Whatever it was, it felt revoltingly exhilarating.

Heating up, and then fanning my cheeks in metamorphic agitation, I watched the man reach into his jacket pocket and check his cell. He quickly glanced back up and looked directly at me. He appeared to hesitate, but then turned around abruptly and left the book shop.

I let out a whoosh of a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. I felt like I’d just dodged a bullet. If the chimes hadn’t banged loudly against the glass of the door behind him, I might have believed he had been an apparition of crazy, lustful thinking on a rainy, spring day.

If they had witnessed my girly reaction to this stranger, anybody close to me could not be blamed one bit for serving me up a heaping plate of crow. Somehow, it slipped my mind and I never mentioned it to anyone back then.

Then, there I was in Reggie’s yard a few months later in September. That same man I determinedly forgot was now only two feet away. I was on the fence about seeing him once again because I like my life uncomplicated. I wasn’t sure if I was ecstatic or depressed to be experiencing the same horribly stunned reactions as before.

One thing I do know; turnabout is fair play. It was only natural I’d take a moment to swiftly check out the man of my pheromone-induced, nightmare of a daydream.

From the angle I was standing, I didn’t even have to squint to see the left hand holding his coffee mug. There was no wedding ring or white skin line. Not that an absence of a ring proved he wasn’t married. Men willing to cheat were obviously sneaky by definition and married men were the best at it, or the worst, depending on your opinion of cheaters. Married men are absolutely off limits to me, no exceptions.

I’d guess him at early to mid-thirties. His better-be-single eyes were bottle green under black, slightly arched brows. His wide mouth and full lower lip were surprisingly sensual against the harsh lines of his face. My next thought was his eyes and lips were the only pretty things about him. Everything else shouted hard-bodied, aggressive male. Exactly the kind of man I usually high-tailed it away from, as fast and far as my little legs could run.

He was dressed in a faded black T-shirt, paint-spackled jeans, and work boots. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him anywhere that I could see in my peripheral version. He glowed with strength and vitality. I would try not to hold that against him. The not an ounce of fat part, that is. The vitality was hotter than hell.

I exercise most days and watch what I eat, but there’s no getting around the fact I’m more petite centerfold than runway model. From the tightly leashed energy emanating from his being, I bet my lean, broad shouldered, mystery man had to consume enormous amounts of calories to keep at a normal weight. Some people are born under a lucky star. I would eat my weight in chocolate éclairs every day if I had such a metabolism. Well, truthfully, it would be a split--fifty two pounds each--between chocolate éclairs and frosted sugar cookies.

He was bronzed a dark tan everywhere I could see in a way men seem to get when they spend a lot of time outdoors with their shirts off. His silky, thick hair was cut short to his head and mussed on top. It was deep black and shined brilliantly even in the leaf-filtered sunlight. He was lean cheeked with a high bridged, distinctively bold nose reminiscent of a swarthy Greek or Italian somewhere in his gene pool. Contributing to the badass look was black stubble covering the lower half of his face and strong, square chin. Dressed in work clothes and needing to shave, he still portrayed an aura of the sharp professional dressed down for the weekend, not a biker dude.

With his flexed arm holding his mug, I saw he had impressive pipes. Since we are objectifying here, I have to confess muscular arms absolutely do it for me. A tattoo or three could possibly send me over the edge.

This wasn’t a man I’d call cute or handsome or a hottie. Fierce suited him with his air of coiled intensity and his dramatic, dark coloring. His likeness could be depicted in a mythology book when illustrating Mars, the Roman war-god.

Practice makes perfect. I am expert at keeping a poker face as these incredibly detailed impressions of the man streamed across my third eye mind. Inside, I was recoiling in disgust at my helpless fascination with everything about him.

I serenely continued admiring the most gorgeous of all trucks before finally breaking the hormonally charged silence and answering.

“Yes, it’s very, very pretty. The paint job really rocks, and man, those are some sweet rims. I mean, what’s not to love about a 6.2 liter V8?” I flashed him my change-my-light-bulb-pretty-please smile. “I know it’s none of my business, but would you please tell me what you paid for it; down to the last penny?”

His green-eyed gaze was amused, if also warmly appraising. “Wow, impressive. So, you’re a woman who knows her trucks. I think the wheels are particularly awesome, too.” Pausing, he looked me in the eye. “And you’re also right; it’s none of your business what I paid for it.”

His immediate, wide grin took the sting out of his blunt words. I flashed a sunny, sympathetic smile back in acknowledgement of his temporary rights to deny me.

‘Ah, the dumb guy probably paid the dealer’s “bottom price” anyway, and was too embarrassed to admit it.’

He took his time and blew across his hot coffee, did a test sip, and winced dramatically. He then focused on me, and again I felt the power of his stare hit me over the head.

‘Whoa!
Okay, this was some serious, force field level magnetism going on here
.’

I had to practically physically brace myself not to be pulled into the tractor beam of his charisma. I wanted to beg him to go steady, or be my valentine, or take me to a homecoming dance somewhere—I was crushing like an innocent schoolgirl that hard, that fast. It was nauseating, confusing, mesmerizing, and not to be tolerated.

His black-lashed eyes were not only beautiful, but shined with a lively intelligence and, dare I pray, humor? I hoped this was true. Poor war-god, from the way I was reacting he’d need a very healthy sense of humor in his immediate future, and the smarts to understand what hit him.

After his studied pause—the pause I felt not the slightest need to rush to fill—he smiled slowly and continued, “But the pretty comment was about you.”

I smiled a little sideways at him, but otherwise ignored his flirting for a moment. I sighed gustily. I put my whole body into it. I’m not too shabby at drama myself.

“Well, if that isn’t a blasted shame.”

War-god’s eyes glinted, but didn’t stray from my face during my full body sigh. “Oh yeah, what’s a shame?”

“This is the exact truck I wanted to buy. I have been scoping it for the last two weeks. Now, you have it.”

I gave the truck one last, covetous glance, and then resignedly shrugged. I got a firm grip on the heavy basket handle and walked past him to the front porch stairs. He came after me and motioned to take the basket from my arm. He looked confused at my comment, but game.

“Here, wait a sec, let me carry that for you. I’m Luke Drake, by the way. Pardon me if I’m slow, but why is it a blasted shame if I have this truck?”

I was on the stair above him when I relinquished the basket with a smile at his good manners. I guesstimated he was about five-ten or eleven. My wedge heels and the extra stair height put us at eye level.

“Hi, I’m Anabel Axelrod.” I automatically put out my right hand for a friendly shake, but Luke’s were presently both occupied with the mug of coffee and the basket. “Oh, I’m a little bummed right now. I’ll never know what price I could have talked them down to at the dealership for this truck.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that?” Luke asked, somewhat distractedly. He was transferring the awkward basket over to his left arm, preparing to politely shake my hand in return.

“Isn’t it kind of creepy to go buy the same exact truck of a man I want to date?” I rushed on hopefully, “But maybe you don’t think that would be too cutesy if we drove twin trucks?”

I saw when the meaning of my words hit home.

His eyes shot up to stare at me.

I smiled shyly and blinked.

My badass wolf burst out laughing.

My smile went huge.

I really love it when my instincts are spot on. I had hit the seldom seen, nearly extinct trifecta of manly muscles, intelligence, and humor.

Luke started to answer, but then the front screen door banged sharply. We both turned to look as my brother came out onto the porch.

Walking towards us, Reggie called, “Hey, if it isn’t the most favorite of all my sisters! I thought I heard your Jeep.” Eyeing the food, he rubbed his hands together. “So, what have you brought me?”

Reg gave me an affectionate, one-armed squeeze around the waist while checking out the basket on Luke’s arm. He grabbed and opened the Northfield Bakery pink bag holding the chocolate chip cookies.

He took a deep whiff. “Either these smell almost edible or I’m hungrier than I thought.”

I hadn’t actually baked the cookies myself but based on general principle, I casually rubbed my cheek with my middle finger. It was a private gesture of affection for my brother. Luke glanced up from the basket just in time to catch me being sisterly.

Reggie chuckled at my blush. “Luke, meet my sister.” He relieved Luke of the basket. “Junior, meet Luke Drake. Luke’s my new neighbor down the road. He’s inherited Ben Drake’s farm.” Reggie noticed my blank expression. “You know, Junior, the farm that has the toy John Deere combine mounted on the mailbox. Old Ben was your uncle, right Luke?”

“Great uncle.” Luke absently answered my brother.

I wasn’t listening much to Reggie, either. I ignored the questioning gleam in my brother’s blue eyes as he looked from me to Luke. I also ignored his brief, knowing smirk shot my way before he waved to the screen door. “Let’s head inside and go to the deck.”

I went up the steps, feeling the searing intensity of Luke’s gaze on my back with every step. “Thanks for the intro, but Luke and I have met.” I flashed a mischievous glance at Luke over my shoulder. “He knows I want his…truck.”

I didn’t wait for the men, but walked ahead into the house to get supplies from the kitchen. I could hear the low rumble of Reggie’s voice behind me on the porch stairs saying something that caused Luke to laugh out loud.

I rolled my eyes. He was probably being a traitor to the blood and warning Luke not to let me near his truck. I have a slight problem with curbs. One of the few side effects I live with as a result of poor vision in my left eye. That’s my story and I am sticking to it.

I used the Omnipotent Sister trick and called back to him through the screen. “I heard that, Reg. Good thing you have three other ‘most favorite’ sisters who get their tushes out of bed and bake for you.”