Slow Ride (10 page)

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Authors: Erin McCarthy

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General

BOOK: Slow Ride
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Diesel frowned at her. “Well, don’t look so relieved.”
Tuesday rolled her eyes. Men were such delicate creatures.
“This one’s a good catch,” the lady told her. “You need to snap him up. What are you waiting for?”
A first date would be helpful. Tuesday reversed her opinion on denying they had a relationship. This was the perfect opportunity to give him a hard time, and she was going to take it. “For him to ask me.”
Diesel’s eyebrows rose.
Pinky made a clucking sound. “Oh, dear.” She touched Diesel’s arm. “Are you one of those men who can’t commit?”
“Of course I can commit.” Diesel looked indignant. “The truth is, I didn’t know she wanted me to ask her.”
Tuesday almost laughed.
“Well, all women want you to ask. Why else would she be dating you?”
For companionship and hopefully great sex, but Tuesday realized that was a viewpoint foreign to anyone over sixty. Hell, it was foreign to a lot of men her own age. That was all she wanted, really. Just someone to spend time with, was that so hard? But it was amusing to watch Diesel wiggle on the hook.
“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about, Mrs. Crandall.”
“Hmpf,” was Mrs. Crandall’s opinion. She caught Tuesday’s eye. “If you don’t have a ring by Christmas, dump him.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely. You can’t allow these men to be lazy and take you for granted. Are you sleeping with him?”
Diesel made a choking sound next to her. Tuesday fought a grin. “No.” She could say that in all honesty.
“Good girl. Never give away the milk for free.”
Diesel shoved his chair back and stood up. “Excuse us, Mrs. Crandall, I would like to take a stroll outside with my girlfriend before lunch is served.”
“Oh, of course.” Mrs. Crandall looked smug. She even shot Tuesday a wink.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you?” Tuesday asked him as Diesel took her arm and led her across the room. “It will make Mrs. Crandall superhappy.”
Diesel felt like he should be stern with her, but truthfully, he was amused. As uncomfortable as if someone had dumped itching powder in his shorts, but nonetheless, amused. “I was thinking of asking you to zip your lip, but then I figured that was pointless. I bet you talk even in your sleep.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “What was I supposed to tell her? That we barely know each other but you took my drunk ass home last night? That would shock her and her Pomeranian.”
“I’m just giving you a hard time, you know.” Diesel thought she looked better. The color was back in her face and her shoulders weren’t quite so slumped. Before she’d looked like standing straight had hurt her brain.
“Are we really going for a walk?”
“Sure, why not? Fresh air will do you good.”
“Another mimosa would do me more good.”
Diesel couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. For the first time, he wondered if maybe Tuesday hadn’t just drunk too much at the wedding. Maybe she actually had a drinking problem. He might as well call her out on it and find out. “I think drinking before noon is a sign of a problem.”
“It’s already one. And everyone knows that the best way to recover from a hangover is to have a drink. Weird, but true. Don’t worry, I’m not a lush. Last night was an open-bar exception.”
He was actually relieved to hear that. He liked Tuesday. Liked her quick wit and her confidence. He found himself looking forward to their pseudo date and he’d hate to think that she had real problems. Dealing with grief was one thing; that was normal and temporary. But if it went deeper than that, Diesel wasn’t sure he was the right guy for her.
Not that he was the guy for her. In any way. Right or wrong. He didn’t think. It was just hanging out. Once.
“Alright.” He let go of her hand and opened the door for her. A blast of summer heat threatened to knock him over. Come to think of it, he could use a beer himself. “We’ll get you a drink as soon as we get back.”
“My hero.” She batted her eyes at him.
There was a bench in the shade a few feet away and she headed toward it. “Can they see us out the windows?”
Diesel checked the banquet room. “No. Why?”
She yanked the band out of her hair and sighed. “Aah. That thing was too tight.” Digging in her purse she pulled out a hairbrush. Flipping her head upside down so her hair cascaded forward, she brushed it.
He sat down next to her, feeling oddly comfortable with her. She had done more grooming in front of him than women he’d dated for months and yet she never seemed to think twice about it. He liked that about her; it was refreshing.
“It’s disgusting out here,” she said, from under her curtain of hair. “It’s so hot, it’s like being inside my microwave.”
“Don’t you mean like being inside your oven?” That seemed a more likely metaphor.
She flipped her hair back over her head and looked at him like he was insane. “No. I never use my oven, so why would it be hot in there?”
Diesel laughed. Why did that not surprise him? “So you don’t cook?”
“No. That’s what restaurants are for. Though I do bake from time to time.”
“You going to make me some cookies?” He wasn’t sure why he said that, except maybe curiosity as to what her response would be. Tuesday was hard to predict, but always entertaining.
“If you rub my shoulders right now, I’ll bake you cookies and let you eat the dough off my naked body.”
Yep. Hard to predict. He was torn between wanting to laugh and groan. The image of her with bits of batter in strategic places was hard to shake once it took hold. Diesel cleared his throat. “Well, now, what man would refuse that kind of offer?”
Her mouth opened to give a response.
Diesel stuck his hand up. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she would say. “Never mind. Turn sideways, I’ll rub your shoulders. And I won’t even hold you to the naked part.”
She sighed in pleasure the minute his hands touched her bare skin. He shoved the thin straps of her dress to the side and dug in to her flesh and the muscle beneath. She was knotted up and tense, probably a result of restless, alcohol-interrupted sleep.
“You’re a good man, Charlie Brown,” she told him, her sigh morphing into a moan as he worked out a knot.
At the moment, Diesel was feeling more bad than good. He was sorely tempted to follow his fingers with his lips and taste her soft skin. He wanted to push her dress straps off entirely, and take the rest of the dress with it. He wanted to peel her bra and panties off and have her straddle him.
Mrs. Crandall would not approve. The Pomeranian might though. There had been a twinkle in that dog’s eye in the pictures.
“Does my hair still look wet?” she asked.
It was cascading over her one shoulder, the dark strands damp in the sunlight. “Yes.”
“Damn.” She rolled her neck as he massaged her shoulders. “So what do you do with your time, Diesel? Now that you’re not driving.”
It was an expected and legitimate question, but one that always made him stiffen defensively. He wasn’t sure why—it was just idle curiosity, but it always bothered him. Probably because a lot of days since the accident he felt like once his career had been taken away, he’d lost his sense of purpose, and that was frustrating.
“I restore old stock cars. I have a client waiting list at the moment.” It gave him pleasure, he was financially independent, and he was alive. What more did he want, right? He was content.
“Oh, really? That’s cool. It’s great that you managed to stay involved in the sport.”
He wouldn’t say that, exactly. Diesel didn’t float in the same circles anymore. His turn as a superstar driver was over, passed to a new generation the day he’d hit that wall. “It’s a living,” he told her.
“Hold back there on the enthusiasm.”
“You want me to do a cartwheel? I can’t with my knee.” Okay, that sounded surly, but what was he supposed to say? He liked his job well enough. It satisfied him, kept his hands busy. But it wasn’t particularly exciting to talk about.
“Bitterness doesn’t really suit you.”
Diesel paused in rubbing her shoulders. “Who says I’m bitter?” He didn’t really think he was. There were days he was disappointed that he hadn’t had more drive time on the track, but for the most part, he had adjusted. It was what it was, and he was damn glad to be alive with all his limbs working, even if his knee sometimes gave him hell. “I am really fortunate that working at all is a choice for me, not a requirement. I’ve had a good life so far, no doubt about it.”
“Well, it’s all going to go downhill now that you’ve met me.” She smiled up at him over her shoulder, her eyes bright and glassy in the sunlight.
She looked beautiful. Ethereal, yet strong. Vulnerable, yet scrappy. The overwhelming desire to kiss her rose up inside him. He was shocked at how base and desperate the feeling was and he was already moving closer to her, wanting, needing, to touch her.
But Tuesday stood up, obviously not feeling the same vibe he was. “We need to go back in before they think we’re having sex behind a potted plant.”
At the moment, Diesel wasn’t sure that would be such a bad idea.
 
 
TUESDAY
walked quickly, not even sure if Diesel was off the bench yet or not. She needed to get out of the sun and away from him. God, there was something about the way he looked at her . . . like she was beautiful and important. The intensity of his expressions unnerved her.
So she had run, dodged the looks that said things she didn’t understand. She was used to men who joked around, who went for charming, who talked as much as she did and hovered on the verge of pretentious. Diesel was none of those things. His words were chosen with economy and thus far, she’d never seen him put out or worked up or impatient about anything. Including being left alone with an old lady and her dog pictures.
Why that scared the pee out of her, she wasn’t sure, but it did. Diesel’s personality, that is, not the lady or the dog.
He was following her. She could sense him moving behind her, and when she got to the door, his hand snaked around her and pulled it open, ever the gentleman. Why did he have to do that? Why couldn’t he suck like every other man she met? Because while she was sure she’d love a little between-the-sheets action with Diesel, she wasn’t at all sure she was capable of getting emotionally involved with anyone right now. Yet he made her want that. Dirty bastard.
“You seem to be feeling better since you’re practically jogging,” he commented as they reentered the party room.
“I’m hungry.” And panicking.
She just needed sleep, that was all. She was hungover and behind on her sleep. No big deal.
“Me, too. I’m starving.”
Something about the tone in his voice made her turn her head and look at him. Oh, damn. He wasn’t talking about quiche. That was obvious. He was talking about sex, it was written all over his face. And she liked it, given the way her nipples went hard and warmth flooded her inner thighs.
Her body was betraying her.
She actually felt heat rise into her cheeks. Which she was going to blame on dehydration from last night’s champagne.
“Well, the salads are on the table, so we’re all good to go.” Tuesday mentally winced at how phony her cheerful voice sounded.
He pulled out her chair for her. She was tempted to yank it away from him, but instead forced herself to sit and put her napkin in her lap. She dug into the salad and, between the food and Mrs. Crandall’s monopolization of Diesel’s attention, she didn’t have to talk to him for the entire rest of the brunch.
Which was exactly what she wanted yet had her feeling grumpy by the time everyone started saying their good-byes and heading out.
On the upside, her hair was dry and the food had helped her headache and vertigo.
“Are you ready to go?” Diesel asked her, giving her a complacent smile.
“Yes.” Why couldn’t he complain like most men? It was really frustrating. “Thanks again for coming with me. I appreciate it—and the ride, of course.”
“No problem. And you’re not going to worm out of night at the races, are you?”
“Nope. I’ll be there.” She was both looking forward to it and dreading it. “Just tell me where and what time to meet you.”
He shot her a look. “Are you kidding me? I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.”
“I can drive myself.” If he drove her, it would make it a real date. And it wasn’t really a
real
date; it was Tuesday repaying the favor. She definitely owed him.
“I’m picking you up. Don’t argue with me.”
Was she arguing? Tuesday had to say, even though he was hot and she found herself wanting to get to know him better—both with clothes and without—sometimes he was annoying.
Or maybe, if she were honest, she found him refreshing. He just said it straight out, laid it down. No man had ever done that with her before.

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