Outlaw Love: 6

    I would’ve kicked gravel at the flat tire on my Jeep, but I was wearing my best boots, freshly polished. I was on my way to meet my friend Jeannie and her husband Ted at Rio Lobo Steakhouse. They were going to introduce me to this “guy who is just perfect for you.”
    I hate blind dates.
    By now, Jeannie should’ve realized that setting me up with some “guy who is just perfect for you” isn’t working and would stop insisting that I agree to the dates. At least she and Ted agreed to make it double dates in decent restaurants, although that hasn’t made it any easier for me to like the “guy who is just perfect for you” that they introduce me to.
    Apparently they think I need an “educated” man . . . The stuffy stockbroker. The snooty attorney. The unkempt professor. The distracted surgeon. The arrogant engineer.
    I hate blind dates.

    So, I’m standing by my Jeep, at the side of the road, debating whether or not to call Jeannie and inform her of my mishap and that I’ll be late, or just not show up at all and let the “guy who is just perfect for you” think I’m a flake.
    Hmmm  . . .
    I decide not to call. Maybe that’ll make Jeannie think before she sets up another blind date for me.
    To help on that matter, I turn off the ringer on my phone and stick it in the seat cover side pocket before assessing my situation. Yep! The rear tire on the driver’s side is definitely flat. I have no idea what I ran over a mile or two back, but it must’ve made a pretty good size hole as the tire went flat rather quickly. It doesn’t help matters that I have no idea if the spare has enough air in it to even make it worth looking at, much less taking it off the rack and getting out the jack and tire iron.

    As I’m beginning to think I’ll kick gravel, freshly polished best boots or not, I hear a vehicle approaching. I turn and see an old Ford pickup pulling to the side of the road behind me. Its red paint is faded, but it’s clean, and the motor is rumbling smoothly. I notice the new-looking tires, the Rebel flag on the front bumper, and the fully loaded gun rack in the rear window before the driver cuts the engine and opens the door.
    And I wonder what kind of person is stopping to help a damsel in distress.
    As the driver steps out of the truck, I definitely notice him. Around five-ten. Slim with muscles the T-shirt doesn’t disguise. Levi’s jeans. Western boots. Black hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. And facial features to draw a woman’s eyes.
    He walks to stand by me and looks down at the flat. When he looks at me, I wonder if those nearly black eyes soften when he has his arms around a woman.
    “Need help?” he asks.
    “I’d appreciate it,” I reply, then tell him my doubts about the spare.
    “No problem,” he says, then walks back to his truck and returns with a tool box. He sets the tool box on the ground and squats beside it, giving me a good view of his well-muscled back. “There’s a tire gauge in here somewhere. May take me a minute to find it.”
    “That’s okay,” I tell him, and don’t really care how long it takes as I’m enjoying watching the play of his back muscles as he digs through the tool box.
    “Got it,” he announces and stands up.
    He checks the air in the spare and says it should be okay to get me to town as it’s only about five miles, and I can take my time getting there.
    “That’s good. I need to remember to check the spare once in a while.”
    He chuckles. “Don’t think many people think about it until they need it.” 
    He removes the spare from its rack, opens the tailgate, and lifts the load floor; thankfully, the jack and tire iron are in their appropriate places. I’m glad he knows where to look for such things; I would’ve had to get out the owner’s manual.
He sets the spare on the ground, then squats and loosens the lug nuts on the flat. I have another nice view of supple back muscles at work, and wonder if they look that good without the shirt.

    While he is making quick work of tire-changing, he makes a comment or two about the weather and I agree with him. As he’s tightening the last lug nut, he says, “I hope the flat hasn’t made you late for anything important.”
    I grin. If he only knew what I was glad I was missing . . . 
    “Nothing important,” I tell him. “I hope it hasn’t inconvenienced you in any way.”
    As he replaces the jack and the tire iron, then the flat in place of the spare, he answers. “Naw. My friends will understand.”

    After he makes sure the flat tire, sagging on its rim, is securely fastened in place, he pulls a red bandanna from his tool box and uses it to wipe dirt and grease from his hands. He replaces the bandanna and tire gauge in the tool box, and closes and latches it before picking it up. As he turns to walk to his truck, I ask, “What do I owe you?”
    He looks back at me and grins. Oh, my — I may owe him for that also. 
    “Not a thing. My good deed for the day,” he replies, and goes to his truck.
    I return to the driver’s seat of my Jeep, start the motor and retrieve my cell phone from the seat cover pocket. I pretend to be checking for calls as this kind stranger in a red pickup truck slowly rolls past.
    I watch the truck until it’s out of sight around a sharp curve, and wish Jeannie and Ted could find some “guy who is just perfect for you” like the one who just drove away.
    I sigh in frustration, put the Jeep in gear, and decide to go directly to the steakhouse. I’m hungry, and Rio Lobo’s filet mignon would be a good finish to the day. The flat tire can be dealt with tomorrow.

    I park at the far side of Rio Lobo’s parking lot, facing out, and walk to the restaurant. When I am inside, the hostess greets me and I tell her who I am looking for. She informs me that the third person in that party arrived just a couple of minutes ago. I hope this “guy who is just perfect for you” isn’t habitually late, as I usually run ahead of schedule.
    I hate blind dates.

    As the hostess leads me through the steakhouse, I see a few people I know. We nod hello or say a quick “Hi” in greeting as I pass their tables. Jeannie and Ted are at a table near the windows, which overlook a pond in the city park next door. The “guy who is just perfect for you” is seated with his back to the hostess and me, but I notice his black hair.
    Jeannie sees me headed their way and waves. When the hostess and I are at the table, I thank her and am amused when the “guy who is just perfect for you” rises from his seat and pulls out a chair for me. None of the 'educated' blind dates have done that.
    He turns around and I stifle a gasp. The “guy who is just perfect for you” is the good Samaritan who changed my tire.
    Jeannie notices my surprise and asks, “Do you know each other?”
    The “guy who is just perfect for you” and I laugh. “Not exactly,” I tell Jeannie. “My Jeep had a flat tire and he changed it.”
    “And I don’t even know her name,” he says.
    Jeannie hurriedly introduces us. “Meg, this kind gentleman is Tanner Jones. Tanner, officially meet Meg Rawlings.”
    Tanner and I shake hands and I enjoy the warmth of his hand and the ease with which our hands fit together. I also notice those nearly black eyes soften as he looks into mine.

    I do believe this is my last blind date.