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 ni**les 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.
“Alright, fine, waste your time driving all over town to pick me up. That works for me.”
Instead of getting irritated with her and her petulant tone, he just shook his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll do that. Now if you’re ready, let’s head out so I can waste more time today driving you to your car.”
She was way ahead of him. “Mrs. Holbrook is taking me to my car, so you’re off the hook.” The truth was, she wasn’t sure she could spend any more time with him until she’d gotten about twenty hours of sleep, so she had begged a ride from Kendall’s mother.
“Okay, then. Guess I’ll see you on Saturday. Seven o’clock.” Diesel leaned over and brushed a kiss on her forehead and left the brunch.
Really? He wasn’t even going to argue? He wasn’t going to insist on giving her a ride? Not that she wanted him to. But it seemed like he would have tried a little harder. Which was completely unreasonable of her.
She watched him walk out the door.
Suddenly her head really hurt again.
A ROYAL STOCK CAR WEDDING IN BRIEF BY TUESDAY TALLADEGA
Cup series drivers Evan Monroe and Kendall Holbrook Monroe made their history-making marriage more than official with a reception Tuesday night. Over two hundred guests were in attendance, including all drivers currently in contention for the championship, and former fan favorites such as retired driver Diesel Lange. He’s still hot and still single, ladies, which baffles this blogger. Someone should snap him up faster than you can say start your engines. Abundant hot men aside, the bridesmaids at the elegant fete, including yours truly, wore Vera Wang dresses in a stunning shade of pumpkin, which looked particularly impressive while doing the chicken dance.
The bride wore a sheath dress and looked amazing, and while I could tell you in great detail about food and flowers, it’s time for this writer to sleep off the damage done by champagne and high heels. Word to the wise, people, they never mix well . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
WHEN Tuesday opened her door to him Saturday night, Diesel blinked. She was wearing riding boots, black leggings, a blazer, and a jaunty little cap.
“Uh . . . is there a particular reason you’re dressed like that?”
“You said it’s night at the races. I figured I might as well have fun with it.”