Weekenders took to the sidewalks of the Old Market wearing game day red on a crisp Saturday evening. Jenae Sanders and her new McLuscious, Darrell McCall, strolled toward Second Chance Antiques admiring the roll top desk sitting out front. The faded oak was decades from a premium finish, but the scratches and missing knobs gave it a certain resilience of character.

A wave of nostalgia brought Jenae to a stop in front of the desk’s massive and intricate design.  “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

Darrell smiled. Bright white teeth against chocolate brown skin that reminded her of Duncan Hines Brownies. “My great-uncle Jooba had one. He got it from a man he worked for.”

Jenae chuckled. “Your great-uncle Jooba?”

“Yeah. When I was a kid, he was the cool uncle. The one who gave me anything I wanted as long as I was good.”

“And were you good, Mr. McCall?” she asked, stepping around the desk, taking it in from all angles, yet keeping a rapt eye on her new beau.

He wore his hair in short, du-rag waves. The diamond studs in ears his caught the fading fall sunlight and flashed whenever he turned his head.

 “Not often,” Darrell said finally.

This was the part of dating Jenae hated the most. Finding out that her Prince Charming had been born a frog and to her dismay, still was. Not even a million kisses would—

“Twenty-four,” he said.

 “What?”

Darrell walked to the desk and pulled out the drawers. “There are twenty-four drawers. And those are just the ones you can see. But look here . . . “

Jenae stepped beside him and bent to see where his long fingers reached between two mail slots.

“The best part is what you don’t see.”

After a few seconds, Darrell pulled out another drawer that Jenae would never have known was there.

“The important things were tucked away. Hidden,” he said. “I’m sure the original owner of the desk knew they were there; and of course, anyone he cared to share his secrets with knew, too.”

“Secret compartments,” Jenae said, not so much thinking, but feeling with her fingers. Back to the undusted and uneven parts of the desk. Careful to avoid the jagged splintery areas, she searched for a nook or grove. Somewhere to slip in or pull. To open a private place.

“These desks weren’t just for writing,” she said.

“No,” he answered. “They were for tucking away and for keeping safe. So what was personal would stay personal. Unless—”

Jenae’s fingers slid into a smooth gap. She pressed in and a hidden panel swung open slow and easy.

“--Someone comes along who knows exactly how to undo the closure.”

Darrell pulled Jenae up and held her against him. His hard-muscled chest warm beneath a brown suede jacket. Darrell’s amber eyes darkened and stared into hers. History urged her to pull away. She always chose so poorly. Bad boys. The ones that came with hood swagger, brash lifestyles, enemies, and sex so hot she couldn’t spell her own name afterward.

Word in the street was Darrell McCall made the guys she’d dated look like Urkels.

“I’m not that person anymore, Jenae. At least, I don’t want to be. “

“Darrell—“

“Je-nae . . . “  

His lips pressed down urgently against hers, stealing her breath and every ounce of good sense her mother gave her. No was on the tip of her tongue until Darrell’s tongue slipped inside her mouth and made her hate the word.

“ . . . Open me,” he moaned.

Her resistance fell like the North Tower.

Jenae was way too familiar with the third date rule and had decided that this time she would avoid that New Age mating ritual. Too bad her arms didn’t get that message. They circled around Darrell’s waist as though they’d been doing it for years. Darrell’s kiss coaxed a deep moan from her. Apparently her libido didn’t get the memo either.

Darrell pulled back, but not much. His cologne--a dizzying combination of sandalwood, bergamot, and black pepper--turned up her desire like a loose dial. Speechless, she waited for his next move.

“I’m going to buy this desk for you. And then we’re going to your place and make love right on top of it.”

Suddenly, Darrell didn’t seem so vulnerable. But Jenae on the other hand . . .

“Yes,” she said, knowing her mother was probably twisting in her grave for the umpteenth time.

Jenae held Darrell’s hand while they entered the antique shop. Once inside, she fought a nagging urge to check her soul for splinters.