Free A Date With Fate by Tracy Ellen

stories of the last ten years are still vague on specifics and glossed over on the details. It is true; his twenties were spent in the Army. He did opt out after an injury left him less than one hundred percent up to snuff. He alluded he was in a Special Forces unit. I have the impression he still uses those skills currently, but I’ve never asked a direct question of him towards further enlightenment. I think it’s driving him nuts I don’t seem interested in his ‘special skills’, but he started it.
    The info important to me that was garnered from the village elders is that Luke doesn’t have wives and kids tucked away in a compound in Idaho, he did not torture small animals or set fires, and there are no known felonies. It doesn’t hurt matters he turns me on like no man ever has before, and he hasn’t demanded the exclusivity I’m not willing to give any guy at this point in my life.
    I quietly left the bedroom, and my uninvited sleepover guest, to attend to my morning ablutions in the bathroom across the hall. Catching a glimpse of my matted, wild hair in the mirror, I burst out laughing.
    ‘Yikes! Mental note to self; don’t go to sleep with damp, tangled hair after being tossed around your bedroom.’
    I twisted it up, tangles and all, and stuck in a clip. I went straight to the walk-in closet and threw on shorts, a sports bra, and running shoes.
    I headed back out to the wide hallway on this side of my apartment and went left, towards the open stairs.
    Before you reach the stairs to go down, and if you hang a left again, the hall widens into a foyer area. Along the left wall sits a large church pew painted white; a find at the Elko Flea Market this past Labor Day weekend. A massive, elaborately framed mirror is leaning propped against the opposite wall.
    I moved on through a wide arch into the open living room. My apartment on this side is designed shotgun-style. The living room opens into the dining room, which opens into the kitchen. The kitchen leads into a back hall with a laundry room. There’s a back door to a balcony off this end of the apartment. This whole space runs the length of my apartment from front to back. It’s parallel to the bedrooms on the other side of the middle wall dividing the second floor in two.
    Once I did my routine of opening the white shutters covering the tall windows, these three main rooms were about one hundred by forty feet of airy, light-filled space. Loft-like, the tall ceiling and open duct work was painted a soft, chocolate brown.
    This apartment is my Shangri-la, my bastion of tranquility. I know it’s probably silly and sentimental for a building to mean so much, but there is no place on earth I’d ultimately rather be.
    Scattered with my treasures, the spacious rooms are decorated with an eclectic twist. There’s a mix of valuable antiques, my flea market finds, a few modern pieces of furniture, mementos of my family life, and colorful, old Persian rugs covering the hardwood floors.
    Standing at my kitchen island, I ate a handful of mixed nuts and dried fruits while downing a small glass of apple juice. I took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and headed back the way I had come.
    Eyes averted to avoid testosterone temptation; I passed my closed bedroom door. I continued down the hall to the farthest bedroom on the right.
    I had converted this second largest of the apartment’s original six bedrooms into an exercise room. I jumped onto my treadmill and pretended to enjoy jogging in place for the next forty-five minutes. I left the overhead TV off. Today seemed like an awesome woman singer day. I have hundreds of songs spanning four or five decades on my iPod guaranteed to get the blood pumping. I ran and sang my heart out until I was sweating like a piggy and feeling it in my legs.
    I prefer to run outside, but with Luke still here I wasn’t sure of the sleepover etiquette, so I’d decided to stick around. Besides, singing inside was way less