Dare to Dream

“Looks like you’re trying to do the same thing I am.”

Desiree had looked up, trying to focus on the tall dark figure in front of her with the snow swirling around them.

“Huh?” she shouted over a gust of wind that seemed to carry her voice in the opposite direction. She shielded her eyes by cupping her hand above her brow.

“Trying to catch a cab,” the man shouted.

Desiree nodded her head and hunched her shoulders to keep the snow from sliding down her neck. She could kick herself for forgetting her scarf. But the weatherman said a “chance” of flurries, not a full-blown snowstorm. Ha! What did they know with all their fancy equipment? It had been snowing nonstop for a little more than two hours, building in momentum, and now you could hardly see five feet in front of you.

“I’m heading downtown. Maybe we could share one—if you’re going that way.”

Desiree tried to get a good look at him. He didn’t look like a stalker, but in this weather who could tell?

“So am I,” she said.

“Great.”

Pedestrians slipped and slid around her, dashing for cover and jostling each other on the snow-covered streets. One woman lost her footing and slid into Desiree, knocking her and her shopping bag to the ground.

“Oh…oh. I’m so sorry,” the woman muttered, but didn’t hang around long enough to be of any help.

It took a moment for Desiree to register what had happened. One minute she was standing and the next she was sitting on her behind in a pile of snow.

A pair of strong hands slid beneath her arms and lifted her to her feet.

“Are you okay?” he asked as he reached for her shopping bag.

“Yes. I think so,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. She brushed the wet snow from her coat. “Thank you.”

“Maybe you need to hold on to something,” he said, a light chuckle in his deep voice. He took her hand and hooked it in the crook of his arm, drawing her close to the warmth of his body. He patted her leather-covered hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you get knocked over by another senior citizen.”

She looked up at him and he was smiling. The corners of his mouth were lifted to a perfect angle, revealing just a hint of even, pearly white teeth. His eyes crinkled at the corners and seemed to sparkle with a boyish mischief that made her stomach suddenly quiver. It was the sexiest smile she’d ever seen.

He stuck out his arm and like a magician made a cab appear.

“Come on.” He opened the door and helped her inside before easing in next to her.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked, inching away from the curb.

The windshield wipers licked furiously against the driving snow, offering only split seconds of visibility.

Desiree turned to her knight in black cashmere. “I’m going to 22nd Street and 7th Avenue.”

“Really? There’s a building that I’m looking to buy over there.” He settled back in the cab and dusted the snow from his coat.

“You’re buying a building?” she asked incredulously. The only people she knew who bought whole buildings were in the newspapers and on TV dramas.

“You sound surprised or skeptical. I can’t tell.”

He grinned, and this time Mother Nature didn’t stand between her and that smile. Her heart lurched in her chest.

Desiree dipped her head for a moment. “I wouldn’t say skeptical, maybe surprised.”

He folded his hands on his lap. “Tell me why.”

His gaze was so direct and penetrating that she imagined he could read her thoughts as easily as strip her naked with only a simple look.

Desiree swallowed and blinked away the vision. “It’s just that I don’t know many—well, any—black folks who own buildings other than their homes.”

“That’s one of the best-kept secrets,” he joked.

“I know I must sound naive, but…”

“Not at all. Like I said, it’s a pretty common belief. But the truth is, there are hundreds of black real estate owners.”

“So what do you do with these buildings?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“Some of them I rehab and sell. Others I keep.”

“How many do you have?”

“Six.”

Her eyes widened. “A regular Donald Trump.”

He laughed. “I have a long way to go. By the way, my name is Lincoln Davenport.”

“Desiree Armstrong.”

He stuck out his hand and Desiree placed hers in it, and when his fingers closed around hers a flood of heat shot through her like a good brandy.

“Pleasure,” he uttered.

The deep vibration of his voice sent a shiver up her spine and it had nothing to do with the bone-numbing cold.

“So what do you do?”

“I paint.”

“For a living?”

She giggled. “If that’s what you want to call it. But my teaching is what actually pays the bills.”

“Ah, the starving artist in person. So tell me, why do you paint?”

For a moment she was taken aback. She’d never been asked why she painted, only what.

She took a breath and turned to him. “For as long as I can remember, there were images running around in my head. I could see things in the ordinary that others couldn’t. And the images and colors nag at me, compel me to bring them to life. When I paint or sculpt, it’s as if I’m transported, driven. It fuels me with energy, an ongoing passion. I…don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t create.”