Fine. “It’s Tuesday Jones.”
Ty whistled. “Little Miss Tuesday Talladega? The biggest mouth in stock car reporting? You got bigger cojones than I realized, Lange.”
“I don’t think she has that big of a mouth.” Which even Diesel realized was a load a crap. Tuesday was the mouth, at least in her personal life. He couldn’t claim to have followed her journalism career all that closely.
Both of his buddies laughed.
“Now that I know we’re talking about Tuesday, I say you call her today. If you wait until Friday, she’ll tell you to go f**k yourself,” was Ryder’s opinion.
That was possible. “You don’t think she’ll think I’m a loser if I call too soon?”
“You are a loser.”
“Thanks, you guys are a big help.”
Ty clapped him on the back. “No problem.”
“That was sarcasm.”
Ryder pulled out his phone and checked the screen. “Whoa, holy shit. I need to cut this short, boys. My wife thinks she’s in labor.”
“Tell Suzanne she’s got lousy timing.” But Ty clapped him on the back. “Good luck, brother.”
Diesel took the club Ryder was shoving at him. “Let us know when the baby’s born. Congrats, man.”
They sent a panicked-looking Ryder back to the country club with the golf cart and Ty and Diesel finished their eighteen holes. When they were walking back, Diesel decided to text Tuesday.
Friday or Saturday. Your choice.
She liked bold. Direct. No playing around.
Are you freaking kidding me?
Not the answer he’d been expecting.
No. Not kidding.
A how are you would be nice.
A little embarrassed, he wasn’t sure what to say. He certainly wasn’t going to ask Ty for advice. He’d never hear the end of it.
After a second, he wrote, How are you?
Her response to that was an emoticon of someone sticking their tongue out. Damn it. He should have just called her. That was bold. Direct. Not a text message. But he had to wait until Ty was gone before he could.
“How are the wedding plans going?” he asked Ty.
Ty shook his head. “I don’t understand why it takes so damn long to plan a wedding. It’s just totally beyond me. But it’s what Imogen wants, so there it is.”
Diesel wanted to ask him if he was happy, but the truth was, he could tell Ty was very happy. His face lit up whenever he mentioned his fiancée and it was clear he was incredibly proud of her. Maybe he did want that for himself. Maybe he’d been fooling himself when he kept repeating that he was content being alone.
“You’re down to the wire now, huh?”
“Yep. Right before Christmas.” Ty grinned. “At the risk of sounding like a girl, I’m excited. Can’t wait to call her my wife.”
“You’re a lucky man.” Diesel paused then dropped the dig Ty was expecting. “Even if you are really just a girl.”
“Looks who’s talking. Your hair looks like Farrah Fawcett’s, circa 1978. You need a haircut.”
“I’ve thought about it. Never quite get around to it.” Now he didn’t see himself pursuing it at all since Tuesday had mentioned how much she liked it on the longer side.
They walked in silence for another minute, the sun warming the back of his neck.
Then Ty said, “Tuesday Jones, huh? Really?”
“Yep.” Tuesday Jones. She had definitely gotten under his skin. Diesel had been having trouble concentrating on anything other than how she had felt beneath him, her soft moans of pleasure one of the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard.
“Go figure.”
“Yeah. Sort of like you and Imogen. Go figure.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, Diesel realized that made it sound like he was as serious about Tuesday as Ty was about his future wife. He opened his mouth to somehow downplay the statement, or distract Ty, but it was too late.
His friend broke into a huge grin. “So that’s where it’s at, huh?” He clapped Diesel on the back. “Well, enjoy yourself. And wear a condom.”
Could he have any more reasons to squirm? They reached the club. “I have to make a phone call. I’ll catch you later.”
Ty made a kissy face in his direction. “Go call your girlfriend.”
Diesel laughed, despite his worry. “You’re an ass. What are you, twelve years old?”
“That’s not what my bank account says.” Ty gave him a wave and went on into the building.
Diesel called Tuesday, hoping she would actually answer. She did.
“Hello?”
“Hey, how are you doing?” Her hello sounded belligerent and he felt like an ass. Maybe the bottom line was she just didn’t want to go out with him again.
“I’m fine. Tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
A little bit of a flirt had crept into her voice and he instantly felt much better. “That’s funny. Neither did I. So would you like to not get any sleep on Friday night?” His gut told him to pick a day and give her the right of refusal, not to let her make the initial plans.
“I think I can swing that.”
He debated asking her why she had sent him a tongue sticking out but he decided to leave it the hell alone. She was agreeing to see him, that’s all that mattered. “Great. Is it Friday yet?”
She laughed, that low throaty sound that was like fingers caressing him. “Pick me up at nine. I’m hanging out with Kendall earlier.”
“Where are we going?”
“Does it matter?”
“No.” It definitely didn’t. Diesel was starting to feel like he would follow Tuesday just about anywhere for that matter.
Stopping off at a bed on the way.
BABY BOOM BY TUESDAY TALLADEGA
The world of racing expanded this week with the birth of Ryder Jefferson’s first child with his wife, Suzanne. The newest Jefferson made his debut in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, weighing in at an impressive 8.9 pounds. Little Track (no, I’m not kidding, that’s what they named him) is doing fine despite being saddled with the ultimate of ironic monikers. Expect him to be kicking ass on the asphalt by the time he’s five.
Also giving birth this past Sunday was one Sara Parker, who made headlines back in the spring when she announced the father of her unborn child was Evan Monroe, one whole week after his marriage to rookie driver Kendall Holbrook. Oops on the timing. But it turns out Evan is not the father after all, as DNA test results proved this morning. Double oops. But hey, props to Evan for sticking by her side until the results came back, and not unleashing a pack of lawyers until anyone knew what was what. That’s the way to man up and stick by your di—ahem, decisions.