[Adventures of Anabel Axelrod 01.0] A Date With Fate

by Tracy Ellen

  “Very pretty. Are you Little Red Riding Hood coming to visit?”

  Unaware of being watched, I jumped at the low voice, but then chuckled at the comparison. I guess with a stretch I could resemble Ms. Hood. I carried a basketful of food, my long, blonde hair was held off my face with a black headband, and I wore a scarlet red dress.

  I glanced in the direction of that low voice, but couldn’t see the man. “Let me guess…Grandma?”

  The shadows were deep on the old-fashioned porch. Two towering Red Oaks majestically spread their canopy of leafy branches over the front yard and house. I heard a quiet laugh. Expecting to see a friend of my brother’s, I was surprised when a stranger walked off the porch. He came down the front steps toward me. He was carrying a mug full of steaming something.

  I put a hand to my heart and breathed, “Oh no! It’s the big, bad wolf!”

  He flashed a grin, bright white against his tanned face. I wasn’t actually kidding; he really did look like a badass wolf.

  Even before I got a proper look at him, something about the confident way he carried himself made me perk right up and pay closer attention. I noticed his eyes slowly, continuously scanned the yard around us as he walked. I peered around curiously to see what had him so vigilant.

  It looked like Reggie’s front yard to me. Lady Liberty’s engine still ticked as she settled down. The birds were busily chirping. Crisp, autumn leaves were rustling in the trees from the breeze. Otherwise, aside from myself, there were no terrorists or snipers I could see. All was quiet on the Lake Roberds front.

  The aroma of his coffee wafted my way and had me salivating. At least, I think it was the coffee. Watching him walk, I was experiencing a strange phenomenon. Everything appeared sharper, brighter, and vividly more in focus around me. The already perfect day seemed suddenly to have infinite possibilities.

  When he was a few steps nearer, our eyes clashed over his coffee cup. I was jarred to my toes at the impact. I held his intense stare for a beat before disengaging and looking away. I found I had to exert willpower to glance away with a semblance of composure. I was blown away by the insane desire to lean against his chest and stare dreamily up into his eyes. This was so not like me. I don’t lean, much less do dreamy.

  Not looking directly at him, I still felt the touch everywhere his eyes skimmed over me. He didn’t linger too long on any obvious points, but I was thoroughly, expertly checked out from the top of my black headband down to my black, seriously cute, wedge-heeled sandals.

  When not looking into those eyes, my mind started functioning properly. My memory clicked into place and I mentally snapped my fingers.

  ‘Holy Hannah!’

  I knew why he looked familiar. I had glimpsed this man once before when he came into my store last spring. I think it had been in April. I’d been working alone that afternoon and sitting on a stool at the long checkout counter reading some report or another.

  I remember feeling nervous flutters in my stomach for the previous half hour before he had arrived. I had been idly wondering if it was the caffeine from the espresso shot in my latte, or if I had forgotten something I had to be excited about that day.

  The string of bells on the shop’s door jingled and jangled. I glanced up to see this man walk in. The sex kitten voice in my head had stretched awake from her catnap and purred, ‘Ah, here’s the explanation for the butterflies.’

  Sounds weird I know, but that has happened to me frequently enough that I’ve learned to listen to the different voices talking to me in my head. I end up regretting not paying attention if I don’t. Besides, I look forward to the sex kitten voice. That voice is welcomed with open arms when compared to the mean mommy voice reminding me to be a responsible grown-up and do some grunt work.

  The man’s gaze had fixed on me. I was twenty feet away, but immediately reacted to the intensity of his look. I had no clue why, but being the focus of his concentration held me electrified on my stool like a switch had been turned on. It was horrible, bizarre, and uncomfortably exciting.

  The tough-looking man staring at me across my store last spring was certainly no male model. I hadn’t heard him speak and knew nothing about him. But I know men, I really like men, and men never 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 a personal preference what a man must look like before I’ll 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. Men like that make me frantically 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 might choose to do a one-nighter with a man they’ve just met, but drive-by sex has never been my thing.

  No, it took a whole lot more than the usual, excruciatingly boring pick-up scenario of a player to get me interested in getting naked. The practiced routine of first staring at me across the room, then ignoring me, and then finally talking to me by telling me a corny joke or giving me a compliment is so irritatingly lacking. A supposedly charming sexual predator out only to get laid is such a tired cliché. I waste no time telling those men not to waste their time on me. The sex with that drive-by man is 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, not a routine. I like lots of personality to interest me in even a first date, much less getting me aroused to start with the stripping. Does that make me sound like I think I’m all that? I cannot deny I’ve been called conceited, arrogant, and definitely too picky- by both sexes. I’ve been told I am cold, cruel, and frigid, although never all three at once.

  All those type of comments only make me smile and shake my head.

  Here’s the deal, arrogant me simply can’t imagine deserving anything less than what I want in a man. Why it’s considered conceited because I have some self-respect and standards is beyond me. The picky part, I can’t help it if dudes with brains and a personality aren’t plentiful. I would love to find men so described under every rock. I’m sure were that to be the case, women would leave no stone unturned across the globe. If any men have had reasons to think I am frigid or cold, they were one hundred and fifty percent accurate. If knowing my own mind, speaking up, or saying no is perceived as cruel by those on the other end of the stick, I am 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 at twenty, 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, threw a fit and would not go to school unless I picked him up on my way. It’s my belief I’d skipped kindergarten and gone directly to first grade just to avoid his possessiveness, and not because I could already read and write like NanaBel claimed.

  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 tingling female parts hadn’t given a rip if the man could add two plus two, spell the word dog, or even get a basic knock-knock joke.

  I had watched the man reach into his jacket pocket and check his cell. He’d quickly glanced back up and looked directly at me. He had appeared to hesitate, but then turned around abruptly and left the shop. I remember letting out a whoosh of a breath I hadn’t known I was 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 the dude had been an apparition of my crazy, lustful thinking on a rainy, spring day.

  Had I experienced my first attack of extreme phero
mones I’d read so much about over the years? Whatever it was, it had felt revoltingly exhilarating.

  If anybody close to me had witnessed my girly reaction to that stranger, they could not have been blamed one bit for serving me up a heaping plate of crow. Somehow, it slipped my mind and I never mentioned the strange encounter to anyone.

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

  One thing I did 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 my angle, 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 to be 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 that 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-speckled 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 were 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 of fifty-two pounds each between chocolate éclairs and frosted sugar cookies.

  He was bronzed a dark tan 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 a 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’re 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 was expert at keeping a poker face as those 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. Outside, 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 will 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. 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 practically had to 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 that 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, so I continued, “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 arm, preparing to shake my hand politely 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 once.

  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 o
f 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 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 tractor 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 while 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. Reg 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’m sticking to it.