Just as he was about to turn his attention back to the place mat that boasted twenty-five trivia questions, his gaze landed on Summer, who was almost tucked away in a corner of a booth.
What captured his attention was the slick cap of slightly wavy black hair set against a near flawless almond complexion. The soft light, the sparkle of the chrome decor, and the red leather background seemed to magnify her natural beauty. And she was a beauty, he had to admit—maybe a bit on the odd side of the street, but a beauty.
Yet observing her outside of the only environment he’d ever seen her in, she seemed different somehow, more vulnerable, soft, less reserved.
It was almost as if she’d telepathed his thoughts when she slowly looked up from the book she was reading and turned in his direction.
A brief flicker of recognition momentarily widened her dark eyes, and then it was gone. She pushed a short smile across her lips and went back to her reading.
How can someone be that indifferent all the time? Tre fumed. Doesn’t she ever exhibit any emotion, engage in idle chitchat? The unanswered questions tumbled through his head, ticking him off by the second.
He was two seconds from just marching over there and setting her stuck-up—
“Here’s your order, sir,” the waitress said, placing the platter of steaming food in front of him.
For a second he glared at the waitress then mumbled his thanks.
“Lucky for her,” he grumbled under his breath, stabbing a French fry with his fork, but he’d suddenly lost his appetite. He looked up again, and Summer was taking back her credit card and her tab from the waitress.
With an easy grace she slid out of her booth, retrieved her leather jacket from the brass hook above her head, and proceeded toward the door.
Tre felt like jumping up and shouting, “Can’t you even stop to stay hello!” when she looked toward him, flashed a perfect smile, and strolled out toward the exit. His hot-air balloon slowly deflated.
He watched her weave her way out of the restaurant and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was about that woman that got his temperature rising. He took a long, cold swallow of his Diet Coke, having every intention of pushing her to the back of his mind, and found he couldn’t. Plain and simple, the mysterious Dr. Summer Lane piqued his interest and had for quite some time. What to do about it was the question.
Chapter 3
Summer stepped out of Houlihans into the early afternoon sunshine. The building parade of pedestrians, out for a quick getaway from offices and apartments, tumbled onto the historic streets. She slung her Coach bag over her shoulder and strolled down P Street in search of nothing in particular, peeking in store windows, stopping for a moment to take a look in an antiques store. She knew she should go home, get some sleep, so she could sound like she had some sense when she went on the air. But she didn’t feel like it. She wanted to do something. Didn’t know what, just did. But she also wanted someone to do it with.
She stopped at the corner for a red light, undecided about what to do next—get her car from the lot and go home or continue on her destination-less stroll—when a car horn caught her attention. She usually didn’t pay much mind to honking horns. She thought it was a rude way of getting someone to notice you, especially if safety wasn’t the offender’s concern. But something made her look, and she couldn’t have been more surprised.
Tre Holland.
He rolled down his window. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he shouted over the noise of flowing traffic.
For a moment, she was caught between mystification that he should turn up like that—first the restaurant and now here—and curiosity about the man in general. She couldn’t remember ever having a conversation with him, other than brief encounters at the job, and her catching him watching her performance when he thought she wasn’t looking. But she’d always liked his take-charge attitude and, since the other night, when they’d brushed past each other in the corridor, he’d somehow found a little haven in the recesses of her mind. Maybe this was her opportunity to put all the nagging little assumptions she had about him to rest. Besides, what else did she have to do today?
She hesitated a beat then walked toward the car. She bent down and met his gaze. A short shock rippled through her body, when the most engaging smile greeted her.
“Hi. Looks like we just keep running into each other,” she said.
The light turned green, and impatient drivers immediately began honking. She opened the door and slid onto the soft, brown leather seat. The interior smelled of cologne and old leather.
Tre pulled out into traffic, giving the driver behind him the finger. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, sorry about that.”
She smiled. “Don’t mind me. I’m the worst.”
“Could it be that the sedate, always together Dr. Lane loses it?” He chuckled. “I can’t believe it.”
“I have my moments.” She focused on her hands and tried to ignore the deep pulse of his voice and the funny way her insides felt when the subterranean rumble of his laughter echoed through her body.
“Where can I drop you?”
“My car is in the company lot. I was indirectly heading that way.”
“To the lot it is.” He made a left-hand turn and headed down Pennsylvania Avenue. “So what did you think about the plan for New Year’s Eve?” he asked when he realized she wasn’t going to say anything.
“It sounds like a great idea. What made you think of it?”
He shrugged. “Believe it or not, that’s my job—to keep coming up with innovations and keep up with the competition. I figured this was a way to gain a wider audience.”
She nodded.
Silence.
He turned on the radio, feeling unreasonably nervous. He took a quick breath. “We don’t get to talk much.”
“No, we don’t.”
She wasn’t going to make this easy. “So how do you like WKQR? You’ve been there, what, about a year?”
“It’ll be a year in January. I like it. It’s fun, actually. But sometimes I wonder if I’m really doing anyone any good.”
He glanced at her. Summer Lane never struck him as someone unsure of herself. “Your ratings should be a good gauge. You’re all Stan talks about.”
She smiled. “I know ratings are important. It’s what will make or break a program. But for me it’s more than that.”
“What is it for you?”
“I’ve always been an achiever. Looking for a goal and finding a way to accomplish it. Even though I try my best to point the listeners in the right direction, there’s no way I can determine if what I’m saying makes a difference.”
“Then why do you do it?”
Now he was getting personal, and she didn’t know how much of her personal reasons she wanted to share with him. She knew he was the one who’d tried to keep her from coming on the air in the first place. Maybe this was a way to find an excuse to get her out: lack of commitment to the job. “It still gives me a chance to reach people I wouldn’t have been able to through my practice.” She turned to him, wanting to put him in the same hot seat she’d just vacated. “Why do you do what you do?”
“’Cause I love it. I love the challenge. I love beating the competition. I love reading the ratings and seeing us climb the charts because of some new twist I’ve come up with for programming. I love pushing the hosts to give it their best and then they do.”
“In other words, you love it.”
He chuckled, and she felt that deep rumble in her stomach again.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
The parking lot loomed ahead, and he knew their brief interlude was about to end. He didn’t want that. “What do you do for fun besides give out advice?”
Uh-oh, where was this going? “Listen to music mostly.”
“Yeah? So do I. Do you ever go to any of the jazz clubs?”
She swallowed. “I haven’t in a while.”
He pulled into
the lot.
“My car’s over there.”
She pointed in the direction of her Mercedes, and he had the sudden sensation that he was out of her league. He pulled up behind her car.
She turned to him. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Sure. No problem.” She put her hand on the door. Well, bud, you gonna go for it or what? She opened the door. “Uh, maybe we could hang out one night. Before your show…or after.” Now you’re babbling.
Her heart knocked. She swallowed then turned to look at him. Why not? “Let me know. Maybe we could work something out.”
Be cool. “I’ll do that.”
She nodded, gave a tight smile, and slipped out. “Thanks again,” she said a second before she shut the door.
He backed up his Honda Accord and let her out. She waved as she pulled away.
“You just asked the great Dr. Lane out on a date. And she sort of said yes.” He smiled. “Maybe you’re not out of her league after all.”
Summer pointed the car in the direction of home, but her mind was still on her encounter with Tre Holland. She replayed all the times she’d ever seen him, spoken to him, seen him interact with others. When she added it all up, the total was “nice guy.” People seemed to like him. He earned the respect and loyalty of the staff. He had a passion for what he did and, like her, could be single-minded about it. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Not polished like most of, well, the few men she’d dated. And then there was that “somethin’ somethin’” like Maxwell sang about that just stuck with her.
Kia’s words rang in her head: “Sure hope there’s an eligible somebody at that station…”
Tre?
She wasn’t one for speculation—but, hey, you never know.
Summer took the long route home, driving in and out of the narrow Georgetown streets, along Pennsylvania Avenue. She took a peek at the White House and wondered what new scandal was brewing behind the ivory walls, breezed by the Federal Triangle, back up Sixteenth Street, and home.
Stepping into her apartment, she was momentarily surprised by the flash of melancholy that greeted her at the door. She tossed her bag on the glossy, circular table in the foyer, hoping to add the unwanted sensation to it. Slipping out of her jacket, she absently added it to the array of clothes—long, short, furs, leathers, wools, and suede’s—that filled the walk-in closet from end-to-end.
Summer meandered into the spic’n-span kitchen, done in muted tones of mauve and peridot-green. Every cooking gadget imaginable graced the sleek, rectangular room, hung from ceiling racks and lined the pale green marble countertops. Besides her passion for music were gourmet and ethnic cooking. A glass and wood cabinet that stood six feet tall in a corner of the kitchen contained rows and rows of cookbooks and volumes of recipes that she’d gathered over the years and had written down. She’d decided long ago that her penchant for fine food had to have come from the years she suffered at the hands of her mother’s tasteless, unimaginative meals.
She opened the fridge and sighed as she pulled out a can of cranberry juice and pushed the door closed with her foot. When she got right down to it, she was tired of fixing for one; not accepting invitations to events because she didn’t have a date; rolling over in the morning to the cold, empty spot beside her; and buying slinky Victoria’s Secret lingerie and not being able to show it off except in front of her bedroom mirror.
She plopped down on the mauve and green patterned cushion of the kitchen chair and felt the powerful current of “woe is me” try to suck her in like an undertow. She took a long swallow of her juice, straight from the can. She couldn’t let that happen, especially since she would always tell her patients not to let their problems get the best of them. They had to be in control of the situation, not the other way around.
“So what about me?” she asked the empty, picture-perfect room. Briefly she shut her eyes—and there was Tre Holland, peeking at her through the glass door in the control room, watching her in the restaurant, giving her a lift.
He did sort of ask her out. Maybe she’d take him up on it if he brought it up again. ’Cause it sure had been longer than she wanted to discuss when she’d last been on a date. She told him to let her know, so the ball was in his court. If he was really interested, and not just being nice, he’d ask again.
She tossed the empty can of juice in the recycle bin and went into her bedroom. Stripping out of her clothes, she tied a silk scarf around her head, and slipped under the covers.
Office relationships always spelled trouble. Hold on, girl. An almost asked out on a date did not add up to a relationship. She shut her eyes. But maybe it could, she thought. She wished. He was kind of fine. She snuggled down under the covers.
And then what?
Tre found himself whistling as he headed home. He figured he’d catch a few hours sleep then go back to the station for his late afternoon meeting with the morning crew.
He thought about his brief but enlightening interlude with Summer. When he went back to the station later on, he’d check her monthly schedule and see which Friday or Saturday night they were both free. Or maybe they could do the jazz brunch thing on a Sunday. Now his next step in the master plan was finding the time to ask her out. Their schedules rarely matched, and he already knew he wasn’t on night duty for the next two weeks.
Calling her at home was an option, since he knew he could just check her personnel file and get the number. But he had a very strong feeling the good doctor wouldn’t appreciate that. No. He’d wait for the right time. When the time came to take her out, he wanted it to be special.
Yeah, he was feeling real good.
Hmmm, wonder what dear Diane would have to say about this?
“Get outta here. You and Summer Lane? I don’t believe it,” Diane said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She pulled up a chair opposite him at the kitchen table.
“Well, it’s not a date…exactly.”
“What ex-actly is it?”
“I sort of asked her out, and she said to let her know.”
Diane nodded slowly as if the steps to the solution to a mathematical equation finally made sense. “Oh, I see. You sort of asked her out and she kind of said yes. So the two of you may get together. Is that about right?”
“Now maybe you know why I keep you out of my business. Your mouth.” He tried angry on for size and found it didn’t fit, not with Diane’s sheepish grin and eyes just like their mother’s twinkling back at him.
Diane tilted her head to the side. “You really like her, huh?”
He shrugged and pushed away from the chair and stood. “I don’t know, Di. I mean there is something about her. We’ve really talked only once, but in that short conversation she erased everything I’d been thinking about her. She’s not all stuck-up and stuck on herself like I thought.”
Diane stared at her brother’s sharp profile. Ever since their parents died, when she was in her second year of college and Tre was in his second year of high school, she’d felt committed to seeing about his happiness. Right up until now. It was obvious Tre had a thing for Summer. She’d never seen him half step or unsure about anything, especially a woman, unless he somehow felt intimidated in some way, found a woman who could challenge him. She knew that’s why he dealt with women who didn’t have much of a brain or any real ambition. As much as she hated to admit it, her ex-sister-in-law Desiree was the only woman she’d ever known who’d given Tre a run for his money. Unfortunately, as a result of her trifling self, Tre tried to stay as far away from any woman who even vaguely presented him with the notion of being all he could be. And she was pretty darn sure that’s what was scaring him about Summer Lane.
“So what’s the next step?”
“Just have to wait for the right time. It’s not like we see each other every day.” He knew that explanation sounded weak, but what could he say—that he was scared that when he finally got around to asking her out, she’d say no, and he’d look and feel like a complete fool? No. He couldn’t te
ll Diane that. There was no way he was going to ruin his invincible image in her eyes. It had taken time to scrape off all the tarnish after Desiree, and he still caught Diane’s not so subtle comments about that fiasco even now. No sense in giving her any more mementos for the archives.
Tre took a long swallow of his grape Kool-Aid, the kid’s favorite. He’d already checked and double-checked his and Summer’s schedules, and it didn’t look good for the rest of the month. The two nights per week that she was off, he was on duty. But maybe he could…
“Aren’t you the program director of that place?” Diane asked.
“Yeah. And?”
“So use your head, baby bro, program yourself right into her life.”
His thoughts exactly. But he wouldn’t let Diane know.
“For those of you who’ve just tuned in, you’re right in the middle of ’Round Midnight, with me, Summer Lane. You just heard from the classically soulful sounds of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Distant Lover,’” Summer crooned into the microphone as she watched the board flash with callers on hold. Tonight’s topic was knowing the difference between great sex and real love. It took all she had to keep from cracking up when one woman, who called herself Ann, said real love was great sex, and all the women in the room with the caller whooped and hollered in agreement.
“Our next caller is Basil. Hey there, Basil, what’s your take on tonight’s topic?”
“I think the whole love thing is overrated. Some of the women I’ve been closest to I was never in love with, and the couple of women I thought I loved dogged me out. Love sets you up to be hurt.”
“There are risks involved with everything we do, Basil,” Summer responded. “I assume the women you said you were close with—you mean sexually. Correct?”
“Yeah.”
“You were taking a risk there as well. For most people with a conscience, sex changes the fabric of any relationship. It creates an unspoken commitment between two people. As far as love is concerned, true love is a two-way street. Unfortunately it sounds as if the women you’d given your heart to didn’t feel the same way. That doesn’t mean you won’t find a woman who will. And when you do, you’ll know it. It sounds as if it was the wrong woman and the wrong time. Thanks for calling, Basil. And on that note, let’s take a listen to ‘Love on a Two-Way Street,’ by the Moments.”
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