Driving Heat (16 page)

He’d thought about her all day long, and by the time his shift ended, Byron had designed the perfect evening to make his girl feel better. Okay, admittedly with a little help from his little brother, Barry, the family’s Romeo. If Byron could do anything, it was give props where they were due. There was no way he would have come up with the idea to book an in-home spa treatment for Cynthia, along with a personal chef to prepare her and Jayden’s dinner. His first thought would have been that he couldn’t afford it and wondered how his barely working brother even knew of such things. With Byron’s knowledge and connections, however, the entire night had cost him less than two hundred dollars. Cynthia opening up to him last night had reeled him in all the way. That she would tell him what hadn’t even been shared with her girls showed a rare confidence in him as a man, and a friend. It was the kind of vibe that existed between Willie and Liz, where attributes such as love and loyalty existed without question and beyond all doubt. He couldn’t count the number of times when during a disagreement with his mom, he’d enlisted the help of his father and heard, “Watch yourself, buddy. If I hadn’t known her, then I wouldn’t know you now. That’s the order in this house. She comes first.”

Byron would slink to his room, mumbling about his poor, arduous, unfair life. But on occasion, he’d stay around long enough to witness the light his father’s declaration put in his mother’s eye. And he’d vow that when he had a wife, he’d say the same thing.

He got into his SUV, turned it on, and turned on the air conditioner. Then he pulled out his cell phone to put tonight’s plan in motion. The call went to voice mail. Disappointed, but not deterred, he left a message.

“Cynthia. Hey, baby, it’s me. I was hoping to catch you, find out how you’re recovering from our after-hours rendezvous. I hated to leave you and found myself thinking about you all day, and how it would be to wake up to your beautiful face more often.

“I know last night was an exception; plus, we both need our sleep. So as much as I’d like to see you tonight, I know it’s not possible. But I still wanted to be a part of your evening, so I hope you get this message before taking Jayden out to eat. I’ve made arrangements for you to, uh, to have y’alls’ meal delivered tonight. So call me when that happens. Matter of fact, call me when you get this. I want to hear your voice. You’ve got me gripped, girl. All right, then. Bye.”

A short time later, he pulled into his driveway. His neighbor, Miss Margie, was busy in her flower garden, pulling the weeds away from “her babies.”

“Hey there, Miss Margie.”

She stood straight and removed a worn straw hat to wipe her brow. “Hey now, Byron. What you know good?”

“Another day, another dollar.”

“After the tax man gets it, you’ll only have fifty cents.”

“Ha! That’s about right. Tyra inside?”

“Yeah, she wanted to stay out here with me and plant her namesake. But I told her she wasn’t going to use me as an excuse for why her work wasn’t finished. Kids think they’re the first ones to try and run game. I’ve forgotten more ways to get over on folks than she’ll ever know.”

Byron walked over to inspect her vibrant flower bed boasting a variety of colors: red, yellow, purple, pink, lavender, and hearty green. “One of these plants is called Tyra?”

Miss Margie smiled. “Well, not quite. But these”—she pointed to a grouping of beautiful burnt orange flowers with magenta spots or yellow starbursts at the root—“these are called tiger lilies. I just renamed them Tyra’s lilies.”

Byron reached over and gave his neighbor a spontaneous hug. “Thank God for you, Miss Margie, seriously. Being the primary parent isn’t easy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I know what I’d do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d spend more time courting that pretty lady who came over one time in that fine silver car and didn’t get back to it until two days later.”

The good thing about nosy neighbors? They saw everything that went on around them, which was also the bad thing about them. Unable to think of an appropriate response to this comment, Byron became very interested in Tyra’s lily.

“Look, I wasn’t always old and wrinkled. Been married four times and have five kids.”

Byron didn’t try and hide his surprise. “You have kids? How have I lived next to you all these years and not known that?”

“Probably because they’re not worth the energy it took to push each one of them out. I love ’em all, but except for my two youngest, a son in the air force and a daughter married and living in Hawaii, they’re worthless. One’s in jail, one’s in hell—though she calls it marriage by common law. And my oldest is in a losing battle with a crack pipe. And you know what? If the right man came along and asked, I’d go for number five.”

“Ha!”

“I’m saying all that to say you’re young, not bad looking, and you’re a good man. Too good to spend so much time by yourself, just you and your daughter. I know you’ve got your family, your brothers and all. But every man needs his own kingdom, know what I mean?”

“I believe I do, Miss Margie. That’s good advice. I think I’ll take it.” He started across the lawn to his house.

“Just make sure I’m invited to the wedding.”

“That’s a bet! You’ll sit with the family!” He entered his home. “Tyra!” Stopping to remove his tennis shoes and crew socks, he hollered again. “Tyra! That girl and those headphones.” He marched toward her bedroom but halfway there stopped, and tiptoed the remainder of the way.

Reaching her open door, he stood there, watching her. Back to the door, textbook on the floor next to the iPad that along with the pen she held passed for a drum set. Headphones over ears, with the music so loud he could make out some of the words.

He took three steps and grabbed her shoulders.

She jumped so high and screamed so loud he almost felt badly.

Almost, but not quite.

“Daddy!”

He tried to answer, but couldn’t for laughing.

“That’s not funny! I almost peed my pants!”

“Uh-huh, would have served you right. That’s what happens when your music is so loud you’re not aware of your surroundings. What if it had been a burglar instead of me tapping you on the shoulder? What would you have done?”

“Definitely peed my pants, for one. And then . . . I don’t know . . . tried to get away I guess.”

This just got real. Her answer showed unpreparedness should—God forbid—an event like that occurred.
What would she do? Hell, what would I do for that matter?
What began as a fun antic was now a learning moment . . . for both of them.

He sat on her bed. “You know what I just realized?”

“What?”

“I’m not sure what I would do or what you should do if that ever happened. Grab your iPad.”

She picked it up, then came over and sat beside him.

“Type, uh, never mind, give it to me.” He sat there a moment, shrugged, and typed, “what a child should do if a stranger enters home.”

Several sites came up but none that looked to have the information he sought. He replaced the word
stranger
with
intruder,
and got better luck.

“All right, let’s see what’s up.”

Tyra leaned over, to read for herself. “Think ahead.”

He nodded. “So far, so good. Your daddy’s smart, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Boy, do I have this kid fooled.
He scanned the article, which turned out to be more about burglaries and intruders being in a different part of the house. Several more sites offered more of the same, and included suggestions for security systems and what breeds made good guard dogs. He finally found a Web site with a couple of helpful tips. “What does it say?”

“Have a list of phone numbers . . .”

“Start right here.”

“Okay. Keep your phone close so you can dial 911.” She looked at Byron. “But he’ll hear me!”

“Not if you’re quiet. But I saw this show once, where the girl dialed the police without the guy knowing. That’s what you should do. Dial 911 and then put down the phone so he doesn’t even know it’s on. That way the police can hear what’s going on.”

“And do what?”
Dang, good question.
“Oh, I know. Yell, ‘There’s a stranger in my house! He’s coming after me!’”

“No, you should stay calm, and ask, ‘Why are you here at my address? I’m Tyra Carter. I’m not your child.’”

“Why would I tell him my name?”

“You’re saying your name and address so the police will hear, and be able to help you.”

“Oh! Cool!”

Byron rolled his eyes. Here his daughter was, looking at an intruder encounter as one would an adventure while he was about to have a heart attack and go load his gun!

His phone rang. He looked at the ID, smiled, and stood. “All right, kid. That’s lesson number one.” His tone went from studious to sexy as he walked across the hall and closed the door to his room. “Hey, you.”

“Hello, Byron.”

The clipped, professional voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked at his watch: 6:25. “Are you still at work?”

“No, I’m home.”

He relaxed. “Oh, okay. Did you get my message?”

“Yes.”

He was expecting a more enthusiastic reaction but . . . okay.

“Did you eat yet?”

“No, and that’s one of the reasons I’m calling. I’m sure that you meant well, but you didn’t have to go to the trouble of ordering dinner for me and my son.”

“It’s what I wanted to do.”

He heard her sigh into the phone.
Did she just sigh into the phone?
He looked at the phone, as if it had answers.

“Is there any way you can cancel the order?”

Byron’s mood was quickly moving from feeling amorous to being annoyed. “Cynthia, what’s going on?”

“We really shouldn’t have this discussion over the phone.”

This did not sound good. “What discussion is that?”

A long pause and then, “The one where I explain that because of what in our code of ethics is defined as a conflict of interest regarding a client, I can no longer see you . . . in any capacity.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I am very sorry. Ending any kind of personal liaison by phone is the epitome of churlish behavior . . .”

“Did you say childish?”

“Handling this remotely is in very poor taste, though it would be even more difficult to do in person. Considering the circumstances, this inappropriate, unfortunate ending is for the best.”

Byron had shifted from his position of romantic repose to now sit on the side of the bed wondering where was Cynthia—the one who less than twenty-four hours ago had cried on his shoulder, spilled out her heart, and cried out in throes of ecstasy—and who in the hell was this cold, robotic imposter, trying to tear his heart straight out of his chest?

“Cynthia. Tell me what happened. I know something did because you and I together are magic. Real talk.”

“What’s relevant is that which never should have happened, what I never intended would happen. And that’s a personal affiliation with you. It is ethically improper and I am truly sorry for any hurt I’ve caused you by crossing the line.”

“This is about your job. Either someone found out, or is suspicious. And rather than take a risk on the relationship, on me, you’re choosing your job. How’s my assumption so far?”

“Good-bye, Byron.”

“No, Cynthia, don’t—”

But she did.

She’d ended their affair, provided an unflappable explanation, apologized for any inconvenience, and hung up the phone.

Cold, curt, professional, not like the woman he held last night, but the one who’d boarded his bus.

Cynthia ended the call and wanted nothing more than to run to her room, assume a fetal position, and enjoy an all-out boo-hoo. Instead, she turned around and met the curious eyes of her observant son.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Just now. What’s wrong?”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!”

“Jayden! No, let me.” Cynthia walked to the door and after looking through the peephole placed her head against the wooden door.
A chef? The man with whom I just ended all contact has arranged for a chef to cook in my home?

She opened the door, feeling lower than the sole of a shoe.

“Ms. Hall?” the man asked, in a tone that suggested he ate happy for breakfast, zeal for lunch, and chipper as a pick-me-up before in-home appointments.

“Yes, I’m Cynthia.” She wanted to tell him to go away, direct him to Inglewood to fix a meal for Byron and Tyra. She opened her mouth to do just that but “please, come in” came out instead.

“Thank you!” He stepped inside. “Wow, this place is amazing! I’m Chip, professional chef and owner of Chip’s Choice Cuisine. I’d love to shake your hand, but mine are full.”

“Oh, of course. Come right this way.”

He followed her to the kitchen, placed a large recycle bag on the island, and unzipped a carry-on style case containing cooking utensils. All while talking nonstop. “I was so excited to accept this assignment. Your friend thinks you’re amazing. He went on and on about how much you deserve to sit back, relax, and have someone serve you for a change. He thinks you work too hard and says you’re . . . navigating a few challenges. I told him I had the perfect menu to relax you, rejuvenate you, and make your body feel good.”

Seriously, the man was a walking infomercial.

He turned to place a pot on the stove, and spotted Jayden eyeing him intently. “Oh, hey, buddy! How are you?” He walked over to the boy, hand outstretched. “My name is Chip. I’m a chef. I came to cook for you.”

“What are you going to fix?”

“What do you like to eat?”

“We’re not choosy. Italian, Mexican . . . tonight we were having Chinese. But I guess we’re not going out since you came to our house. Mom, who is your friend that sent him over here?”

“Someone you haven’t met, Jayden. Give me a moment so I can make sure Chip is squared away.” She turned to him. “I don’t cook much. What type of equipment do you need?”

“I bring everything with me except a refrigerator and stove. Actually, that’s not quite true. I have a mini-fridge and hot plate inside my van.”

“You cook in your car?”

“Absolutely! You don’t?”

“How old do you think I am?” Jayden asked, finding humor in the man’s obvious ignorance.

“I don’t know . . . sixteen?” Chip winked at Cynthia.

“I’m eight! Too young to have a car.”

“Then that presents a problem for cooking in one.” Chip reached into the case’s side pocket and pulled out an iPad. “Cynthia, I was told your tastes are quite varied, as Jayden here pointed out. So I designed this menu.” He offered the iPad, which she accepted. “What do you think?”

Cynthia read aloud. “Tomato bisque with cheese poppers.”
How did he know this is my favorite soup?

“Are those like jalapeño poppers?” Jayden asked.

“Exactly,” Chip answered, “but not as spicy.”

“Oh, good. Because Bobby’s mom makes the kind that are hot. Why are you serving them with biscuits?”

“Jayden, don’t ask so many questions.”

“I totally don’t mind,” Chip readily assured her. “In fact, I was about to ask if I could interview this young man for the position of sous chef. Just for the evening, of course.”

“What’s a sous chef?”

“The sous chef is second-in-command, and helps the chef pull off a fabulous meal.”

“But I don’t know how to cook.”

“I have a feeling you’re a quick study.”

During their chat, Cynthia had quickly scanned the rest of the meal: Farmers Market salad, grilled lollipop lamb chops paired with a potpourri couscous, and candy sprinkle-covered ice-cream cones for dessert.

He was thinking of Jayden.
While discussing possible choices with the chef, Byron had kept her son in mind. This simple gesture proved he’d listened during their conversations and understood the elevated position Jayden occupied in her life. The truth of it took her appetite, along with the certainty in the rightness of her decision.

It took willpower, but Cynthia made it through Jayden’s newfound love for cooking, Chip’s incessant conversation about cooking, and what turned out to be an amazingly delicious meal. With the last of her control she bid Chip good-bye, got Jayden to bed, and had just poured a glass of wine to take to her bedroom when the doorbell rang again.

Crossing the room, she looked at the counters for what the chef must have forgotten. She looked through the peephole. It wasn’t Chip.

“May I help you?” she asked through the closed door.

A soothing voice with an accent answered. “I’m looking for Cynthia Hall. My name is Thilago. I was hired and sent by a Mr. Carter to provide you relaxing massage.”

As proof, he held up a bag in one hand and masseuse certification in another. “You can call him to confirm this. I am happy to wait.”

“Um, give me a moment.”

With the door once again her support, she placed her head in her hands, stunned beyond words.
First a five-star quality dinner and now a personal masseuse?

Cynthia no longer thought she’d made the wrong decision. She was sure of it.