He shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t draw attention to himself, but Diesel couldn’t resist. “Do you know Kendall’s maid of honor?”
“Sure. She’s Tuesday Talladega, the blogger. Bob Jones’s daughter. She actually just asked me to do an interview about her father, give some memories of him. She’s arranging some kind of cancer benefit in his name.”
“Really?” Diesel thought it sounded like a great idea, and a positive way for her to channel her grief. Unlike whiskey.
He watched her doing maneuvers on the dance floor that seemed to defy gravity, her hips swiveling and her body dropping down between her bent knees. He coughed into his palm. Jesus, he had just felt a kick of lust, his junk jumping into a semi-erection faster than he would have thought possible.
Not cool. He was supposed to be showing her sympathy, not a tent in his suit.
“Wait a minute.” Ty nudged him. “You got the hots for Tuesday, don’t you?”
He hadn’t thought about it that way. He had thought he’d been feeling sorry for her pain and loss. But at the moment, as she booty-grinded on the dance floor, he thought maybe there was something a little more primal drawing him to her than just sympathy.
“I don’t know Tuesday.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“No, I don’t have the hots for her. I just feel bad for her because she lost her father.” And maybe he was a little attracted to her. And technically, that could probably be called the hots.
“Uh-huh. Whatever.” Ty slapped him on the shoulder. “I know that look, buddy. You should go dance with her. Dancing is the gateway to sex, you know.”
“No, thanks.” He wouldn’t even if he could. Wasn’t his style. “And why is it whenever a guy is in a relationship, he’s always trying to fix his friends up with whatever single woman is standing around? Jefferson was trying to pawn me off on Kendall’s cousin.”
Ty grinned. “Because we don’t want single friends reminding us of our lost freedom.”
“Is that what it is? Then sign me right up.” Diesel hadn’t had a serious girlfriend in almost four years and he had to admit, he missed knowing he had someone to go to the movies with, or say, a wedding reception. But most men bitched about being trapped. It was just expected. Standard guy talk.
“Aside from being with the woman I love, the best thing is regular booty.” Ty cleared his throat. “Can’t beat that, man, I’m telling you.”
Diesel wasn’t even sure he remembered what sex with a partner felt like. It was safe to say he hadn’t been getting out much. “Hell, I’d settle for irregular booty.”
“Well, there it is, waiting for you out on the dance floor.” Ty gestured to Tuesday. “She’s looking for donations of items for a silent auction for the cancer benefit. You should donate something, like an engine rebuild or some of your vintage parts. It’d give you a good excuse to talk to her, and it’s for a good cause.”
Diesel had been rebuilding vintage stock cars and selling them since his accident. It kept him busy and gave him something to do with his hands. He liked the idea of somehow helping Tuesday’s cause. “Yeah, I could do that.” In fact, he could actually donate a completely rebuilt car. That would bring in a shitload of cash. “I’ll talk to her about it after she’s done dancing.”
Which didn’t look like would be happening any time soon. Tuesday was breaking it down with a guy who was at least a hundred and twelve. He was just shuffling in front of her in awe, a shit-eating grin on his face while she shimmied all around him.
There was no denying that Diesel would give anything to stroll out there, grab her, and kiss the stuffing out of her. In fact, if he were totally honest, he wanted to throw her down on the nearest table and lift her ugly orange dress.
“She’s a live one,” Ty commented. “Good luck with that.” He grinned. “Sucker.”
Diesel was about to remark that Ty was the one planning the wedding of the decade with his fiancée Imogen, but just as he opened his mouth, a pack of kids hell-bent on hitting the chocolate fountain went flying by him. Or three of them did anyway. The fourth plowed right into Diesel, the impact causing his knee to buckle as the boy tried to shove back off of him.
“Sorry!” he said without a backward glance, his shirttail untucked and floppy hair bouncing as he ran to catch up with his friends.
For a split second, the pain was so bad Diesel thought he might puke. But the sharp biting agony settled down into a standard throb and he took a deep breath. It was cool. He was cool. No big deal.
Ty was looking at him in concern, but much to Diesel’s relief, didn’t actually say anything other than, “Punk kids. We were never that rowdy.”
“Yes, we were,” Diesel said, but his words were ground out through clenched teeth. “I’ll catch you later, I’m going to hit the head.”
“Sure. Good seeing you, man.”
“You, too.” It was sheer willpower that allowed Diesel to walk across the room to the exit with only a slightly more exaggerated limp than normal. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he needed to get the hell out of there and sit down for a minute.
Fortunately, the attention of everyone in the room shifted to the dance floor as the DJ announced the father-daughter dance. All eyes swung to the bride, so Diesel managed to navigate his way around the perimeter of the room. Once in the hallway, he found a tufted bench between two potted plants and eased himself down onto it.
He’d forgotten his drink at the bar and right now he could use a swig of Coke to get rid of the hot saliva that had flooded his mouth. Resting his head on the wall, he just concentrated on relaxing his shoulders and breathing deep. It was fine.
But when Tuesday came out of the ballroom carrying two glasses of champagne, he had to admit he was tempted to take one from her, meds or not. “Is that for me?” he asked her, forcing a nonchalant smile.
“Hell to the no,” she said, bringing both glasses to her chest covetously. “These are both for me. It saves time if I just get two at once.”
Part of him wanted to laugh, but the party girl persona, that devil-may-care attitude wasn’t ringing true. There was something far too bright and shiny in her eyes, and an air of desperate bravado clung to her.
“Have a seat.” He patted the bench next to him. “I promise not to steal your bubbly.”