Date With Destiny

  Synopsis

  Rashida Ivey, a high-ranking bank executive, has had much more success in her professional life than her personal one. Too many hours spent shuttling from branch to branch for her Savannah-based employers have left her little time to focus on her neglected love life. Everything changes when she meets Destiny Jackson. At first glance, Destiny appears to be too good to be true. Rashida's instincts tell her to stay away from the unemployed blue collar worker with the easy smile, but her heart says otherwise.

  Rashida's thriving career is on the fast track to the upper echelons of the banking industry. Will it survive a date with Destiny?

  Date with Destiny

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  Date with Destiny

  © 2013 By Mason Dixon. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-917-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: June 2013

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri (GraphicArtist2020@hotmail.com)

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Radclyffe and the entire Bold Strokes Books team for taking a chance on me and my fledgling attempt to tell a story. All the hours spent staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen finally paid off. I hope this book will be the first of many more to come.

  Thank you also to Rashida and Destiny, the main characters who sometimes insisted—often quite loudly and usually in the middle of the night—on telling me exactly how they wanted to be portrayed in the pages that follow. I hope I’ve done them justice. If not, I’m sure they’ll make a point to tell me about it later.

  Last but not least, thank you to the readers. Your date with destiny awaits. Fingers crossed it’s a good one.

  Dedication

  To my boo. I couldn’t have made it this far without you. Love you, girl.

  Chapter One

  Friday, March 3

  7:50 a.m.

  Savannah, Georgia

  Rashida Ivey looked in her bathroom mirror as she prepared for work. She had come to the unwanted conclusion that only people blessed with good genes and even better plastic surgeons looked their best naked. Unfortunately, she had neither. She appraised her five-foot-nine inch body with a discerning eye.

  Her shoulders were broad, tapering to a waist that was only one dress size bigger than it had been during her college days. Her arms and legs were toned without being too ripped. Muscular but with a hint of feminine curves. She ran her hands over her stomach. No matter how many miles she walked before work, no matter how many calories she counted during the day, and no matter how many flights she climbed on the StairMaster at night, she couldn’t make her stomach as flat as the supermodels she saw strutting across her TV screen.

  “Good thing I’m not planning on posing for a Victoria’s Secret catalog any time soon.”

  She rubbed lotion onto her mocha-colored skin. She was thirty-five, but most people said she looked at least ten years younger.

  Black don’t crack, she thought as she smoothed moisturizer on her face. Save for lipstick, she usually eschewed makeup, preferring the natural look. The aesthetic extended to her hairstyle as well. After tiring of visiting the hair salon every few weeks for a fresh perm or a touch-up, she had cut her chemically straightened, shoulder-length locks short and allowed them to return to their natural state. Now she could swim without worrying about her hair turning green or work out without fearing the sweat would undo what had cost her fifty dollars and three hours of her time.

  She rubbed pomade on her hands and moistened her scalp. The two-inch twists she now sported were easier to maintain than her former hairstyle and, in her opinion, even more stylish.

  She stepped into a pair of lacy black underwear and slipped on a matching bra. Even though it was casual Friday, which meant jeans and a polo shirt instead of the power suits she wore the rest of the week, she wasn’t going to change her routine. Sexy underwear made her feel confident and on top of things, no matter how close her day came to spinning out of control. Some days came closer than others.

  She was the district operations manager for Low Country Savings Bank, a privately owned community bank headquartered in Savannah with four additional branches in the surrounding area. As the DOM, it was her responsibility to serve as the liaison between customers, the retail team, and the employees in the operations area, which meant both her customer-facing and behind-the-scenes skills had to be on point.

  There were days when customers and employees alike worked her last nerve, but she couldn’t let it show. Today had the makings of one of those days, and it hadn’t officially started yet. Each time her cell phone chirped, the sound signaled bad news.

  Three tellers and one branch manager had called in sick. Two had been legitimately suffering from head colds all week. The other two probably had nothing more serious than an itch for a long weekend. She had already mobilized the three floaters on staff to fill the teller slots, and the assistant branch manager on Wilmington Island could take up the slack for his missing teammate, but if anyone else called in, she might have to bite the bullet and run a window herself. She trained tellers all the time, but she hated being one herself. The pressure to finish the work day without being out of balance made her palms sweat.

  She slipped her cell phone into its holster, clipped the holster to her belt, and crossed her fingers she wouldn’t get another phone call or e-mail before she left her apartment. She had too many other things on her plate to throw her planned schedule out the window. In addition to drilling an unpaid safe deposit box in the Springfield branch and sitting down for the weekly update session with her boss in Richmond Hill, she and Jackie Williams needed to check the security procedures at the Savannah office and conduct the quarterly branch audit while they were onsite. The time-consuming chore was one she didn’t want to be forced to reschedule. But if worst came to worst, she would scrap her original plans and do what she had to do. The branches couldn’t run themselves.

  Thanks to a hiring freeze brought on by the slow economy, most branch locations were already operating with the bare minimum number of employees. Rashida had to make sure the ones that remained had the support they needed to do their jobs even if it occasionally meant burning the candle at both ends while holding a lit match under the middle.

  She groaned when her phone vibrated against her hip. “What now?”

  She read the text message on the phone’s display. Jackie, who prided herself on being at least ten minutes early for every appointment, was uncharacteristically running late. But at least she planned on showing up, which was more than Rashida could say for the four who had called in sick.

  Take your time, she texted back. I’ll handle the security check myself and meet you at the branch at nine.

  I’ll make it up 2 U on Sunday, Jackie replied. The first round’s on me.

  Rashida chuckled ruefully. Depending on how Saturday goes, I might need more than one.

  She headed to the living roo
m and raised the volume on the local morning news show playing on the TV. According to the dorky but accurate meteorologist, the weather was going to be unseasonably warm for the next few days with a chance of rain on Monday. She hoped the bad weather, if it arrived, cleared out before St. Patrick’s Day. The tourists would show up for the annual bacchanalia rain or shine, but the marchers in the parade would be soaked before they made it past Lafayette Square. She had been spared marching duties this year. Jackie, the bank’s security officer and her best friend, had drawn the short straw. If it rained, Rashida would be willing to bet Jackie would never let her hear the end of it. She smiled at the image of Jackie trying to keep her hair protected from the elements.

  “If Mother Nature ruins Jackie’s ’do, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  In the kitchen, she dropped a sliced banana, a pack of vanilla breakfast mix, milk, and several ice cubes into a blender and melded the ingredients into a smoothie. She saved three of the ice cubes for the orchid that sat on top of a pile of cookbooks she had bought with the best of intentions but had yet to use.

  “Good morning, Riko.”

  She greeted the orchid as she placed the ice cubes on the rich dark brown soil that filled a small terra cotta pot.

  The orchid had been a birthday present from Jackie. Even though her thumb was decidedly not green, Rashida had somehow managed to keep the plant alive for nearly a year, a personal best. The orchid had been covered with big white blooms streaked with purple when she pulled it out of the box last April. The original blooms had fallen off long ago. Even though the plant’s leaves were healthy and its spindly stems were festooned with bright green buds, no new blooms had taken the old ones’ places.

  “You and Riko are made for each other,” Jackie often said, giving herself a figurative pat on the back for picking out the perfect gift. “Both of you are taking your own sweet time to open up again.”

  Rashida hadn’t been completely off the market since she and Diana Vasquez broke up two years ago, but her dates were so few and far between, that certainly appeared to be the case. She blamed work. It was the easiest excuse. Her uncertain hours made romantic entanglements difficult but not impossible. The real culprit was her unwillingness to put herself out there. To risk being hurt again. She didn’t want to watch another relationship wither on the vine knowing she was partially responsible for its demise.

  The breakup with Diana had been amicable but not painless. Six years hadn’t been easy to walk away from, even if walking away had been the right thing to do. In truth, she hadn’t completely turned her back on what she and Diana once had. Even though she knew they were over, she hadn’t been able to completely let go. To put the final nail in the coffin. Tomorrow, though, she was finally taking hammer in hand and Diana was supplying the nails.

  “It’s time for closure,” Diana had said the last time they talked.

  Rashida popped two multivitamins into her mouth and crunched down on the bitter pills. “Closure’s for envelopes.”

  She downed the smoothie, brushed her teeth, and applied a coat of her favorite lipstick. Then she secured her laptop, portable printer, and daily organizer in a pair of sturdy black leather rolling bags. Pulling the bags behind her as she headed to the elevator, she felt like a passenger rushing to catch a departing plane.

  Her hectic schedule added to her nomadic existence. Though she was technically based in the newly-opened Richmond Hill branch, she spent so much time on the road shuttling to the bank’s other locations, her car felt like her real office. Lunch was something served out of a drive-in window and was inhaled on route. Dinner came out of a box, but at least it was served at home. Usually.

  Downstairs, she locked her bags in the trunk of her Prius and pulled out of the parking lot. Her apartment complex was popular with students from all the local colleges, thanks to the units’ relatively low rental prices and the building’s proximity to downtown Savannah. She valued it for the same reasons. Her apartment was small, but the views were incredible, the residents were colorful, and the carefully preserved beauty of the Historic District was just a few minutes away.

  She drove the short distance to the financial district. Johnson Square was Savannah’s version of Wall Street. Local, regional, and national banks surrounded the picturesque park on all sides. Low Country Savings Bank’s main office was located just off Johnson Square, tucked behind an historic building whose stately lines had caught the attention of more than one movie location scout and across the street from Paula Deen’s restaurant. During the spring and summer months, the branch’s two accounts representatives spent most of their spare time people-watching as the overflow of tourists waiting to get into The Lady and Sons snaked down Congress Street like a conga line.

  Rashida circled the bank to see if any of the employees had arrived. The posted hours were nine to five Monday through Friday, but the geniuses in the marketing department had decided the bank needed to open fifteen minutes early and close fifteen minutes late to make it easier for customers to run last-minute errands before and after work.

  And the powers that be wonder why all the tellers have overtime each week.

  Rashida checked her watch. Eight fifteen.

  The branch manager and the head teller were usually the first to arrive. They probably wouldn’t show up for another fifteen minutes or so. That gave her plenty of time to stow her car in the parking garage on Whitaker Street and find a place to see without being seen.

  According to the branch’s updated opening procedures—each branch’s procedures changed at regular intervals to prevent outsiders from sussing them out—no one could enter the bank until at least two employees were onsite. The first unlocked the front door, disabled the alarm, and checked to make sure the building was secure. He or she then gave the all clear by opening the blinds in the branch manager’s office and placing a small plastic egret, the bank’s mascot, on the windowsill. The second employee was then free to enter. Some people, however, refused to play by the rules, entering the building simultaneously and neglecting to give the all clear to the rest of the staff, who either lingered outside or barged in anyway.

  Whether by accident or design, the main branch had the youngest staff and, not coincidentally, was the site of the most turnover and the most security violations.

  “Procedures were put in place for a reason,” Jackie had said during her last security symposium. “The reason was not to put a crimp in your day but to save your life. Shortcuts, boys and girls, can get you killed.”

  Now Rashida would see if the employees at the main branch had gotten the message.

  She headed to the French Roast Coffee Shop. Starbucks was closer to the parking garage, but everyone and her sister were packed inside to grab their morning doses of caffeine. The French Roast was more expensive than Starbucks but less crowded and gay-owned. Given a choice, Rashida preferred to line the pockets of a fellow member of the GLBTQ community instead of the already bulging purses of an anonymous corporate bigwig.

  She pushed the shop’s swinging door open and stepped inside. Edith Piaf was playing on a boom box behind the counter. A black-and-white movie starring an impossibly young Catherine Deneuve flickered silently on a flat-screen TV bolted to one wall. The other walls were covered with photographs and paintings of France and its instantly recognizable landmarks.

  Rashida took a deep breath and allowed the smell of fresh-baked pastries to permeate her lungs. She felt like she had been transported from Savannah to Paris.

  The line at the counter was surprisingly long. The sight pleased Rashida for two reasons. The French Roast was one of her favorite destinations on the weekends. The fact that it was continuing to do well meant she would always have a place to hang out on Saturday mornings and, on a professional note, it meant the small business loan her bank had underwritten had proven to be a sound investment.

  She pulled a number out of the dispenser on the counter. The number on the Now Serving sign above the chalk-covered blackboard that
served as a menu read seventeen. The slip of paper in her hand read twenty-four. The line was moving relatively quickly—the beret-clad baristas behind the counter were mixing lattes and cappuccinos so fast she could barely keep up—but she was afraid she might miss what she had come downtown for. Eight twenty. Almost time for the branch manager to arrive. She had work to do.

  She turned to grab a seat by the window and instantly plowed into a woman who had chosen that exact moment to dart through a break in the line. Black coffee splashed all over the woman’s crisp white button-down shirt, trickled onto her starched khaki pants, and dropped on her blue-and-tan saddle shoes. Even the folded newspaper in her hands dripped with the remnants of what had been a nearly full cup of what smelled like Sumatran blend. The only thing that seemed to have remained unscathed was her navy blue blazer—unless the material was too dark to reveal the stain.

  “Something told me I shouldn’t have worn this shirt today.” The woman’s voice was deep and commanding. She had the rigid posture of an authority figure, either cop or ex-military.

  Rashida swallowed so hard her throat clicked. The woman seemed to be taking what had happened in stride, but she was mortified. “I am so sorry.” She grabbed napkins off the counter where swizzle sticks and packets of sweetener lay. She pressed the napkins against the slowly spreading stain on the woman’s shirt.

  The woman’s body was firm. Rashida could feel her rippled stomach through the wet cotton of her shirt. The heat that met Rashida’s fingers had nothing to do with the coffee dripping from the soaked wads of tissue. She blushed when she realized she was touching a complete stranger in a way that could be considered too familiar.

  “Sorry,” she said again.