She laughed. “Elec the Eyeball? Mothers give their kids the most appalling nicknames. I call my son Peter-Pants and I really need to stop. He’s nine years old and it’s not so cute anymore.”
Ouch. Poor kid. He’d take Eyeball any day of the week over being referenced as a fairy boy in tights. Elec grinned. “Just don’t call him that in public. That’s a fistfight with the other boys waiting to happen.”
“Ugh. I can’t stomach the thought of my baby getting into a fistfight. I’m not ready for any of that. Ryder is Petey’s godfather and I’m going to be calling on him for help the first time a punch is thrown.” She laughed. “I try not to be overprotective, but there are some things I just don’t want to think about or deal with. And don’t even get me started on how I handle the day my son discovers girls don’t have cooties . . . I won’t be turning to Ryder for advice there, trust me, since he’s got a new woman every week. I think I’ll just lock my son up until he’s thirty instead.”
“I don’t think that will go over well.”
“I’m hoping that since Petey’s main interest in life is bugs and nature, he won’t discover girls until he’s eighteen.”
“Just because he likes a good cockroach doesn’t mean he won’t be fantasizing about girls between tromps in the woods.”
“That’s true, I guess.” She sighed. “Lord, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I bet you’re an amazing mother,” Elec murmured, wondering if she had any idea at all how damn hot she was. He was such a skunk. For all he claimed to be a good listener, and for all that he really was interested in getting to know her, he was seriously distracted by how close she was to him in the cab. Her perfume drifted over to him every time she shifted on the seat and her legs came dangerously close to bumping his over and over, tormenting him. He wanted to just reach out and taste those plump, juicy lips and see if they were as delicious as they looked. He wanted to slide his hand up her leg, under that dress, and discover if she wore practical panties, a sexy thong, or nothing at all. If he were a betting man, he’d put his money on black lace covering her soft, feminine sex, cupping her firm ass delicately.
And while he was thinking all of that, she was talking about her child, which meant he really should be heartily ashamed of himself.
He wasn’t feeling it.
“Thanks,” she said in a soft voice, her eyes widening, like she realized which way the wind was blowing.
Like she knew he was two seconds away from kissing her.
Elec leaned forward.
Tamara sucked in a breath.
The cabdriver announced, “We’re here.”
She jumped back and said, “Oh! That was fast.”
Damn it. Elec gritted his teeth in frustration and sank back against the seat. Tamara was already jumping out of the cab, though, so he didn’t have any time to waste lamenting the lost chance. He threw double the fare at the driver and climbed out before she could completely escape on him.
Fortunately, she was standing there looking around in bewilderment. “I don’t even know which coach is Ryder’s. I don’t remember what it looks like, or if he even has the same one.”
“I’ll show you.” It was the gentlemanly thing to do. Walk her to Ryder’s place, ask her out on a date. That was the plan. That was the right thing to do. Not to kiss her in the cab, or invite her back to his own coach, which was parked three over from Ryder’s. Not to mash his mouth against hers and dip his tongue inside to see if she tasted as delicious as she looked. She would think he was on the make, which he was, but there was a difference.
Elec was on the make with every intention of calling her, so while it might seem a little lecherous, it was lecherous with a follow-through. She’d never believe that, though, so he had to be patient, play it cool.
They went through the gate and entered the restricted area where all the drivers kept their motor coaches. Elec’s portion of the coach, which he shared with his older brother Evan, wasn’t as rigged out as some of the other guys’, since he did tend to go home to his condo in Charlotte Monday through Wednesday during the race season, and because he was still just a rookie—as the other drivers all liked to point out—but he did have a flat-screen TV
and his X-box. Both kept him company now that he’d ditched the last of the simpering, camera-hungry females who had been dangling after him, though Crystal still insisted on sending him a boatload of text messages. He hadn’t figured out how to make that stop without getting rude on her and he didn’t like to be rude, so for the moment, he’d just been ignoring her.
Elec knew from barbeques Ryder had thrown that his coach was fully loaded, looking straight out of a decorating magazine with plush furniture in earth tones, and containing every gadget known to man. Ryder’s driver, a man who was probably pushing sixty, but was sporting killer biceps, gave Tamara a wide smile in recognition when he opened the door to them.
“Well, hello, Mrs. Briggs, how are you? Ryder called me and gave me a heads-up. I’m sorry you lost your purse but it’s good to see you again.” He shot a curious look over her head at Elec. “Elec,” he said as a greeting.
Elec nodded in return, getting the message loud and clear that the driver was wondering what the hell he was doing with Tamara. “Jeff.”
“Thanks,” Tamara said with an answering smile. “It’s good to see you, too, Jeff. How have you been?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain.” Jeff stepped down out of the coach. “I’m heading over to my girlfriend’s for the night, so if you could lock up in the morning, I’d appreciate it.”
“I hope I’m not running you out,” she said in alarm. “Don’t leave on my account if you usually stay here when Ryder isn’t.”
“Oh, no, no. Ruth and I have a standing Saturday night date. But I left my cell phone number on the table so call me if you need anything, Mrs. Briggs.”
Then the older man left, with a stern glare and a nod in Elec’s direction. He hardly even noticed, reflecting on what Jeff had been calling Tamara.
Mrs. Briggs. Damn, what the hell did Elec think he was doing? The title bothered Elec, gave him serious pause. Who did he think he was, competing with the late, great Pete Briggs? Tamara had loved him, probably still missed him. That was a lot to live up to, and Pete had been a social guy, the life of the party. He had been the first one to smile for the cameras, to climb up on a table and give a speech, and to do a burnout for the fans when he won a race. Elec winced when the cameras turned on him. He was a racer, never happier than when he was building an engine or sitting behind the wheel, and he wasn’t good at public speaking.