Love T.K.O.. Pamela Yaye

      “A savvy, young sister with a successful practice? Impressive.”

      Uneasy with the way he was staring at her, she said, “Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my credentials. Let’s talk about you.”

      “I’m single. Never been married. No children that I’m aware of. I’m a loving, sensitive brother searching for the right woman to spend my life with.” Rashawn saw her eyes soften and chuckled lightly. Extending his arms along the couch, he said, “I’m just playing, Doc. But women love to hear that sensitive crap, don’t they?”

      Yasmin refused to be pulled into the conversation. Regardless of what he thought, this was not a two-way discussion. “Why don’t we discuss your family history?”

      “What do you want to know?”

      “Tell me whatever you feel comfortable sharing.”

      “My mom raised me and my brothers by herself. My dad wasn’t around much, so she shouldered most of the responsibility. I have three loudmouth brothers and I’m the oldest of the brood. They have girlfriends and kids and still live in the old neighborhood.”

      “What’s your ethnic background?”

      “Sounds like a personal question.”

      It was and Yasmin felt guilty for asking it. Her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she was blurring the lines between professional and personal interest. “You don’t have to answer—”

      “I’m just teasing, Doc.” A humming sound came from inside his jeans pocket, but he ignored it. “I came to see you, so feel free to ask me anything. My mom’s half black, a quarter white and a quarter Mexican, and my dad is Puerto Rican.”

      “That’s quite a mix.”

      “I know. I’m always teasing her that she should work for the United Nations!”

      Laughing, she loosened her grip on the clipboard. “And maybe you should be a comedian instead of a boxer.”

      “Then would you go out with me?”

      Yasmin shied away from his gaze. If she wasn’t careful, she’d succumb to the boxer’s advances and destroy her credibility as a respectable therapist. “Do you have a relationship with your father?”

      For the next half hour, Yasmin asked Rashawn about his up-bringing, background and career. He was engaging, straightforward and humorous. Yasmin tried to remain unaffected by what he told her, but Rashawn was so easy to be with, when he asked her about growing up in South Africa, she spoke freely.

      “My family came to the States when I was nine, but I still remember playing in the cornfields with my younger brother and sister. We lived in Duthasa, a remote village only accessible by car. It was tough living out there, away from the city and my relatives, but at a very young age I learned how to fish, how to climb peach trees and I could swim better than kids twice my age.”

      “When was the last time you went home?”

      “I’m ashamed to say,” she admitted, tapping her pen absently on her clipboard. “It’s been almost ten years.”

      Rashawn shared what had led him to South Africa and Yasmin was so caught up in his story, she lost track of time. If Niobie hadn’t buzzed with Ms. Dubois on line two, they would have continued talking.

      “That went well,” Rashawn said, watching Yasmin. She stood and adjusted her suit. Grinning mischievously, he imagined what was underneath the crisp polyester material. Something told him this therapist was going to be a tough woman to crack. But Rashawn loved a challenge, especially one with curves. “We should continue this conversation tomorrow night.”

      “You don’t give up, do you?”

      “I wouldn’t be undefeated if I did.”

      Yasmin raised her eyebrows, her face the picture of doubt. He talked a good game, but he was no different than any of the other guys who hit on her. “Thanks for asking, but I’m not interested in going for dinner and a movie. It’s become a cliché, don’t you think?”

      “No doubt. That’s why I thought we’d do something original like drive down to the pier and spend the night checking out our great city on a boat. Ever been on the evening boat cruise?”

      “No, I’ve always wanted to go but my fia—” Yasmin stopped herself midword. Returning to her desk, she fought the emotion crawling up her throat. Now was not the time to have an emotional breakdown. She had work to do and a charity fund-raiser to plan. Forcing a smile, Yasmin put a hand on the phone and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I really have to take this call.”

      “No problem. Do what you gotta do.”

      “I look forward to seeing you next week.”

      “That makes two of us. Bye, Doc.” Rashawn strolled over to the door and tossed one last look over his shoulder before leaving.

      Yasmin sat down on her chair. Closing her eyes, she took a moment to collect herself. Eric had been gone for over two years, but she felt guilty for lusting over another man. Life had been empty since her fiancé’s death, but she was finally starting to feel like her old self. Work had filled the void Eric had left and now she was near the apex of her career. After only three years of business, A Better Way Counseling Services was flourishing. Yasmin had more work than she could handle, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

      The memory of better days brought tears to Yasmin’s eyes. Life with Eric. Nights at the symphony. Poetry readings at the Soul Café. Family barbecues. The night he had proposed. No, she wouldn’t betray Eric’s family or cause them any more pain. What would Eric’s parents think if they knew she was dating? Her relationship with the Iwenofus was as important to her as her relationship with her own family.

      They had lost their son and brother and she had promised to help them through the ordeal. Pushing aside all thoughts of dating Rashawn and overpowering feelings of guilt, Yasmin picked up the phone and said, “Ms. Dubois, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

      Yasmin pulled her Volvo into the garage. Grabbing her purse off the passenger seat, she clicked the power lock button and entered the house through the side door. The elegant book-and art-filled home was in Carrollwood, an upper-middle-class neighborhood in north Tampa. Young executives and stay-at-home moms frequented the boutiques, specialty shops and five-star restaurants in the local plaza.

      Flicking on lights as she strode through the main floor, she unbuttoned her blazer, shrugged it off and then draped it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Wanting their place to have a chic look, but not wanting to do the work herself, Imani had insisted they hire an interior designer. The sisters had sat down with renowned decorator Essence Gilbert-Clark, told her what they wanted and left their house in her hands. The end result was a stylish, urban decor with low-hanging ceiling lights, large suede area rugs and rich, vibrant paint. The open-concept kitchen, like the rest of the house, had walnut-stained flooring and plenty of bay windows ushering in natural light. Maple cupboards tinted in sable brown, granite countertops and dainty glass chairs accented the wide, luxurious space. Beyond the kitchen were a half bathroom and laundry room that led to the heated double garage.

      Opening the fridge, Yasmin selected a bottle of her favorite wine. Once the pinot blanc was uncorked, she poured herself a glass, opened the back door and stepped outside onto the patio. Since Eric’s death, she had found herself more appreciative of the beauty of the great outdoors. The fresh air, the stars, the gentle passing of the night. It was in these quiet moments that Yasmin did the most thinking. Sitting down on a wicker chair, she propped her feet up on an ottoman and slowly sipped her drink.

      Yasmin spotted Anna Karenina on the table, but didn’t reach for it. Tonight she just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. The extra hours she had put in at the office after quitting time had been well spent. The fifth annual Parkland Community Center Charity Fund-raiser was starting to come together. It had taken