Fool and Her Honey (9781622860791) (3 page)

Hamilton was the first person I looked for when I got to the church grounds that Saturday, pretending to be interested in the community outreach function. I couldn't have cared less, actually, but whatever would bring me closer to getting to know Hamilton, I was willing to do. Dina and I got there early enough to help set up some tents and booths and hang out some clothes that were being sold. I made myself busy with those tasks until finally, the man I hoped to get a little face time with drove up in a late-model silver Mercedes and parked in the lot.

He stepped out, looking as gorgeous as a Hawaiian sunset, dressed in tan khaki cargo shorts, a dark blue polo shirt, and a matching pair of canvas deck shoes. His calves, shoulders, and forearms bulged with muscles that bragged of his apparent workout schedule. I tried not to stare the man down, but I couldn't help myself. Every time I tried looking away, my eyes found their way right back to wherever he was.

Hamilton soon joined a few other brothers, slapping hands with them and sharing a casual chuckle, then helping them clear a path for the car wash, which would be adjacent to where the yard sale tables had been positioned. Wanting to make sure that I wouldn't be assigned to a place farther away from him, like the hot dog stand or the kiddie area, I found the biggest box of miscellaneous items that I could and offered to sort, price, and set them out on tables.

“Chile, thank you so much, 'cause I shole didn't wanna be the one to have to go through this stuff,” said the older woman who was heading up the yard sale section.

“Whatever I can do to help.”
And get next to Hamilton.
“I don't mind at all.”

Now, I didn't throw myself at the man's feet, but from behind my shades, I treated myself to a glance every chance I got as I placed things on various tables, trying to think up a way either to get him to notice me or to approach him and not seem too obvious. I couldn't go ask him anything, because our workstations were too different and it just didn't make sense. The only thing I could think of was to “make a mistake” and knock a table over. With that in mind, I went to work placing items on four different tables, one for knickknacks, one for books, tapes, CDs, and DVDs, one for dishes, and one for pots and pans, which would be my “turnover” table. The only thing was it took me close to an hour to get my stunt set up, and by the time I did, I was as sweaty as a hound dog and tired of digging through boxes of other people's gently used trash.

I wished I had just waited until Hamilton had arrived to see where he was going to be working, then made myself available for that particular task. No doubt there were Daisy Duke and wife beater–clad women on the car wash team, bending over to fill buckets, scrub tires, wring out rags, and spray water on each other. They looked like they were having hot fun in the summertime while they worked, while I looked like somebody's greasy momma tryin'a unpack after a move.

I hadn't quite figured out exactly how I was going to knock this table over inconspicuously to get Hamilton's attention, but when I saw him playfully chasing this female with super-bouncy titties around the parking lot after she sprayed him with water, it was game on. I wasn't just gonna sit back and let her take all of my new man's attention.

Quickly, I made my move to retrieve another box of goods, not too big but not too small. I carried it over to my “noisy” table, pretended to try to sit it down, but intentionally rammed the table with it, and successfully toppled the table over. Oh, I got Hamilton's attention, all right! What I wasn't counting on was that I would actually lose my footing and tumble over the table, still holding on to the box for dear life, my ass landing inside a wok while I was clunked in the head with the top half of a double broiler. Like I'd intended, I drew plenty of attention to myself. Except, now I was deathly embarrassed, sitting on the grass in a sea of cookware. I had one flip-flop on and the other waiting to be located. My sunglasses were tilted on my face, and I had gotten an instant headache

“Oh, Lawd, oh, Lawd, ha' mercy!” I heard an older female hollering while I tried to scramble to my feet. I did see Hamilton and a few other men rushing over, and while a couple of them set the table upright again, Hamilton reached for my hand to help me up off the ground.

“You all right, sista?” he asked, trying to hold back a laugh while he helped me up.

“I think so,” I answered, my voice trembling and my knees wobbling. Nothing was hurt but my pride, but when I tried to stand, I came up with the idea to fake an ankle injury and cry out in pain and fall against Hamilton.

“I got you. I got you,” he said, reacting with precision and supporting my weight with his strong arms and chest.

Good God almighty, that man felt good against my body!
Thank you, Jesus!
I thought.
You hooked a sista up!

“Are you okay? What hurts?” he asked, quickly scanning down my body.

“My ankle,” I moaned with a fake grimace. “Owww! I'm so sorry.”

“No, no, don't apologize. Let's get you a chair. Do we have some ice anywhere?” He motioned to another brother with a head nod to go over to one of the food stations to retrieve some ice.

I'd never faked an injury before, but I had to give it to myself. I was pretty good at it. I put an arm around Hamilton's shoulders, preparing to hop to the nearest chair, and I almost melted when he circled an arm around my waist and easily swept me up into his arms. Why couldn't the chair be way across the churchyard? After taking a few steps, Hamilton eased me to the ground and helped me get settled on the chair.

“Thank you so much. Umm . . . what's your name again?”

“Hamm.”

“Thank you so much, Hamm. I'm Candis, by the way.” Instead of trying to shake his hand, like we'd done at our first meeting, I grabbed for my ankle to continue my charade.

“Well, Ms. Candis, I hope you're okay.” He stooped down at my feet and lifted my foot into his hand. “Let me take a look at it,” he said, tilting his head as he inspected my ankle and rubbing it slightly.

“Ssssss,” I said with an inhale, and not because it hurt, but because his hands felt so damn good on my skin.

“Hurts, huh?”

“Whew!” I said, instead of straight-out lying.

“Girl, what happened to you?” Dina asked, coming up from wherever she'd been.

“I think I sprained my ankle.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“I don't even know how it happened.” Now, that part was true. How in the world did I trip over my own two feet and practically flip over a table?

“By the time Hamm finishes putting his sports therapy on you, I'm sure you will be okay,” Dina assured me.

“You're a physical therapist?” I asked, grinning inside.

“Yeah. I work with the Cardinals,” he answered, referencing Arizona's National Football League team.

Oh yeah! This dude was just what I was looking for. He was handsome, he had money, he had a solid career, and he didn't mind nurturing a woman. Suddenly, my tumble over the table was worth every bit of embarrassment.

He took a plastic bag of ice and placed it over my uninjured ankle. “Here. Hold this. Let me go get an ACE bandage so we can get it wrapped up. It doesn't look like it's broken.”

“Okay,” I said, complying. “Thank you, Hamm.”

“No problem. I'll be right back,” he said, standing to walk to his car.

“I can't take you nowhere.” Dina shook her head.

“I know, girl. You got me out here rolling all over the grass, looking a hot mess.”

“So what happened?”

“Some kind of way, I fell over a table.”

“You fell over a table?” she repeated, then burst into laughter. “I wish I could have seen that!”

“You didn't miss anything.” While we chatted, I watched the bouncy-titty girl follow Hamm to his car, stand there for a few minutes, then go back to her post. I was going to have to find out if that was his girlfriend.

Hamilton and I had been talking almost daily ever since my fake injury. He'd even dropped by the house a couple of times to check on me and my ankle. I grinned like a man in a strip club whenever I saw his number light up the face of my cell phone, and this time was no different.

“How's that ankle of yours?” he asked.

“I'm much better, thanks to you,” I answered. “Thank you again so much.”

“It's no problem. It's what I do.”

“So you work with the Cardinals, huh? I bet you've seen all kinds of injuries.”

“Yeah, I have. Those guys take some really nasty hits out there on the field and do some serious damage to their bodies almost every game.”

“I can tell,” I replied. “Football is no joke.”

“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I'm a professional photographer.”

“Sweet. Where do you work?”

“I have my own studio.” It felt so good to say that. Made me seem impressive, I thought.

“That's great! Have you ever thought about doing sports photography?”

“Not really.”

“You should come out sometime to a practice or something and catch some action shots and see how you like it.”

Was he asking me out on a date? That was what it sounded like to me in a roundabout way. And if he was asking, I definitely was going to take him up on it.

“The Cardinals let just anybody into their practices?” I needed him to be more forward with his asking, just in case I was reading him wrong.

“Not exactly, but I know a person that can get you in if you're interested.”

“Hmm . . . What does this person look like?” I teased.

“He's, ummm, kinda handsome, a little over six feet, got a few muscles, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Matter fact, I think you might have met him a while back, when you fell on top of some pots and stuff,” he said, laughing.

“Oh, gosh! You mean some handsome man other than you saw that too?” I complemented on the sly.

“Naw, just me, just me.”

“That was just so mortifying.”

“We all have our moments,” he said and chuckled.

“Anyway! Can you tell the handsome guy you know that I'd love to go with him to one of those practices?”

“I should be talking to him later on today. I'll see what I can get worked out.”

“Sounds great,” I said with a smile. “Maybe he and I can get together before the week is out.”

“Oh yeah, he will definitely have time this week.”

“Cool!”

“All right, well, I'm going to get back out here on this field. . . .”

“And I'm going to get back to editing my photos,” I threw in, suddenly realizing that I'd lost control of the call and he was trying to end the call with me, instead of the other way around. “My plate is so full.”

“Okay, well, I will call you back this afternoon with a time for later this week.”

“If you don't mind, Hamm, can you text me? I have a shoot later on, and I won't be able to answer.”

“Oh, okay.”

After ending the call, I did a little dance around my studio, excited about the possibilities of dating a new man. A new handsome man who had something going for himself. Yeah. I was liking this church thing. It was working out all right.

 

 

As promised, Hamm texted me later that afternoon, offering to pick me up on Thursday, at one o'clock, to take me to the University of Phoenix Stadium for a working date. Although I read the text right away, I didn't confirm until three hours later, then asked if we could make it two o'clock instead, so I wouldn't seem completely available.

Thursday seemed to take forever to come around, but when it came, I was ready. I dressed in a pair of tight capri sports pants that rose to only hip level and a stretchy tank that bared my midriff. I pulled on my Nikes, pulled my hair back like I was going jogging, and loaded my camera bag with a few necessary tools to play around and capture some great shots . . . not of the team, but of Hamm.

It was only a few minutes after two when I saw his car pull up in the lot. Then my cell rang, displaying his number.

“Hey, Candis,” he said. “I'm outside in the parking lot. You ready?”

“Yep, I'm on my way,” I answered, a bit disappointed that he hadn't gotten out of his car and walked to the door. “Don't make it too serious, Candis,” I whispered to myself. “Start as friends. It's all good.”

I bounded down the stairs to his car, walked up to the door, and got inside.

“The way you came flying down those stairs, I guess that ankle is really all healed up,” he said, glancing down at my feet.

I'd forgotten just that quickly that I was supposed to be getting over an injury. “Yeah, it's been feeling pretty good for the past few days.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. Have you eaten yet?”

“Not lunch. I had a bagel a few hours ago for breakfast.”

“Well, you need to keep your body fed,” he said, glancing down at my abs. “Let's grab something before we get out there to the field.”

With my agreement, we stopped at Chipotle Mexican Grill to grab a couple of burritos, then headed out to Glendale. Hamm took me through the employee gate and gave me a tour of the locker room before we went out to where the players were.

“You sure they won't mind me taking photos?”

“Nah. You're with me. It's cool.”

I'd never seen so many hard-bodied men so up close and in my reach in my life. Their bodies glistened with sweat, and muscles popped out everywhere on several of them, while a few of them had some rolls that folded over the top of their pants. As taken as I was with Hamm, I found myself lost in a wonderland of flesh and had a great time capturing the players catching and throwing the ball and running up and down the field. Hamm even took me up close and personal, and I got to meet a few of the players and actually shake their hands. I kept my wits about me and didn't act a complete fool, but I was a little starstruck.

“Let me get a few shots of you, Hamm,” I requested as together we walked toward the stands.

“You want pictures of little old me? Shucks, I ain't nobody.”

“If it weren't for you, I might be walking with a limp right now,” I said and laughed, still living out my lie from community day.

“I'm sure you know how to get yourself medical attention when it's necessary. You would have been just fine had I not been around.”

“Maybe so, but not without an exorbitant medical bill to go with it,” I replied, pointing the camera at him. “And I definitely wouldn't have been swept off my feet and have found myself resting comfortably in the doctor's arms.”

“Oh, you liked that, huh?” He smiled and came toward me with his arms ready to lift me. I practically jumped in his arms this time, except instead of assuming a cradle position, I wrapped my legs at his waist. “Whoa!” he exclaimed, grabbing my thighs and holding me up.

“What? Am I too heavy?”

“Not at all,” he whispered in a tone that suggested he was perfectly fine with my weight and positioning.

“How long do you think you could hold me like this?” I winked.

Backing me into a wall and pushing his hips forward, he answered, “We can find out. I'm pretty strong, you know.” With a quick shift, he raised me up into his arms, bringing my pelvis up to his chest, and then proposed lifting me even higher than that.

“Okay, okay, let me down,” I ordered and giggled. “Let me down.”

“Oh, don't get scared now.” He seductively bit his bottom lip and glanced at my breasts, which were just a quick jerk away from his face.

“Being scared is not what I'm scared of.”

“What is it, then?” he asked, still threatening to toss me up around his neck so that my crotch would meet his face.

“I don't want your girlfriend to catch us. She might not appreciate me too much.”

“If I had one, you'd have something to worry about.”

“So you're not seeing anyone?” I asked, not wanting to make assumptions about his answer.

“Not at all,” he said, looking up at me. “How do I know your boyfriend is not going to come popping up from around the corner, wondering what you're doing up in my arms?”

“If I had one, you'd have something to worry about,” I answered with a wink.

“In that case, I think I could hold you like this all night, every night.”

But just a few nights and a few dinners later, that “all night, every night” became a thing of the past--and so did Hamm. Regardless of my calls and texts, it was like Hamm and I had never even met. Even when I went to church after that, Hamm avoided me like an STD. Couldn't get him to call me back if my quasi-sprained ankle depended on it. I was more embarrassed now than I had been when I'd fallen. I'd quickly and easily given myself away, thinking that somebody like Hamm, a churchgoing, worshipping man, would have more respect for me, or for the situation, than to just completely dis me. That was what those no-good busters in the street did, but I didn't expect that from a church guy.

I'd played myself, but lesson learned. Church or no church, all men were after only one thing, and after they got it, they were gone.